Pattern Recognition

30. RU

On the train to Waterloo, Ngemi buys beer and a packet of chicken-flavored crisps from the refreshment cart.

Cayce buys a bottle of still mineral water.

“How did Baranov wind up that way?” she asks.

“In that specific place?”

“In his general situation. Did he drink himself there?”

“I had a cousin, back home,” says Ngemi, “who drank an entire electrical appliance business. He was otherwise an ordinary fellow, well liked. His problem seemed simply the drink. With Hobbs, I imagine the drink might be a symptom of something else, though so established now that it hardly matters. Hobbs is his mother's maiden name. Hobbs-Baranov, hyphenated at birth. His father, a Soviet diplomat, defected in the fifties to America, marrying an Englishwoman of considerable wealth. Hobbs managed to lose the hyphen, but when drunk he still rails against it. He once told me that he'd lived his whole life within that hyphen, in spite of having buried it.”

“He worked for American intelligence, as a mathematician?”

“Recruited from Harvard, I believe. But again, it's difficult to know. He only mentions those things when drunk.” He pops the top on his can of beer, and sips. “I suppose I have no business asking, but was your visit a success?”

“It may have been. But I'll have to ask for more of your help, if it was.”

“Can you tell me more?”

“I need something, and Baranov may be able to find it for me. In exchange, I've offered to buy that calculator for him, from the dealer in Bond Street.”

“Greenaway? His asking price is obscene.”

“It doesn't matter. If Baranov gets me what I want, it's a bargain.”

“And you need my help?”

“I need you to go with me, to this dealer, and help me buy it. Make sure it's the right one, the one Baranov wants. And if Baranov gives me what I want, I'll need you to deliver it to him.”

“I can do that, certainly.”

“How do we start?”

“Greenaway has a website. He doesn't open, Sundays.”

She opens the Luggage Label and removes her iBook and phone. “I hope it's still there, the calculator.”

“It will be,” Ngemi assures her, “at Greenaway's price.”

THE evening version of a Waterloo Sunday moves differently, and the pigeons Cayce had seen flying, that morning, now race fearlessly amid the feet of hurrying passengers, pecking up the day's bounty.

Under Ngemi's tutelage, she's e-mailed Greenaway, asking for the Curta prototype, which is indeed still on offer, to be placed on hold, prior to her viewing it tomorrow, with intent to buy. “The hold is no protection,” Ngemi explains, as she walks with him toward the escalators, “should another tragic victim turn up in the meantime, but it will serve to get his attention, and establishes a certain tone. It will help that he knows you are American.” He had insisted she mention that she was from New York, and only in London briefly. “Do you know when Hobbs might have your information for you?”

“No idea.”

“But you wish to go ahead with Greenaway?”

“Yes.”

“You are not a wealthy woman?”

“Not at all. I'm using someone else's money”

“If you had offered Hobbs the amount of Greenaway's price, in cash, he might well have refused you. He could no more pay Greenaway's price, with his own money, than I could. I've known him to refuse offers, for that sort of service, that I took to be much larger.”

“But doesn't he need money anyway, or want it?”

“Yes, but perhaps he has only a finite number of favors left, to call in.”

“Favors?”

“I don't imagine that he himself has any particular resources. It isn't his talent that might find you what you want, or any knowledge on his part. I believe he calls in a favor, asks someone, and sometimes is told the answer.”

“Do you know who he asks?” Not really expecting an answer herself.

“Have you heard of 'Echelon'?”

“No.” Although she thinks she has, but can't quite place it.

“American intelligence have a system that allows for the scanning of all Net traffic. If such a thing exists, then Hobbs might be its grandfather. He may well have been instrumental in its creation.” He raises an eyebrow, as if to signal that is all he knows, or is willing to say, about so outré a subject.

“I see,” she says, wondering if she does.

“Well,” Ngemi pauses near the descending escalator, “you must know what you're doing.”

“No, I don't. I don't at all. But thank you, for all your help.”

“Good evening, then. I will phone you, in the morning.”

She watches the shaven dome of his large dark head descend, on an angle, into the London underground.

She goes to find a cab.

She's ready for an early night, on CPST, and is checking her mail prior to brushing her teeth. Parkaboy first up.

Maybe, she decides. That's all she can tell him.

Send.

Boone next.

That really is the slow route, she thinks, though she doesn't know what else he should be trying, other than buddying up with Sigil employees.

She pauses.

Which may well be the case.

Send.

Next is … spam? An all-numerical hotmail address.

Baranov, e-mailing from the hyphen.

.ru

Russia.