Deep State

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dan the DOS Man says:

The best place to find a dos-compatible modem is in an antique store. Not necessarily a store that sells antiques, though you can find them there, but a genuinely old shop with a modem they’ve had no reason to change in years. Say the store sends a few credit card checks every day, you don’t need an up-to-date modem for that.

You can offer them a free new modem. They may be agreeable to the swap. Of course you can always give them money.

Briana says:

How do I configure a modem for DOS?

Dan the DOS Man says:

What program are you using the modem for in dos? That program should have a setup program for the modem. If it is an internal modem, you may have to go into BIOS and disable the com port that you will be using for the modem.

Dos-capable modems DO NOT USE DRIVERS. If you have a Winmodem you’re out of luck. To test: if the modem is on com2, go to dos and type atdt5551212›com2. You might get lucky and hear the modem dial.

Use a hayes compatible modem if you can. Do not use a usb cable as dos doesn’t have that many drivers available. Like, none.

Its best to get an external modem. Most internal modems made now are software based and won’t work with dos. Many dos programs can’t detect com3 and com4.

By the way, be careful if you have a PS2 mouse. An internal hardware modem on com1 or 2 would sometimes conflict with a PS2 mouse. A PS2 mouse is on irq 12, which is okay, but it uses the same serial paths as com1 and com2 to connect to the pci buss. So be wary.

Briana says:

Thnx.

Dan the DOS Man says:

We prefer complete sentences on this bulletin board, Briana. And no slang derived from inferior and incomplete forms of communication such as text messaging.

Briana says:

I totally respect your old-school ethic, boss. Many thanks.

Dagmar contemplated the contents of the bulletin board on her handheld and saved them. She nodded to the RAF guard outside the building-her satellite phone had decided not to work under a roof-and then climbed the stair back to the ops room.

“You know,” she said, entering, “DOS is actually kind of cool.”

Helmuth glanced up briefly from his workstation.

“We’re going to make it cooler,” he said.

Helmuth and Richard had gotten their virtual MS-DOS machine working inside Richard’s computer the previous evening. But none of the modems in the room were compatible with DOS, so everyone had left the ops room except Lloyd, who was left behind to monitor any new uploads or other developments on the Brigade’s various Web pages. He would be relieved about midnight by Lola, who would in turn be relieved by Richard.

Dagmar and their RAF guards had helped Ismet up the stairs to his apartment. His bruises had widened and deepened since the morning, and he looked worse than ever, his face a Rorschach nightmare of purple and yellow and white.

She offered to help Ismet bathe, but he declined. Instead he lay on his sofa, propped up on pillows, while Dagmar sat crosslegged on the floor by his side.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she asked.

“Possibly soup,” he said. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Tea. Any kind.”

She found Turkish tea and a soup can labeled YOURT CORBASI in the cabinet. Apparently Ismet had brought food supplies across the island from the Turkish side. She poured the soup into a pot and examined it, finding only rice and yogurt and spices-nothing that would be hard for bruised lips and loose teeth to chew-and it smelled faintly appetizing, though with the peculiar heavy aroma common to canned soups.

Ismet came to the dining table to eat. He handled his spoon with care, trying not to splash liquid on the gauze bandages that wrapped two fingers of his right hand.

Watching him was painful. Dagmar wanted to take the spoon herself and feed him, except that she knew he was the kind of man who wouldn’t appreciate being spoon-fed. Instead she sat at the kitchen table as a host of anxieties warred in her nerves. She kept a towel in her lap in case he spilled something.

The previous evening she’d had the sense that he would fly today to his death. Instead he’d been saved from that fate by a savage beating, and she felt a strange gratitude to whatever brutal Cypriot cops had rescued Ismet from a deadlier peril. She would have him at least till the bruises faded-and she knew she needed him badly, needed some anchor in this mire of treachery and mendacity, the hopeful, hopeless revolution that had at its heart a misplaced piece of code.

After the meal Ismet took a pain pill with his last swallow of cooling tea. He looked at her.

“I think I will sleep alone tonight,” he said. He tried to smile with his cracked, bruised lips. “You might roll over in bed and land on me, and that would hurt.”

“I could put a pillow between us.”

His look turned somber.

“If you attacked me again,” he said, “I could not defend myself.”

Shock made her sway in her seat. Tears stung her eyes.

He couldn’t trust her not to go mad on him. That was what he was saying.

“You should stay with someone else tonight,” Ismet said. “Lola, perhaps.”

“I barely know Lola,” she said. Her voice broke on the last word.

“Richard and Helmuth, then. Someone you trust.”

“I trust you.” She heard the wail in her voice and told herself to stop, that her emotional need and his physical pain were incompatible right now. The pain could not be suppressed: therefore her need had to be quashed. She would have to take her own solitude upon herself and live in it at least for a while.

Ismet couldn’t rescue her every single time. He couldn’t save her from the enemies that swam in her own psyche. Those were hers to fight.

“Yes, okay,” she said. “I’ll crash on Richard’s couch.”

She washed Ismet’s bowl and spoon and saw that he was already half-asleep. She helped him back to the couch, then kissed his cheek, felt the bristles sting her lips. She left his apartment and walked to her own-the promise to stay with Richard and Helmuth was already forgotten-and in the borrowed place, surrounded by others’ possessions, she felt the aloneness embrace her.

Without conscious thought Dagmar made tea for herself and put a frozen stuffed pepper in the microwave. She stood for a moment in the kitchen, looking at the furniture and belongings that had been requisitioned for her from another family, and considered the number of betrayals that had brought her to this moment.

Byron and Magnus were vile, but they were at least explicable: whatever reason they had for selling her to Bozbeyli, fear or avarice or opportunism, it was at least an understandable human motivation. They were too transparent to be evil masterminds-they were just very screwed-up human beings, confused, probably deep in denial.

But Lincoln, she thought, was not in denial. He knew what he’d been doing all along. It was Lincoln’s lie that had brought her here, selling her the notion that the U.S. government was so devoted to the notion of democracy in Turkey that it would give her the tools to bring it about.

She should, she considered, just pick up her phone and buy a one-way ticket back to Los Angeles. If the government tried to invoke a penalty clause and evade payment, all she had to do was threaten to talk to the press.

It wasn’t as if she wasn’t an expert at telling convincing stories to strangers. It was only a bonus when the story was true.

Except now, she thought, there were actual revolutionaries in Turkey, whether she had created them or not. And they were fighting the police and the military, staging strikes and demonstrations, occupying a ministry building in Ankara. Living in cages in jails and military bases, screaming under torture, dying, rotting under the ground.

She couldn’t fly to her life in California and leave them behind. Not when there was a hope that she could help them succeed.

And besides, she thought, work was the classic cure for depression. Dagmar hooked her laptop to her satellite phone, downloaded a copy of MS-DOS along with a user’s manual, and ate her stuffed pepper as she began to acquaint herself with the ancient history of personal computing. She visited the alt.comp.DOSRULES forum on Usenet and from this learned of the existence of Dan the DOS Man, along with a number of his colleagues.

Her brain was so charged with her new knowledge and so filled with plans for implementing her ideas that after she fell asleep the nightmares failed to possess her.

In the morning she checked on Ismet and found him in greater pain than he had been the night before. She made him tea, made sure he was comfortable, and then went to the ops center while she conducted her long-distance conversation with Dan.

Soft morning light warmed the ops room, glowed off the ochre yellow walls. The air bore the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The absence of aircraft noise was startling: the planes had all landed, either here or somewhere else, and then not gone up again. The situation was otherwise unchanged: the Zap still possessed Ankara and the southwest corner of Cyprus, including Akrotiri and at least a part of Limassol. Cell phone service and VoIP at Akrotiri were still down, and ground lines were erratic.

Lincoln’s door was closed. Dagmar tried to decide what she felt about Lincoln, what she had decided about him. He was either a complete manipulative bastard or as much a fool as she.

Or both, she thought. No reason he couldn’t be both.

Dagmar explained her ideas to what was left of her posse, and they began to make plans to travel to Limassol in search of old modems. They would be like the evil sorcerer in Aladdin, offering to trade new lamps for old.

Lincoln had come out of his office partway through her exposition. She was too far into her spiel to interrupt herself to decide whether she hated him or not, so she ignored him until he offered a suggestion.

“You might not need to go to Limassol for modems. Akrotiri is huge, and has its own shops and supplies. You might be able to make your deals here.”

“Not necessarily,” Helmuth said. “Those old modems might be the only cybernetic gear in those shops still working. They might not want to part with them.”

“Your guards can’t requisition civilian gear,” Lincoln said, “and they won’t intimidate anyone on purpose, but they’re in uniform and carrying guns. They will lend a certain authority to any request you might make.”

Dagmar was alarmed by this train of thought. “Be polite,” she said.

Richard raised a hand, then spoke.

“We’d have an idea of whether an external modem will work with DOS by looking at the cabling, couldn’t we?” he said. “No modem with a USB would function with DOS. Nor would Ethernet, right?”

“You can run an Ethernet IPX network out of DOS,” Helmuth said. “I found the instructions online last night while I was researching our brave new operating system.”

“And there’s no TCP/IP?” Dagmar asked.

“There doesn’t have to be. You can set it up either way.”

“Terrific,” Dagmar said. “We grab those modems, too.”

“My point is,” Richard said, “that if you find a modem with a twelve-pin cable-or would it be thirty-two? — you make an offer on the spot.”

“We are the junkware,” Dagmar said. Their new slogan.

“I’ll arrange for your escort,” Lincoln said. As he walked toward his office, he glanced over his shoulder at Dagmar and gave her a look. She followed.

“I’ve got transcripts of Magnus’s and Byron’s confessions,” he said, once they were alone. “The Turks caught them at a roadblock outside of?yrnak, practically the minute they came down off the mountains, and the Jandarma so terrified them that they stopped thinking.” He shook his head. “They fell for the oldest trick in the world. They were put in separate rooms, and each was told that the other had started talking, and that whoever gave the Jandarma the most information would be treated leniently. They ended up competing to see how fast they could give their secrets away.”

“Don’t those idiots watch cop shows?” Dagmar said. “They should know better than to tumble for that one.”

Lincoln’s blue eyes grew serious. “They weren’t exactly in a position to demand a lawyer,” he said. “And the Jandarma don’t bother with explaining Miranda rights.”

“That doesn’t explain why they sold me and Judy months later,” Dagmar said.

“They were being blackmailed,” Lincoln said. “The Turks recorded them spilling everything they knew about the Zap, and threatened to release the videos if they didn’t, ah, keep in touch. If those videos had been released, they would have lost their security clearances and all their government contracts.” He offered a cynical laugh. “They’re still blaming each other. They still haven’t worked out how they were played.”

Dagmar narrowed her eyes.

“And you hired these bozos,” she said.

Lincoln passed a hand over his forehead.

“It wasn’t one of my better decisions,” he said. “But at least they’re working for us now.”

“Oh,” Dagmar said. “Swell. Just swell.”

He offered a grim smile.

“I believe it’s been brought home to them that they had confessed not only to espionage on behalf of a foreign power but to being members of a conspiracy to murder an American citizen and were also accessories after the fact. Lieutenant Vaughan and I staged an argument in front of them over whether or not the trial would take place in the UK-I wanted to extradite them to Virginia, which still has the death penalty.” He nodded. “So yes-now they’re being very cooperative. We can use them to feed false information to their contact in Limassol, if we can figure out what would completely mislead them.”

“Have them send their assassins in again,” Dagmar said. “That’s the only way we’ll catch those bastards.”

“I doubt they’d send in gunmen again,” Lincoln said. “Not with the base on the alert.”

Dagmar looked at him sourly.

“I’ll try to think of something to tell the Turks that will really fuck them,” she said. “But in the meantime I’ve got to try to work around the technology that those idiots gave to the black hats.”

Lincoln nodded.

“You do that,” he said.

The modem expeditions went reasonably well. Lola and Lloyd did their best on the Akrotiri aerodrome and scavenged three modems, which they took back to the ops room to see if they’d work with Richard’s virtual DOS environment. Helmuth guided Richard and Dagmar through Limassol, first to an electronics store where they bought an armful of the latest internal and external modems, then to the waterfront, where they began moving through a series of small cafes and shops.

“You no want jacket? Nice handbag?”

The merchant at the leather goods store, a portly man with a mustache, was puzzled by Dagmar’s line of inquiry.

Dagmar hadn’t so much as cast an eye over the store’s merchandise before leaning over the counter and noting the dusty modem keeping track of credit card sales. Now she took a look at the coats and jackets hanging on the racks. Some of them seemed quite nice.

“I’ll buy a jacket if you’ll give me your modem,” she said.

This was an offer that was more to the store owner’s taste-he understood this kind of bargain better than he could comprehend a strange offer simply to buy his antique modem. The last transaction processed on the modem was a double-breasted belted jacket made of shiny, butter-smooth brown leather, cost 135. It fit Dagmar as if it had been tailored for her. The credit card receipt would be submitted to Lincoln as a business expense. As far as Dagmar was concerned, this was a win-win transaction.

This was Dagmar’s only success of the morning, but Helmuth and Richard bagged two modems apiece, and they were in an upbeat mood as they met in a cafe for a lunch expertly cut from a sizzling cone of pressed beef and lamb by-products. The gyros were as good as any Dagmar had eaten. She received a number of compliments on her jacket.

Their guards, discreetly armed, sat at their own table and ate burgers.

After eating, they ordered Turkish coffee, dark as molasses and nearly as sweet, guaranteed to keep their energy levels high through the afternoon.

Richard showed off his own major purchase-an entire computer, an ancient PC clone in a heavy steel case, which Richard had bought for the sake of its internal modem. The purchase had taken a fair amount of bargaining, with the owner convinced he was somehow being swindled. In the end Richard had simply taken the man to an electronics store and bought him a completely new fully tricked-out office machine, complete with a printer.

“I think I got the better deal,” Dagmar said, admiring her jacket.

“Not really,” Richard said. “The modem is one thing, but this is another.” He pulled the keyboard out of the shopping bag in which he had carried his prize.

“IBM Model M,” he said. “Nineteen-eighties technology. The keys use a special patented buckling-spring design. The whole thing is solid steel- nothing like the cheap plastic keyboards you see now.” He hefted the keyboard, demonstrating how heavy it was. “Built to last for millennia!” he said cheerfully. “In the event of nuclear annihilation, this keyboard will be the only surviving evidence of human achievement.”

“That’s a Greek keyboard,” Dagmar pointed out.

“I’ll convert it to English.” Richard put the keyboard back in the shopping bag. “Now I’ve got to find a PS/2 to USB converter; otherwise it’s just a nonfunctional antique.”

“That keyboard might draw more power than your USB connection gives,” Helmuth said.

“I’ll work something out.” Richard’s smile was brilliant.

Dagmar’s phone began to sing Thelonious Monk. The display didn’t show the number calling her, and she assumed it was the ops center.

“This is Dagmar,” she said.

“The Internet is back,” Lloyd said.

She straightened in her seat. “We’ve got Internet!” she said, and saw the others react.

“Has the Internet come back in Ankara as well?” Dagmar asked.

“Yes,” Lloyd said. “And we-”

“Is Rafet all right?” Dagmar asked.

“Yes. He’s got the drones over Ankara trying to find out what’s happening.”

Dagmar formed a triumphant fist with her free hand.

“Right, then,” she said.

“Dagmar,” said Lloyd. “We have the Internet now-but you’re in trouble. You need to look at the English online edition of the Turkish Daily Gazette.”

Alarms began to throb in Dagmar’s skull.

“What is this about?” she asked.

Lloyd’s voice was crisp and businesslike.

“You’ve been outed,” he said. “Just read the article; then get back here. You and Lincoln need to get together.”

ROCK STAR DUPES DEMONSTRATORS

DISSENT ORGANIZED TO PROMOTE POP ALBUM

ISTANBUL, 0621. Sources report to the Daily Gazette that recent anti-government demonstrations inside Turkey have been orchestrated by a U.S.-based multimedia firm operating at the behest of English pop star Ian Attila Gordon, whose album Ararat has just been released.

Sources say that Gordon, who played James Bond in the recent film Stunrunner, filmed in Turkey, engaged Hollywood-based Great Big Idea to promote his album by creating popular enthusiasm in Turkey. Great Big Idea, which normally produces online games, also produced a Turkish-themed game to promote the Bond film.

In Great Big Idea’s current promotion, participants are asked to appear in public areas carrying items such as CDs, scarves, and flowers. The events were presented as gamelike activities, and participants were not told that their involvement would ultimately be used to promote a pop album.

Some of these events have become the focus for anti-government demonstrations, though it is not known whether Great Big Idea intended this or whether agitators seized the opportunity to use gullible members of the public for their own purposes.

“I’m completely disillusioned,” said one participant, a college student giving her name only as “Neriman.” “I had been led to believe that the political dimension of these actions was sincere. To find that it was a cynical maneouver intended only to sell pop music is a great disappointment, to say the least.”

Great Big Idea has not commented, and in fact their company policy is never to confirm or deny participation in any media event.

The organization is headed by media mogul Dagmar Shaw, described as “a shadowy figure” who was investigated for a series of murders and terror bombings in Los Angeles three years ago.

Ararat is described on its own Web site as “a revolution in music.” The album is said to be inspired by Gordon’s experience in Turkey filming Stunrunner and features Turkish backing musicians.

UPDATE 0945. Mr. Gordon has not offered comment, but a spokesman reached early this morning seemed very surprised and said only, “That’s just pure loony tunes, ken?”

“Fuck me,” Dagmar said, as she followed the link to Gordon’s Web site. She had read the story on her handheld as Richard drove the party back to Akrotiri. Their guards followed in a Rover, and behind the guards was a Ford Transit that carried the guards’ communications gear, the stuff that actually worked under the influence of the High Zap.

Dagmar was staggered. The article had just enough truth to be believable, just enough power to send the movement she’d created rocking back on its heels.

If Bozbeyli had blamed the CIA for his troubles, it would only have been the sort of thing any dictator was expected to say. Few would have taken the complaints seriously, even if they were shown to be true. But blaming a Scots rock star at least had the advantage of novelty and would guarantee headlines in the tabloid and entertainment press.

If the U.S. government had been blamed, at least the U.S. would have been assumed to have acted for its own rational or political reasons. But bringing Gordon into it tainted the whole enterprise with celebrity and money-no one would want to risk their lives in a political action knowing that the whole point would be to sell records and make someone else famous.

And Dagmar had to admit that the timing was perfect. The story had broken when the Zap had isolated Dagmar in Akrotiri and when her people in California would be asleep. She had been unable to respond to any of the allegations, and any denial would never catch the original story.

The junta had restored the Internet to Ankara because the Zap was costing the local economy far too much money. And they’d restored it to Akrotiri because the damage was already done.

The road curved alongside the sea, a deep brooding azure. Cargo ships swung at anchor waiting for cargo, their waterline high above salt water. Far out to sea, Dagmar could see a patrol boat coasting in British territorial water.

“We’re being gamed,” she muttered.

“Sorry?” said Richard.

“I said,” she repeated, “that we’re being gamed.”

“Damn right we are!” Helmuth spoke up from the backseat.

Dagmar kept her eyes on the uneasy ocean. Her shock was beginning to fade.

She knew that there was only one thing to do when you were gamed by someone.

Game them back.

Jet noise was back, along with the Internet. The sound of turboprops thrashing air sounded through Lincoln’s office.

“I need to talk to Ian Attila Gordon,” Dagmar said.

Lincoln’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “You think I’ve got his number?” he said. “When I was working on Stunrunner, it’s not like I ever got to talk to the star-I only dealt with PR people.”

“Can you call any of them?” Dagmar asked.

“Yeah, sure. But I doubt they’ve got the star’s number, either. If we knew who represented him, we could get him through his management.”

Dagmar considered the problem.

“In that case,” she said, “I need to talk to Odis Strange.”

She had gone into conference in Lincoln’s office as soon as she had returned from her errand to Limassol. Richard and Helmuth had carried their spoil into the ops room to begin the business of putting together a DOS network.

Lincoln reached for his handheld.

“I’ve already had a conversation with Mr. Strange,” Lincoln said as he thumbed buttons. “He wants to fly his daughter’s body home, but the authorities are flying in a special pathologist from England, and he couldn’t come in because of the Zap. I think he’s upset-also, I think, high.”

“Judy said he was on the wagon,” Dagmar said.

“Maybe he was smart enough not to call her when he was out of his mind.” Dryly. “By the way, he kept asking awkward questions about what Judy was actually doing out here.”

“He’ll find that out later today if he tunes in the news,” Dagmar said.

“Here’s his number,” Lincoln said. He held the phone to Dagmar. Dagmar unholstered her own handheld, and Lincoln neatly transferred Odis Strange’s number to Dagmar with the press of a virtual button.

Dagmar pressed Send. Lincoln drew his own phone back.

“It’s very early in the morning in California,” he said.

“I’ll have to hope that Odis Strange keeps rock-star hours.”

The ring signal repeated five times before Odis Strange answered. During that time Dagmar paced back and forth along the two-yard-long empty strip in front of Lincoln’s desk and managed three complete laps.

“Hello.” He didn’t sound as if Dagmar had dragged him from sleep.

“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “my name is Dagmar Shaw. I’m calling from Cyprus. I was Judy’s boss.”

“I already talked to that guy,” Strange said. His tenor voice was crisp, and the words came fast but distinct, rap-rap-rap, like the sound from a telegraph key.

“The person you talked to is the man I work for,” Dagmar said. “Judy worked directly under me. In fact, we were roommates.”

“I’d like to know exactly what Judy was doing out there,” Strange said. Rap-rap-rap.

“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’m a game designer. Judy worked for me earlier this year, in the game we ran in Turkey.”

“I heard about that,” Strange said. “I’d still like to know what the hell was going on.”

Dagmar decided to evade that subject.

“The authorities,” she said, “tell me they’re doing everything they can to locate the men responsible.”

“The fucking authorities know more than they’re fucking telling.” Rap-rap-rap. “I should fly out there myself and bring my AR-15 and ask those fuckers some questions. That gun can fire damn near a hundred fifty rounds per minute, and that’s on semiautomatic.”

“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “a situation has come up, and I need your help.”

“Fuck those people up!” Strange shouted. “Fuck them up with two-two-three rounds!”

Dagmar winced and held the phone away from her ear. Lincoln looked at her with saturnine amusement. She turned away from him and stared at the evil eye amulet on his wall.

“Mr. Strange-” she began.

“When can I bring Judy home?” Strange demanded. “Her mother’s a damn wreck. The people there are all giving me the runaround.”

“I don’t know,” Dagmar said. “But I promise I’ll find out for you.”

“I need to go down there and break some heads,” Strange said. “Bring a crowbar.”

“Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I need your help.”

The statement seemed to surprise him.

“My help?” he said. “What the hell can I do?”

“There’s a false rumor going around,” Dagmar said. “People are saying that I-that Judy and I were hired by Ian Attila Gordon to overthrow the Turkish junta.”

“What in God’s name-” Rap-rap-rap and then a brief pause. “Attila was doing this? Attila was trying to overthrow the dictators?”

“Well,” Dagmar said, “no, he wasn’t.”

“It’s the CIA that put those guys in power,” Strange said. “Those Turkish generals are CIA way back. That’s how they got to be Turkish generals in the first place!”

Dagmar tried to stay relentlessly on topic.

“I need to coordinate with Attila,” Dagmar said. “I need to talk to him, so we can agree on what to say to the press.”

“If you’ve been fucking with the generals,” Strange said, “you’re damn right you need to coordinate.”

“I didn’t say we were doing that.” Dagmar couldn’t help herself.

“I still can’t figure out,” Strange said, “how Attila got into this.”

“Do you have contact information for him?” Dagmar persisted. “Judy said you knew him.” A verbal memory flashed into her mind. “She said you thought he was a tosser.”

Strange laughed. “Yeah, he fucking well is,” he said. “I’ve got it on my phone.”

“Good, because-” And then the line went dead.

Dagmar looked at her phone in annoyance. Lincoln’s window rattled to the sound of Eurofighters crashing the sound barrier somewhere above the Med.

“What happened?” Lincoln asked.

“I think he cut me off accidentally when he was trying to access Attila’s number.”

Lincoln sighed. “Is he crazy out of his mind?”

Dagmar considered this.

“Who am I to judge?” She shrugged. She hit Redial.

“What the fuck?” She jumped as Strange shouted in her ear before she even heard a ring signal.

“That’s what I want to know!” Strange said. “What the fuck? Double-you Tee Eff. Know what I’m saying?”

Persist, she told herself.

“Did you manage to get me Attila’s contact information?”

“Yeah. I got it right here.”

As he gave the number, she pressed the Write button on her handheld and scribed the number in the air and into her phone’s memory.

“Thank you, Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, when I hear anything about Judy.”

“Yeah,” Strange said. “Thanks.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dagmar said. “We all loved Judy here.”

She pressed the End button and felt herself sag in relief.

“That seemed to go well,” Lincoln said dryly.

“I’m the envy of my friends,” Dagmar said as she connected. “Now I have two rock stars on my speed dial.”

“Let’s hope only one of them is crazy.”

The number answered after the first ring.

“Hello?” a Scots voice said. “Who is this? If this is aboot that pish on the telly…”

“Is this Mr. Gordon?” Dagmar asked. She wasn’t completely certain: when Ian Attila Gordon sang, it sounded as if he were from Memphis.

“Aye.” The voice was cautious.

“Mr. Gordon,” Dagmar said, “this is Dagmar Shaw. I’m the person you’re supposed to have hired to overthrow General Bozbeyli.”

“Thank fuck fir that!” Attila Gordon seemed relieved to have a fellow victim to talk to. “Ah jumped a fuckin mile when Ah heard the phone.”

“It’s pretty crazy,” Dagmar said.

“The arseholes even hacked the Web page! Aw that ‘revolution in music’ mince wasnae meant tae be there. We couldnae change it back, ’cause thid altered the passwords!”

“They’re very good,” Dagmar said, “whoever they are.”

“Look,” Attila said. “The guys are trying tae put thegither a statement denying the story. Maybe we should coordinate-”

“A denial isn’t going to work,” Dagmar said. “The story’s already huge; a denial will never catch up with it.”

“What the hell else can we dae!” Attila said. “Mah balls are on the rails here. I mean, I’ve niver even talked tae yi before, ken? Let alone hired yi-”

“I have an idea,” Dagmar said. “It’ll get you in front of the story, and it’ll put you on the right side of public opinion, but it all depends how much you really want the return of Turkish democracy.”

“Cannae hiv they Nazi cunts ruling the roost.”

“That’s good,” Dagmar said, “but when I said how much, I actually meant how much in pounds sterling.”

There was a long silence at the other end. Dagmar held her breath.

She was counting on the idea that rock musicians, when all was said and done, would much rather be God than just be the entertainment.

Please, she thought, please be a megalomaniac, and not a Scot who’s tight with his money.

“How much?” Attila said.

Dagmar let her breath out in a sigh.

She reckoned she had him.

I am Plot Queen, she thought.