REAMDE

“The hacker who created the virus.”

 

 

A bit of silent driving, now, as Sokolov took all of this in.

 

“Anyway,” Olivia continued, when Sokolov’s body language suggested he was ready to hear more, “I sort of got everyone talking to one another. Dodge supplied the video file—”

 

“Dodge?”

 

“Richard Forthrast.”

 

“Rich uncle of Zula.”

 

“I hadn’t pegged you for a T’Rain fan.”

 

“I read about her in newspapers, magazines, this morning at bookstore. I am not surprised that a man of this type would have obtained video file. So. He supplied file, Csongor supplied key…”

 

“And then lots of cops and spies were looking at video of Igor stealing that.” Olivia gave her head a little toss, indicating the rifle case in the backseat. “Why did you bring it, by the way?”

 

“I shoot moose. We have barbecue.”

 

“I would love to have a moose barbecue with you. But we should probably be figuring out our next move.”

 

“Our? We are together? Partners?” Sokolov’s tone was rough and skeptical.

 

“That’s what we need to figure out.”

 

Her phone went off. She answered it and spent the next couple of minutes getting an earful from someone on the other end of the line. “All right,” she finally said, “I’ll check in with you when I’m north of the border.” She hung up and handed the device to Sokolov. “Could you destroy that for me?”

 

“With pleasure.” Sokolov began by figuring out how to eject the battery. In case it had some residual power source, he then laid it out on the dashboard, drew out his Makarov, verified that it was in a safe condition, and raised its butt like a hammer.

 

“Belay that,” Olivia said. “I need to send one last message.”

 

Sokolov set the Makarov down on the floor between his feet and slid the battery back into its socket.

 

Olivia was navigating an especially curvy part of the mountain pass, so she talked Sokolov through the process of getting the phone turned on and navigating its menus. “In ‘Recent Calls,’ you should see one, early this morning, to someone named Seamus.”

 

“Yes, I have it,” he said after a few moments.

 

“If you would be so good as to send a text to that number. ‘Blown and going dark.’ Something like that.”

 

Sokolov looked at her incredulously.

 

“Exactly like that,” she corrected herself.

 

Sokolov spent a few moments thumbing it out and sending it. Then he removed the battery again, placed the device on the dashboard, and picked up the Makarov. He looked at her.

 

“Go for it.”

 

The butt of the Makarov came down on the black plastic puck, producing a nice splintering noise. Sokolov hit it a few more times and then began to sift through the resultant debris, looking for anything that might possibly be still alive. “Someone mad at you?”

 

“My boss in London,” Olivia said, sounding a little tense. “People are talking.”

 

“You were seen at house of Igor?”

 

“No. But my presence in the States is a bit of an open secret. I’ve been collaborating with local FBI on the search for Zula and for Jones. They know the name I’m using—the name on my passport. This morning, after I heard that you had showed up at Igor’s house, I walked right across the concourse and got on the next plane for Seattle. It is a fifty-minute flight. I was there in no time. Walked out, grabbed a rental car, drove to Igor’s.”

 

“How did you know address of Igor?”

 

“I accessed a PDF of the court order using that.” She nodded at the wreckage of the phone, which Sokolov was now primly scooping into a litter bag. “As you know, Igor’s house is less than a kilometer from the airport. Elapsed time, from me getting the news in Vancouver to me showing up on the front stoop of Igor’s house, less than two hours.”

 

“Why?”

 

She gave him a look. “What do you mean, why?”

 

“Is crazy thing to do. Blowing the operation of the FBI.”

 

“They would have gotten everything. All the stuff that went down in that apartment—kidnapping, murder—it all would have come to light and you’d have spent the rest of your life in prison.”

 

“Maybe it will happen anyway,” Sokolov said, thinking of Vlad, cringing on the floor.

 

“You and I had a deal,” Olivia said, “back in China. Which was that, in exchange for your assistance in helping track down Abdallah Jones, my employer would get you out of trouble. Something went wrong. I don’t know what.”

 

Sokolov shrugged dismissively. “Network of so-called George Chow was penetrated by PSB.”

 

“I am still trying to honor the general spirit of that agreement,” Olivia said. “And it’s to our advantage—MI6’s advantage—to keep you from getting hauled into an American court for a sensational trial. Because then a lot of other stuff would come out too.”

 

“China stuff.”

 

“China stuff. With repercussions for international relations among China, the U.S., the U.K. So you had to be gotten out of that house.”

 

“You acted well,” Sokolov agreed. “I was afraid—” Then he shut up.

 

A little too late. “You were afraid I was being a crazy, love-sick stalker chick.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Olivia sighed. “If only I had the time for such recreations.”

 

“Now you are in deep shit?” Sokolov inquired, shaking the bag of phone debris.

 

“I left enough circumstantial evidence—flying to Seattle, renting the car—that sooner or later the FBI is going to figure out that I went to Igor’s house and blew the operation. They have already begun asking difficult questions of my higher-ups at MI6.”

 

“What is best course for you then?”

 

“It’s going to be an awkward pain in the arse no matter what,” Olivia said, “but everything would be a hell of a lot better if I were in Canada. This would put me out of the FBI’s jurisdiction, and in a country with Commonwealth ties to the U.K.—easier to grease the skids from there, get me home discreetly.”

 

Neal Stephenson's books