Deep State

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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.

Dagmar flicked aside a corner of the curtain, saw Ismet waiting for her, and felt a flush of pleased surprise.

“Come in,” she said as she opened the door. She could smell backyard charcoal grills on the outdoor air.

Ismet stepped inside. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. He had shaved, and she could scent more talc than disinfectant on his skin.

“Did you see Attila?” he asked.

“He’s making the most of his opportunities,” Dagmar said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he visited the Pope tomorrow.”

“That’s already been announced,” Ismet said.

Dagmar laughed. “Would you like a drink?”

Ismet would. She made two drinks, and they carried them to the couch and sat. He put a hand to his ribs as he turned to her, but the pain must have been momentary, since he continued to face her. He raised his glass.

“To Attila.”

“To our own little Frankenstein monster.”

They touched glasses, drank. He made an interested face.

“In Turkey they make these with lemon, not lime.”

“They’re good that way, too.”

Ismet adjusted himself on the couch, touched his ribs again, then put the hand down.

“I’ve gone off the narcotics,” he said. “Now it’s just aspirin for me.”

“You must be feeling better.”

“I am.” He gave her a careful look. “And you? You are all right?”

Dagmar waved a hand. “I have my moments.”

He tilted his head. “I am sorry if-if I made any of those moments worse.”

She sighed, touched his knee. “You’ve been hurt,” she said. “You’ve got to look after yourself.”

“I did,” he said. “I have for a couple days now.” He offered a rueful smile. “But now I’m lonely.”

She looked up at him, at the purple bruises that discolored his face. “Strange,” she said. “So am I.”

He leaned toward her-winced, clutched his ribs-leaned closer, then kissed her. His lips were pleasantly moist.

Ismet drew back, hand still on his ribs, and took a few breaths.

“I was going to say,” he said, “that I’m no longer afraid that you’re going to beat me up.”

She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I was angry when I said that. But I wasn’t angry with you.”

Dagmar nodded again. She took a sip of her drink, then leaned forward and kissed Ismet again. They kissed a good long while.

When they stopped, Ismet had to take another few quick breaths.

“I forgot to breathe,” he said.

“Don’t do that.”

“You know,” he said. “If this is to go any farther, you’re going to have to do all the work. I’m not very… flexible.”

She laughed. A battered, bruised, half-crippled man and a crazy lady.

“We are the junkware,” she said, and kissed him again.

For two days the Lincoln Brigade tried to stay atop the general strike. From the information available, the strike seemed to go well. Amateur videos showed police vandalizing shops that had closed, but even those shops that remained open had few customers. Turkish television showed Ankara streets as jammed with cars as ever, but the images could have been filmed weeks earlier.

At night, everywhere in the country rebels came into the streets and brawled with the police. The Brigade organized a pair of demos. One of them, weaving along Irfan Bas?tu from the Altinpark toward the center of Ankara, was four kilometers long. It was so huge the police didn’t dare to try to stop it. The demo eventually dispersed when word came that the Sixty-sixth Motorized Brigade had saddled up and was coming back to town, tanks at the head of the column.

Ian Attila Gordon seemed to be everywhere, on every medium. He had a private audience with the Pope. He appeared on chat shows. His album charted at number eight, with three singles in the top five. A T-shirt with his picture and the label KEN YE REVOLUTION? suddenly appeared at stands and counters throughout the world.

Lincoln said that his colleagues from the American embassies and consulates in Ankara, Istanbul, and Adana were working the phones and visiting generals, trying to get one of the military men to commit to the return of the republic. So far there had been no success.

The Seagram’s ARG updated at noon on Friday, Pacific time, which was ten at night in Cyprus. The Lincoln Brigade was still in the ops center, and Dagmar on the phone to Marcie at Great Big Idea, when the new pictures rolled onto the screen.

Now they could only await developments.

Corporal Carrot says:

Googling Slash Berzerker. Nothing here.

Classicist says:

Did you try spelling “Berserker” correctly?

Corporal Carrot says:

Yep. Nada.

Vikram says:

By the way, has anyone noticed that everyone in this game is always drinking whiskey? Which may not be unusual in and of itself, but have you noticed that they ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY?

Lots of booze, but no alcoholics in this game! Usually these games are full of human wreckage, both addictive and compulsive. THAT’S unusual!

Hippolyte says:

That’s an interesting point.

LadyDayFan says:

Harry just found out the police are after him. Do we think he’s been committing actual fraud, or do we want to blame Mr. Berzerker for Harry’s problems?

Hanseatic says:

This will probably lead nowhere, but I used to play on Blood Harvest with someone who used the Slash Berzerker handle. We must have mowed down tens of thousands of undead between us.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Are you still in touch with Slash?

Corporal Carrot says:

Chatty! Haven’t seen you here in a long time!

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

I’ve been overwhelmed by mundane existence in the last few months. But I noticed a new adventure has started, and I’m trying to catch up.

Hanseatic says:

The guy I played online with probably has nothing to do with our current game. He was using that handle at least a couple years before anybody even thought of this game.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Still, if it’s the only lead we’ve got… Can you message him?

Hanseatic says:

Not until I get home from work and load Blood Harvest. And then I’d have to hope he’ll log on.

ReVerb says:

You’re playing this ARG at work! That’s the spirit!

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Anyone else out there have an account with Flashpoint Gamez? You could message him.

Hippolyte says:

My husband has one. But what questions do I ask?

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Ask him where he is and who he is and what he does for a living. The answers might be misleading, but even misdirection tells us something.

Hanseatic says:

I’m in Gdynia, and I played using the mirror site in Bucharest, so my guess is that Slash was somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Alaydin says:

Hi everybody, I know that guy. He’s not a character in the game; he’s a friend of mine here in Turkey.

Hippolyte says:

I’ve been worried about the players in Turkey I met during the Stunrunner game. Are you all right, Alaydin?

Alaydin says:

Well, I’m on strike. My business closed down. There’s a lot of military here in Adana so there’s nothing much else that can be done.

Hippolyte says:

Take care of yourself, Alaydin. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Alaydin says:

Thank you!

Corporal Carrot says:

Your posts are coming through a little funny.

Alaydin says:

Turkish keyboard.

Corporal Carrot says:

Oh right.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Alaydin, I’d like to ask you about your friend Slash. Does he play ARGs?

Alaydin says:

He played Stunrunner, but he wasn’t on the bus with us. I think he really prefers first-person shooters.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

If he played Stunrunner, then Great Big Idea might have co-opted him for this game in some way. This might be an attempt to keep the Turkish audience they captured for Stunrunner. Has Slash ever been an actor or worked in video?

Alaydin says:

He’s a computer engineer. He has never been in show business.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Can you possibly give us his name? And a way to get ahold of him?

Alaydin says:

I do not want to give away his name without permission.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Can you give us email, then?

Alaydin says:

This really is not the same Slash Berzerker. Hes out of the country anyway.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Where is he?

Alaydin says:

I think Uzbekistan.

Hanseatic says:

This is beginning to sound suspicious. Maybe he’s been sent out of the country for a reason, like to make it hard for us to locate him.

ReVerb says:

He may be hacking Harry’s accounts from Uzbekistan.

Alaydin says:

Not same guy!

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Easiest way to prove that is to contact him. He’s the only lead we’ve got.

Alaydin says:

I think you’re crazy, but ok. N.Uruisamoglu@HasekiNetwork.co.tu.

Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:

Thanks!

“Nicely done, there, Chatsworth,” Dagmar said.

“Sometimes you just have to nag them,” Lincoln said, still bent over his keyboard. The Our Reality Network live feed glimmered in his Elvis glasses.

“I’ve got Haseki Network’s English-language home page,” Richard said. “Offices in Turkey, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Azerbaijan, and Kyrgyzstan. Mission statement: ‘To provide wireless access where users in the past did not have access to high speed, high performance, networked communications. To provide long range point-to-point and point-to-multipoint wireless connections. To provide a high level of support to our networks and users.’ ”

“Slogan,” Helmuth said, reading over Richard’s shoulder, “ ‘Now Your Community is the Whole World.’ ”

“When these guys are done,” Richard said, “everyone in the ’Stans will be able to receive hot take-out pizza within twenty minutes.”

Helmuth frowned.

“I don’t see the connection between Haseki and the High Zap,” he said. “These guys are a wireless company, not a bunch of spook hackers.”

Lloyd clicked from screen to screen.

“The Turkish pages aren’t quite identical to the English pages,” he said. “There’s a news page in Turkish that mentions that Haseki has completed on schedule a Turkish-inspired, Turkish-engineered secure communications network for the military.”

“Bingo,” said Richard.

“Still not proven,” Helmuth said.

“Slash’s name is Nimet Uruisamoglu,” Lloyd read from the company Web page. “He’s listed as Vice President, Chief Programmer, Director of Operations (Uzbekistan). A recent promotion, apparently.”

Helmuth laughed. “He doesn’t get credit for being Chief Zombie Killer?”

“His talent for slaughtering the undead,” Richard said, “remains unrecognized.”

Dagmar, meanwhile, had called up an email program and had typed in Uruisamoglu’s email address. She paused as she contemplated the subject line.

“He’s about to get hundreds of insane emails from players all over the world,” she said. “How can I make sure that mine is the email he’s going to open?”

“Offer him money in the subject line,” Lincoln suggested. He was still watching the Seagram’s mystery unfold on the live feed.

“If I do that,” Dagmar said, “he’ll think it’s spam.”

“Tell him you want to hire him for a job,” Richard suggested. “Mention Alaydin. Mention stuff from the Haseki Web page.”

“Let me write the message in Turkish,” Ismet said.

“Oh.” Dagmar waved a hand. “Silly of me not to think of that.”

They considered the content, then had Ismet draft an email offering a chance for Uruisamoglu to take a well-paid but mysterious contract in Western Europe, and to call Dagmar on her handheld.

“Send several of them,” Dagmar said, “with somewhat different content. Just in case he skips over the first few.”

“I will,” Ismet said. “But let’s hope he’s not on strike.”

Lincoln turned away from the live feed and turned to Dagmar.

“The Group Mind found Slash Berzerker in about twenty minutes,” he said. “How long did you expect it would take?”

“A couple hours,” Dagmar said. “We got a little bit lucky.”

“Even though I’m a part of it,” Lincoln said, “I’m always surprised how quickly these missions are completed.”

Dagmar smiled. “Things happen fast when you’ve got tens of thousands of little worker bees to do the job for you.”

Lloyd was still looking at his display.

“Uruisamoglu hasn’t exactly been hiding his light under a bushel,” he said. “He’s kind of an IT superstar. I did a search on his name and came up with over a hundred thousand hits.” He gestured toward his display. “He’s an MIT graduate. He’s only twenty-six. He goes to a lot of conventions, gives a lot of speeches. I’ve got the text for a lot of this stuff here.”

“Any of it in English?” Lincoln asked.

“Most of it, in fact.”

“Anything political? Anything to indicate whether or not he supports the junta?”

Lloyd shook his head.

“Not so far,” he said. “But of course he reverse-engineered the Zap for them.”

“It might have been just a job he was paid to do,” Lincoln said. “He might just be a mercenary-which is good, from our point of view.” He looked up. “Just keep looking,” Lincoln said. “We need to know how to approach him.”

He turned to Ismet.

“Ideally,” he said, “I’d like to get a special ops team to just grab him and drag him to whatever American military bases are still in the ’Stans. But it may take too long to put a snatch team together.” He looked at Ismet. “So you’ll have to go in and make the approach.”

Dagmar’s heart gave a lurch.

At least, she thought, Ismet wouldn’t be going into the street fighting in Turkey.

“What are we trying to get him to do?” Ismet asked.

“The fact that he signed his work,” Lincoln said, “suggests that he compiled it himself, using his own personal compiler and algorithm. And the sort of people who compile programs themselves and then stick their own badge on them are very likely the sort of people who might well leave a back door into the program-they don’t code it into a program, because someone might notice; they add the back door when compiling it.”

“Ah.” Ismet nodded. “So I make contact, I get him to alter the Zap-”

“Putting a gun to his head if necessary,” Lincoln said.

Ismet shook his head. “It won’t work,” he said. “I’ll use the gun if I have to, but the fact is that I’m a journalist. He’ll know within ten seconds whether I have the knowledge to follow his work-and then he’ll make an idiot out of me. How am I going to know if he’s doing what I tell him to? Whether I have the gun or not, Slash is the one who will have the advantage.”

Lincoln turned somber. He looked over the others, as if numbering them in his head.

“I’ll go in,” Lloyd said. “I speak Turkish. I’ve shot a pistol once or twice.”

Lincoln looked at him for a moment, then shook his head.

U.S. citizen, Dagmar thought. Lincoln can’t put him in danger. Not without special permission, anyway.

Lincoln rose. “I’ll get busy talking to the good folks in Virginia,” he said. “I want the rest of you to prep for your encounter with Slash. He’s got a lot of speeches and so forth online-read them; try to figure what it is he wants. Try to work out what we can offer him, or pretend to offer him.” He gave the room a lowering look.

“We just may have to seduce the bastard,” he said. “You figure out what to say, how to say it.”

Seduce someone called Slash Berzerker, Dagmar thought. How hard can that be?

LadyDayFan says:

Assuming that this Uruisamoglu is in fact our Slash Berzerker, and assuming that he answers any of our emails, we should put our heads together and work out what questions we’re going to ask him. Should we ask him about Harry right off the bat?

Vikram says:

BTW, have you heard that the Internet is down in New York? I just heard the report here in Bengaluru.

Hippolyte says:

The whole Internet? Doesn’t seem very likely.

Corporal Carrot says:

I just checked the news crawl on CNN. They also report that New York is down.

Hippolyte says:

ReVerb is New York based. Are you still here, ReVerb?

Corporal Carrot says:

ReVerb? (ReVerb, reverb, reverb…)

Big echo in here.

LadyDayFan says:

Yeah. Big hollow echo.

I think we’ve lost the Apple.