The Gomorrah Gambit Page 9

  Azi wakes early the next morning, after troubled sleep and unremembered dreams. The flat is silent. The laptop and empty coffee mugs are angled on the table where he and Munira left them, before slipping exhausted into their respective rooms. Light streams through spotless windows. It’s appallingly ordinary—and he wants as little as possible to do with it. Throwing on his running kit, he scrawls a quick note—gone for a run, will be careful, back soon—and descends through discreetly secured doors. He needs not to be in this place. He needs to reset his mind and shake himself free of the feelings last night set in motion.

  Soon, his legs are taking him towards a massive needle that erupts into the skyline about a mile northeast of the flat. Without Google Maps to guide him or Wikipedia to inform him, it feels like an astonishing feat of exploration to run through an unfamiliar city. Did people really do this every day, once upon a century? Did he ever live his life this way?

  Azi doesn’t have a handle on Berlin. It’s prosperous, the pavements packed with crowds ambling through rising heat, but it feels somehow looser than London—a little less shoving, a lot more public space unclaimed for anything other than existing. This needle, for example: there is nothing else like it. No other tall buildings. No other retro space-age architecture. Just a seemingly endless succession of institutional-looking colonnades, museums and churches, spotted with blank plots.

  His lack of internet-on-demand is a nagging absence, but it also creates the welcome distraction of speculation. Perhaps the needle is a Cold War relic, built to assert the supremacy of the West—or the East. Perhaps it was a TV or radio tower, broadcasting capitalist or communist propaganda. Or perhaps it’s more recent: a symbol of reunification, embodying nothing more than the excitement of getting together to build a really tall needle. It’s certainly big. If there isn’t a viewing platform, he’s going to be disappointed.

  Presumably, he is under constant monitoring from the single-purpose phone lurking in his pocket, not to mention a tail and whatever state-backed tech Odi can access. Odi left him a generous supply of euros and seems relaxed about expeditions, which depresses Azi more than if he’d been ordered to stay put. GCHQ and the NSA have long possessed the ability to turn every single phone, tablet and computer in every single pocket into a covert monitoring device, and once you cross-reference this with AI and facial recognition it’s pretty much game over for public privacy. Who cares about mass surveillance when every twenty-first-century citizen has purchased their personal panopticon?

  If Azi is to have any hope of taking control of his situation, he needs to get hold of something he can play with, technologically speaking. But how to obtain his own device, secret and secure? Something small, self-contained, easily rendered inert; internet-connected, yet able to survive the casual-yet-meticulous inspection of his person and belongings.

  He has now been running for fifteen minutes and can feel his endorphins bringing some clarity—the comfort of a biochemical machine doing what evolution intended. Above the brick-and-metal spire of a pretty church, the needle looms just a block away, its slope broken by a sphere two-thirds of the way up. It looks like yesterday’s vision of the future. A cheerful crush of summer bodies sweeps past. Crowds are good: both anonymous and opportune. He looks around, savors the pavement’s tidal swell, then heads into the busiest venue he can find—a place called Balzac Coffee on the corner of a monolithic modern block.

  Inside, across the generically coffee-shop-ish selection of tables and soft furnishings, mostly young people are doing what young people mostly do: basking in proximate mutual ignoring. Azi is a sucker for this sociable aloneness. On a normal day, he would contentedly spend hours not watching other people not watching him in a place like this. Nothing is normal about today, however, and in the spirit of over-compensation he strikes up a conversation with the pink-haired man serving at the counter.

  “One iced coffee to drink in, bitte,” he says—and then, as the barista calls out the order and turns to accept his money, “By the way, do you know what that tower is?”

  “Berliner Fernsehturm. Television Tower. It is famous,” the barista says cheerfully, as if he isn’t asked this question multiple times daily. “You can go up, there is a nice view and a revolving restaurant.”

  “Have you ever been up it?”

  “I am from Berlin so, no.” He smiles and hands over a drink and Azi’s change. “Here, iced coffee, enjoy!”

  I could get used to this, Azi thinks, sipping his drink while scanning the room. The last time someone smiled at him in a Croydon coffee shop, they were trying to distract him while their mate nicked his mobile phone. On which note—Azi looks around the tables and, sure enough, several people are sporting identical phones to his NADIR model. Here is his opportunity. A little sleight of hand, a little luck, and perhaps he can fool some very clever people with a very simple trick.

  One of the phone-owners is a young mother. The baby on her lap is devotedly pummeling her face with a stuffed unicorn while she tries to sip some juice. She looks exhausted. Her phone is on the table in front of her, beside a half-empty pack of baby wipes. Grinning apologetically, Azi gestures towards her table’s Wi-Fi password sign and then picks it up, waving at the baby. Shooting him a look of pure malevolence, it bursts out screaming. Quickly, he replaces the sign so that it’s in front of her phone, sweeps the phone off one edge of the table and slips it into his pocket, then starts striding purposefully towards the exit.

  He’s almost there when something catches his eye. It’s a woman, seated alone on a sofa. She’s waving at him, smiling warmly in recognition. Lifting her arm high, like someone hailing an invisible taxi, she raises her voice and calls out.

  “Azi, over here! Come and join me!”

  Through the cascading shards of his plan, Azi does a double and then a triple take. It’s the woman from his shed. Anna. Her hair is styled differently, her clothes less smart, but it’s clearly her. With a dreadful weight growing in his chest, he picks his way across the café.

  “Azi. Fancy meeting you here! The phone please, and be quick about it.” She holds out one hand. Azi hands over the stolen phone.

  “Well done. Now wait here.”

  He watches as she casually loops through the tables, heading towards the stand for sugar packets and napkins. She bumps into the side of the oblivious young mother’s table and discreetly replaces the phone while smiling at the crying baby. She then picks up a handful of napkins and is back with Azi moments later.

  “I wouldn’t pull any further stunts like that if I were you. You’re not the right kind of clever and I don’t enjoy humiliating you. At least, not when you make it so easy.” She stands up. “Walk with me to the Television Tower?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Azi mutters, picking up his iced coffee. It’s beaded with condensation and looks much less appealing than in the photo above the counter. He follows Anna out into the bright morning and they begin walking. Between the telling-off and the fact that he’s wearing shorts, Azi feels about eight years old. Anna, on the other hand, seems genuinely cheerful.

  “I’m pleased with the start you’ve made, pick-pocketing aside. You and Munira are getting along very well. It’s all quite touching—and very much in line with our best-case scenario.” She glances at him, an eyebrow raised.

  “I’d like to be direct with you, Azi. Assuming you can get over the manner of your arrival—which I suggest you do, fast—we have delivered on our promises. I’m happy for you to express any concerns you may have, so long as you pick a more productive manner than petty thievery. You know something about what we are up against, but it’s reasonable that you wish to know more.” She pauses, as if admiring her surroundings. “So. Here I am.”

  Azi squints into the sun, shading his eyes with one hand. “I guess Odi is a little…intense. Not big on discussions.”

  “True enough. This is a beautiful city, isn’t it? He grew up near here. He isn’t called Odi, of course, but he is German—East German. Odi w
as born into things you grew up reading about in books, and he is extremely good at doing what needs to be done.”

  Azi swallows. There’s something there, he thinks—something between Anna and Odi that goes beyond business.

  “I want to know how you found me.”

  Anna starts walking again, forcing Azi to scamper in her wake.

  “I’ll make a deal with you. Get us into Gomorrah—you and Munira pull off access for Jim—and I’ll consider sharing that information. They’re not coming for you, if that’s what you’re worried about. They have no idea that you’re here, or that you even exist. You are merely convenient. And now, just to prove what good hosts we are…”

  They’re almost at the base of the Television Tower, its bulk soaring out of what looks like a decrepit 1980s shopping center. Anna brandishes an A4 printout, the words FAST VIEW TICKETS visible at its top.

  “…I will show you the best view in town. After which you will be running directly home to the flat. Interesting conversations are happening in your absence.”

  Fourteen

  By the time Azi returns to the flat, he no longer knows what to think about anything. Anna was charming, knowledgeable and not a little terrifying. The view was wonderful: the snaking river, green-speckled city, low gray tower blocks jostling with red tiles and domes; the white walls and gray roads, sprawling without a masterplan.

  What Anna meant by “interesting conversations” becomes clear as soon as he staggers through the door, panting from the pace at which he took the stairs. Munira is sitting at the living-room table surrounded by pens, scraps of paper and half-eaten pastries of some description. The laptop is open in front of her and she’s flushed with excitement. She beckons Azi over as soon as he walks in, sending an involuntary shiver through him. Odi is sprawled on the sofa, sipping coffee and simulating a hangover, one arm rested across his eyes. He calls out without opening his eyes, prompting an equally involuntary wave of dislike.

  “I came bearing Berliner Pfannkuchen. The good ones. In the kitchen there will soon be coffee. Great things have been achieved in your absence, but I feel like shit.”

  Azi doesn’t answer. He’s too busy staring at what’s onscreen: the forum where he and Munira posted the video last night. The threaded comments and responses below their post are now numbered at over two hundred, and counting: English, German, French, snatches of something like Polish or Czech. Senior members of Defiance and guests with advanced access privileges are falling over themselves to congratulate Jim, as well as to compete in a gaily informal festival of below-the-line racist fantasy. If even a tenth of them have viewed the video in a standard browser, their machines will have been hopelessly compromised by the code lurking in its subtitles.

  That’s not all. Switching to another tab, Munira brings up Jim’s private messages. There are congratulations on his draft mailshot—the tone was just right, the click-throughs are expected to be excellent—followed by heartier congratulations on his video sourcing. These are followed by both enthused and aggressive inquiries as to what he knows, what he can get hold of, where he can get it, and whether there is anything they need to know about his bona fides, criminal record, public profiles or past history. Should he be hiding anything, the consequences will be dire. Otherwise, he’s a hero—and they would like to follow up on his darknet hints in haste.

  It’s remarkable: a success beyond their wildest hopes. Only once Azi has taken in what he’s looking at and turned to Munira does she speak. “We’re in, Azi! Well, basically. I’ve told Odi all about it. We’ve got a plan.”

  Azi starts. “You’ve told Odi, you’ve got a plan, you’ve…done what?”

  Before Munira can answer, there’s a voice from the sofa. “She is clever, this one. She has not told me everything…” Munira nods at Azi encouragingly “…but she has suggested that you are on the cusp of something big. And that you may require a little German-language assistance in, how did you put it, my dear?”

  “Fast-tracking an application process.” Munira follows her nod with a brief but reassuring squeeze of Azi’s arm.

  “Yes, precisely. A few carefully worded notes to some neo-Nazis, from some fabricated folks of my own. Nothing like your creation, my friend, but good enough for what you require, I am told! After all, I am not in the business of knowing more than I need to know. Come, you must need coffee. I certainly do. Join me in the kitchen.”

  Regretfully moving away from Munira, Azi edges into the spotless kitchen area around the corner. It’s a symphony of stainless steel and discreet illumination. Odi staggers in, activates a bulky Miele bean-to-cup coffee machine, then places his face an inch from Azi’s ear. His voice is a cut-glass whisper.

  “Everything is progressing. I am fabricating a groundswell of German-language endorsements for Jim, in a manner Munira has specified most helpfully. There are other matters that I will be leaving to deal with. You will set as much as possible in motion, then you will take her out for a walk and await further instructions. We are far closer than I thought we would be. Get close, draw out the final method of approach to Gomorrah. Be as charming as you like, but stay professional. Do not get emotionally involved.”

  Azi says nothing. The coffee machine works through its cycle, spitting out a strong brew that Odi slops into two clean cups before calling into the living room, his voice sing-song with self-satisfaction. “I will drink this, I will eat a last pastry—for my health, you understand—and then I will go and do what you have asked me to do. It is a fine day. I know how to contact you both. Have fun.”

  Half an hour later, having elaborately assured her that there’s no risk involved, Azi and Munira venture out.

  On the basis that it’s a demonstrably normal thing to do, they end up wandering around a nearby museum dedicated to Germanic history. It features sections of the Berlin wall and recreations of political protests alongside accounts of Nazi Germany, before and after—including the free and fair elections that brought Hitler to power in 1933. Azi has never visited a museum before whose history feels quite so close, or so dangerous. There are also some magnificently appointed toilets.

  After rushed sandwiches, they put the Television Tower directly behind them (Azi knowledgably points it out for Munira’s benefit and is rewarded with an eye roll) and head through the Brandenburg Gate into the Tiergarten, a long, landscaped slice of parkland bisected by a four-lane road, densely wooded to the point of oppressive. There is an unspoken agreement that they should walk in as straight a line as possible: diametrically away from the flat, towards the distant protrusion of a column in the middle of a roundabout.

  Every now and then, their hands touch. Azi finds himself focusing obsessively on this contact, trying to read its intimacy. His emotional involvement is fast approaching the point of non-containment. He can still feel where Munira’s lips met his, last night; where she touched the bare skin of his arm, earlier in the flat; where her fingers have brushed his, just now. Eventually, he finds his way towards the questions that matter.

  “Munira.”

  “Azi.”

  “Are you ready to tell me how this started? How they found you, how you found them?”

  She widens her eyes. “Uh, I guess. I mean…is this why you wanted to go for a walk?”

  Azi shrugs. “I find it easier to think when my body is doing something else. It can make things clearer.”

  Munira takes a long breath. “This has been nice, acting like we’re normal people. But I guess we’re not. It’s ridiculous. I would never have known anything, except for what happened when my cousin was getting recruited. Someone special came for him. Some big deal with the outreach arm of the Islamic Republic—top secret, very professional. Only he made the mistake of using a thumb drive in a laptop that was on loan from me.”

  Azi smiles appreciatively. “I can imagine you’d set that up in a pretty non-standard way.”

  “No shit. I’d been hacking from home for half a decade. It was logging everything: keystrokes, camer
a, the works. My cousin got up to some nasty shit, the sort of stuff you really don’t want to know about your relatives. Then the recruiter plugged in a USB drive, tried to cover his tracks—badly—and when my cousin gave the machine back, I got a whole lot more than I expected.”

  Azi prompts her gently. “Everything you sent me, the names, the details?”

  “And more. A few things I didn’t send. It’s so simple, that’s what’s crazy. That’s why I asked Odi for help, because it’s the last piece in the puzzle—the way I asked him to vouch for Jim, the locations, the words. I’ve been wanting to tell you everything. But I’ve seen what they can do, Azi. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen…”

  Munira stops walking, runs both hands through her hair, then places her arms around him and her face tight against his chest, as if he’s the only thing that can stop her being swept away. Softly, she keeps speaking.

  “It’s not just a marketplace. There’s a dedicated darknet, custom software. But it’s personal. You apply by name, they invite you in, and then you belong to them. This guy from the Islamic Republic, the big shot, he was a gold card member—only he isn’t alive anymore. I found him. They worked out what had happened, they came for me, I’m not even sure who they are, but…”

  As the words catch in her throat Azi brings his arms around Munira, willing her to understand that they are in this together, that he is not going to let her down—desperately hoping that he can make these things stay true.

  They’re standing on the crowded pavement, a flood of strangers passing on either side, the flash and ripple of vehicles filling the road. It’s ordinary and strange: as if the entire world is in motion except them. The NADIR phone in Azi’s pocket feels huge. They’re being listened to right now, he reminds himself. The only way to keep her safe is to press on.

  “It’s okay, Munira. It’s okay. We’re going to get them. We’re going to break in, take what we need. We’re going to be the ones in control. You said it’s about an invitation, that Odi is providing evidence. What does that mean? What does Jim have to do?”