“I apologize for language,” Ivanov said to Zula.
For a while, only a few muffled noises had been heard from the empty apartment next door, but now they heard the whoosh of plastic sheeting being pulled off the huge roll, followed by the sporadic thud/click of the staple gun, which came distinctly through the wall. This posed a distraction to Peter and Zula, which Ivanov noticed and misinterpreted. “Makink little kholes,” he said. “Not big kholes. Easy to fix. With a little—” He said a word in Russian, then looked to Sokolov. Sokolov, a bit distracted—maybe taken aback—by what was going on in the other room, missed the cue. Ivanov then looked to the giant potato-like man who was standing near the gun safe and asked him a question. This fellow was deeply apologetic that he was unable to help. But he did shout something downstairs to the smoker who was posted in the bay, who called back: “Spackle!”
“Spackle,” Ivanov repeated, and spread his hands, palms up, as if requesting forgiveness.
“It has nothing to do with Peter. Actually Peter has been working diligently to help me overcome the problem,” Wallace said.
“So Peter has not fucked us.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“You? Have you fucked me, Wallace?”
“This is not that kind of problem.”
“Oh really? What kind of problem is it?”
“A technical problem.”
“Ah, so you have drove your car to warehouse of Mr. Technical Genius, here, to get tech support.”
“Yes.”
“And he has given it?”
“Yes. And Zula as well.”
Ivanov blushed. “Yes, forgive me, of course, I do injustice.”
Silence, except for the whoosh-rustle-clunk of the plastic and the staple gun.
“And?” Ivanov asked, raising his eyebrows. “Still is problem?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Something is wrong with file?” This with a dark look at Peter.
“The file was fine.”
“Was fine?”
“Now it’s been rendered inaccessible.”
“You did not make backup?”
“I was quite careful to make a backup, sir, but it too has been rendered inaccessible.”
“What is this word ‘inaccessible’? You have lost computer?”
“No, both it and the backup drive are under my control, but the data were encrypted.”
“You forgot key?”
“I never had it.”
Ivanov laughed. “I am not computer specialist, but … how can you never have key to file you encrypted?”
“I did not encrypt it.”
“Peter? Peter encrypted it?”
“No!” Peter exclaimed.
“Zula encrypted it?”
“No,” said Peter and Wallace in unison.
“She cannot speak for herself?”
“I did not encrypt it, Mr. Ivanov,” Zula said, earning her an appreciative nod, as if she had just stuck her landing at the Olympics.
“Is missink person? Someone not here who encrypted both file and backup?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Ivanov’s face crinkled up and he laughed. “Ah, here is good part! Finally we come to part where bullshit starts. Makes me feel needed.”
The door to the adjoining space opened and the two men came out, carrying the roll of plastic, considerably depleted. Through the open door Zula could see that the entire apartment had been lined in plastic. One sheet had been unrolled on the floor and folded up the walls, and then other sheets had been draped over that to cover the walls and even the ceiling. The two men walked wordlessly through the room and went downstairs into the bay.
“In a manner of speaking!” Ivanov slapped his thigh. “What fine expression.” The smile went away, and he fixed his gaze on Wallace. “Wallace?”
“Yes, sir?”
“How many people have touched your laptop this day?”
“One, sir. Only I.”
“How many have touched backup drive in nice expensive safe?”
“One.”
“Then khoo—in a manner of speaking—khoo encrypted file?”
“We don’t know. But we can get the key—” Wallace was trying to talk over Ivanov now. “With these people’s help we can get the key—”
Ivanov had put both of his hands to his temples and was staring at the floor between his feet.
One of the plastic staplers came back up the stairs carrying a cordless drill, a blowtorch, a roll of duct tape, and a length of piano wire. He went into the plasticked apartment and closed the door behind him.
“First thing I must understand: has someone fucked us or not?”
“Yes, someone has most certainly fucked us, sir,” Wallace answered.
“Apologize to Zula when you say such word!”
“Beg your pardon, Zula,” Wallace said.
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
“You have on laptop, on backup drive, many important files to us.”
“Yes.”
“Status of these files?”
“The same.”
“All encrypted?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Originals and backups?”
Here the tension had become so unbearable that Zula did not know whether she might faint or throw up.
Ivanov laughed.
“I know how to do this,” he said. “Someone fucks us extremely badly, I am familiar with situations of this type. Sokolov too. Peter!”
“Yes, Mr. Ivanov?”
“You know of Battle of Stalingrad?”
“No, sir.”
Ivanov was crestfallen.
“The biggest battle of all time, probably,” Zula said.
Ivanov brightened and gestured eloquently at her. “A wonderful and glorious victory for Mother Russia?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I’d call it that.”
“Vwy not!?” Ivanov demanded, in such a blustery tone that Zula was certain he was playing her.
“Because the Germans penetrated very deeply into Russia and inflicted horrendous losses.”
This was the correct answer. “Khorrendous losses!” Ivanov repeated. He turned to face Wallace, daring him to appreciate how clever Zula was. “Khorrendous losses! You hear Zula? She understands. Where are you from? Not from this ridiculous fucking country.”
“Eritrea.”
“Eritrea!”
“Yes.”
He held out his hand to her again. “Khorrendous losses! This girl understands nature of khorrendous losses. Where are your parents?”