He felt certain that the Troll lived in a neighborhood very much like one of these. He needed to know what it would be like to move and fight in such a place. His initial thought was “more like Grozny than Jalalabad,” but he would have to do much better than that. He did not even know, for example, whether Xiamen had any sort of underground mass transit system that could be put to use.
A faint humming sound alerted him to the approach of wheeled luggage. He turned to see Ivanov approaching from the direction of the elevator lobby, towing a black rollaway bag. One of the squaddies jumped up and offered to help him with it, but Ivanov brushed him off with a flicking gesture and came straight for the conference room. Sokolov opened the door. Ivanov entered without breaking stride, heaved the bag up, and slammed it down on the conference table. “You may open it.”
Sokolov unzipped the top flap and peeled it back. The entire bag was filled with magenta currency.
“Our obshchak,” Ivanov joked. At least Sokolov hoped he was joking.
All the notes were the same denomination: 100 RMB. They were printed in an uneasy mixture of purplish reds, and each bore a portrait of the young Mao Zedong. None of the bills was loose; they had been stacked into bundles of various sizes. Sokolov picked up a small one.
“Ridiculous country,” Ivanov said. “One hundred is the largest denomination that exists. You know how much it is worth? Fourteen dollars. They print nothing larger because if they did, it would be counterfeited instantly. So changing money is a huge problem. I am already tired.”
The small bundle consisted of nine 100-RMB notes with a tenth wrapped around it.
“So that is the local equivalent of a C-note,” Ivanov said.
Sokolov replaced it, reached deeper into the bag, and pulled out a stack of bills having the approximate proportions of a brick. He looked questioningly at Ivanov.
Ivanov shrugged. “Ten thousand dollars or something.” Then he shook his finger at Sokolov. “But remember: money goes a long way in China!”
“How do they carry it around?” Sokolov asked wonderingly.
“Purses,” said Ivanov.
Sokolov replaced the brick.
“What are your orders?” he asked.
“Get the hackers in here and make a plan for finding the Troll.”
“They have been talking about it,” Sokolov said. “They want to go out on the streets. Pound the pavement.” He gave the expression in English.
“Will they make trouble? Try to run off?”
“Peter might.”
“Always keep one here as insurance.”
“That one can’t be Csongor,” Sokolov, “since they don’t really know him.”
“Then either Peter or Zula always stays here. Unless—?”
“Zula will not create trouble if she knows Peter is hostage,” Sokolov began. “However, if the situation is reversed—”
“I knew it!” Ivanov slammed the table, and his face turned red. To him, Sokolov’s vague suspicion that Peter might be the kind of guy who would betray Zula was ontologically the same as a You-Tube video of him actually doing it. He seemed ready to kill Peter on the spot. Sokolov, for his part, was gratified that Ivanov trusted his intuitions in this way, but he could not help wondering if he’d judged Peter unfairly.
“This is just my guess,” Sokolov said.
“No, you are right! Peter stays here then. Zula goes out with Csongor. And you send two of your men with them at all times.”
“Sir, I request permission to go out with them alone,” Sokolov said.
“Why?”
“Because I have seen nothing of the city other than what I can see from this window.”
“Fine. Good idea. Go out and learn more of the place. You’ll see more than you want to see, I can tell you that.”
Sokolov turned toward the window. The hackers, as Ivanov called them, were standing outside, awaiting orders. He indicated with a movement of his head that they should enter.
Csongor, Zula, and Peter filed into the room and stood across the conference table from Ivanov, pretending they had not noticed the sack full of currency. Ivanov switched to English. “Much time has gone by sleepink, flyink, sleepink. Easy to forget nature of mission. Do you recall mission?”
“Figure out who the Troll is,” Peter said.
Ivanov stared at Peter as if he had said something deeply offensive. And in truth, there was nothing Peter could have said that would have helped him.
“Find motherfucker who fucked me!” Ivanov shouted, so loudly that he could have been heard in Vladivostok.
He let that one ring in their ears for a few moments. The hackers were physically shriveling, like raisins.
“You need to pound pavement!” Ivanov asserted.
Peter’s eyes flicked toward Sokolov.
“You look at me!” Ivanov shouted.
“Yes, sir,” Peter said. “Yes. We need to move around the city, get on the Internet in different places, check the IP addresses—”
“And send distress call home to mama!?” Ivanov inquired.
Peter’s face had been red from the beginning, but now it got redder.
“You, stay here,” Ivanov said. “Help make map or somethink.” He looked at Zula. “Lovely Zula, you pound pavement in company of Csongor.” He turned his attention to Csongor. “Csongor, you are only person who touches computer.” He shook his finger. “No email, no Facebook, no Twitter. And if there is some other such thing I have not heard of yet—none of that either!”
In English, Ivanov said, “Only exception to rule: Zula can play T’Rain if necessary. Csongor, Sokolov will watch carefully, make sure nothink funny happens.”
Zula and Csongor nodded.
Ivanov half turned and extended a hand toward Sokolov. “Sokolov will be present at all times to protect you from harm and ensure rules are followed. If rules are broken in serious way, if Zula goes to powder room and never comes back, any other such problem, then I must have extremely serious conversation with Root of All Evil here.” He extended his hands toward Peter in a gesture whose natural conclusion would have been out-and-out strangulation.
“Everyone understand rules?” Ivanov said.