“Pat, of course I agree with you, but I just don’t have time to take on half a student. It’s half the credit, and you and I know it’s really the same amount of work. Frankly, I don’t see how this whole dual-title thing works.”
A credit issue. Gale was coming up for tenure soon, and although it was virtually guaranteed (she had been told as much by the department head in confidence—with strict orders not to share that information), she wasn’t about to take any chances. With Molly only half under her tutelage, it would be half less a graduate student on her resumé. More importantly, the list of authors on any paper Molly wrote would have to include Patricia, and Patricia being the senior of the two, it would be assumed she was the project leader. That certainly wouldn’t impress a tenure committee and would never lead to an endowed chair, if she dared dream that big.
“And,” Gale continued, “the last time we had a dual-title student, I believe he wound up giving up the dual-title track, and completed his studies entirely in your department. Remember?”
Patricia knew this was going to be forever a sore spot for Gale, since she had campaigned hard to keep that student in the Political Science Department but failed.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go ahead and take her? I can find another student,” Gale said. This apparent capitulation was anything but.
“You know I can’t financially support her alone. But I presume you do remember it’s school policy that students can get dual-title degrees here, in both our departments, and that we can and should share the costs.”
“Sorry, Pat. The school has its policies, and I have mine. I just don’t have the time for partially advising a student. Tell you what, then, why don’t I take Molly now? And if some of your funding comes through next year, we can reconsider her transferring to your group then.”
And so it was settled.
It didn’t make too much difference at the time that the funding Gale had earmarked for Molly was from a project with an entirely disjointed set of objectives from Molly’s interests. The project Gale envisioned was focused on understanding the velocity of information flow through the Internet. Truth be told, this was quite distant from Gale’s interests too, but funding for faculty in academia wasn’t always easy to come by. When the Department of Defense and now the overly anxious Department of Homeland Security began to allow liberal arts faculty members to drink from their immense funding well, it wasn’t easy to turn down money, even if it wasn’t an ideal fit. No matter, thought Gale, as Molly’s new, and sole, advisor, at least for the formative years, it would be easy enough to get her to pursue the right topics when she arrived.
It was no secret what “understanding the velocity of information flow through the Internet” really meant. The only reason anybody from any government defense agency cared about such a topic was to monitor and quantify the influence that extremist individuals had on the Internet or through their online social networks—the people they sent mail to, the people they chatted with, the people they befriended online. This was a far cry from Molly’s goal of helping migrants in Africa.
Long after Molly had settled in with Gale (though she had managed to revive the dual-title degree, at least in name), Gale still kept steering Molly toward her own agenda, and Molly continued to tenaciously push back. Besides being a topic Molly wasn’t interested in studying, Molly fundamentally disapproved of taking money from anything associated with Defense for her thesis. Nothing linked with Defense could be meshed with her left-leaning disposition. But she was also, much to her own constant dismay, a pragmatist. The funding made it possible to pursue her degree, and though it pained her immensely to accept the particular funding that Gale offered, the reality was, after all, reality.
It was Gale who suggested that Molly study the role of the Internet and online discussions in shaping the perceptions of the U.S. in the Middle East. A compromise. Molly’s work would have a use beyond monitoring extremist individuals and Gale knew this was a perpetually fundable research topic.
Molly, now in her third year of graduate school, was still more of an idealist than Gale would have liked. Even if this topic wasn’t what Molly had hoped for when she started, she perceived it as nothing short of a chance to further understand sources of misinformation and propaganda. It was a crucial first step to avoid a rise in unnecessary conflicts, not only abroad, but also at home in the U.S. Gale was happy to go along with that view; the results would be the same. Neither Gale, Molly, nor anyone in any defense agency could quibble with its importance.
For the first part of her research, Molly was going to California, not only for a change of scenery from Rhode Island, but also to be among technologists and “Internet people” to hopefully find someone to interview for the background chapters of her thesis.
Whatever unflattering comments could be made about Gale, nobody ever doubted her ability to get the best out of her students.
-PRELUDE TO PIE-
July 17, 2009
The rundown hotel room was even worse than Sebastin had imagined—the windows were barred shut, the air conditioner broken, and the stagnant air stifling. He sat waiting on its musty bed, motionless, the scorching sun baking the tiny room. Succumbing to the heat, Sebastin’s imagination steadily incinerated his grasp on his surroundings. The smell of the hundreds of sticky grungy bodies that had doubtless occupied the room before him was permanently embedded in its walls. No amount of cleaning, if it had even been considered, would ever dissipate the stench.
Restless and agitated, Sebastin moved to the room’s rusted iron table, which in some earlier age must have passed for acceptable furniture. Sitting lifeless in its battered chair, Sebastin relinquished control to his imagination far too easily.
He envisioned those countless bodies that had writhed together on the bed beside him or had drunk themselves into oblivion there. Each image was as vivid and real as the reflection of his pallid face in the mirror in front him.
Sweat trickled onto his lips. The engulfing foul air and the oppressive taste of fear was unbearable. Hell could be no worse.
When M. Mohammad strode in, he seemed to sense none of the bodies Sebastin saw, or if he did, it didn’t bother him. Mohammad wore a dark suit with no tie, and was more American than Sebastin had envisioned from their two phone conversations. The reality of the impending meeting flooded Sebastin’s thoughts, abruptly releasing him from the turmoil of his delusions.
Two men dressed entirely in white followed closely behind Mohammad. Sebastin hadn’t known how many there would be. Had it just been these two or an army of men screaming of Jihad, he wouldn’t have been surprised. The room was already small—with these three, it became unbearably claustrophobic.
Sebastin remained seated, unconsciously running his hands along the edge of the decrepit old table. Mohammad, in control of the room as soon as he entered, took a seat across from him. The two men in white stood silently at his back, positioned deliberately in front of the window. All three stared intensely at Sebastin. For a few torturous moments, nothing was said.
“Tell me all about this list of yours, Sebastin.”
Even if he wanted to, how could he? Who would believe a story about a list of books and an intern? Who would believe how he got that list of books? None of this would make sense. None of this, he feared, would do anything to help him make it out of this room safely. Instead, he told Mohammad again what he had already told him on the phone twice. “It has 5,000 names on it. They are people who are on watch lists . . . I called a few to make sure it was real. That’s how I contacted you. That’s all I know.”
“Why is my name on it?” It was the same question as before. How long before he just asked for the list?
“I don’t know. I told you before. I don’t know. The list doesn’t say why you’re on it. It just has your name. That’s all I know. I don’t know anything else.“
The air was stifling. Sebastin opened the top buttons on his shirt. He seemed the only one in the room who noticed the
heat—the only one uncomfortable.
“What other lists have my name on them?”
“I only have this one list. That’s the only one. I don’t have any others. It’s—”
“Who gave you this list?”
This was the only question Sebastin had anticipated and the only one for which he had rehearsed a response. He needed to sound confident. “It was given to ACCL anonymously,” he heard himself stammer. He thankfully switched to automatic as he continued, “That’s how we get all of our information. We never know who gives it to us. That’s the only way we can get so much.” He sounded credible. He had to sound credible. The argument was logical. It made sense. But he wasn’t talking to others who were like him. Were they paying attention to how logical his argument was or to how little he was saying?
Mohammad slammed his fist on the table, his ring clanging loudly on the iron. “Do you know anything?” Mohammad stood up to pace the tiny room. He came back and slammed his fist again. “Do you know anything I asked you?”
Sebastin cowered in his chair. “Are you going to kill me?” How had he come to this?
The two men behind Mohammad stood motionless, enshrouded in the streaming sunlight blazing through the window. If they were laughing at him, he couldn’t tell.
Mohammad looked on impassively at Sebastin. “You have been watching too many movies, Sebastin. I have no intention of killing you, insha’Allah.”
What he had in his pocket, or more precisely what he didn’t have in his pocket was the only assurance of that, Sebastin reminded himself. He had torn out only a few pages of the list to bring with him. The rest of the list he had left on his desk at home, with Mohammad’s name prominently highlighted. If anything happened, it would be found, eventually.
“Let us see the list.”
That’s what this meeting was for; that’s what they had planned. Sebastin slowly moved his hand to his pocket and took hold of the two folded papers. He looked at the men in the sunlight, their faces obscured in shadow. He hoped they were watching how slowly he was moving; no sudden movements, nothing to worry about.
“What is this?” Mohammad asked.
“It’s part of the list.”
“Where is the rest?”
“It’s not here.”
A barely perceptible movement in Mohammad’s eyes. Before Sebastin could register what was happening, one of the men in white leapt over the corner of the bed, found his way behind Sebastin, and swiftly kicked the chair Sebastin was sitting on. Sebastin folded onto himself as his forehead caught the edge of the table on his way to the floor.
“Next time, you bring the full list, yeah?”
He groaned a yes. As he tried to pick himself up, the man dug his foot deep into his shoulder. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“What am I supposed to do with two pages, Sebastin?”
“Call them . . . just call them . . . you can see for yourself if the list is good or not. That’s what you said you wanted to do on the phone.”
The man’s foot moved closer to his neck and started pressing down.
Mohammad handed the sheet to the one still standing in the sun by the window.
A few words were spoken that Sebastin couldn’t understand. Mohammad looked down at Sebastin and translated. “It seems he thinks it might be better if we use your phone. Do you mind?”
Sebastin moved his free arm to his pocket to take the phone out, and held it up feebly for Mohammad. Mohammad stepped aside so the second man could reach over and take it from Sebastin’s hand.
The only sound was the man in white making the phone calls. The other three waited in silence as the calls were placed, one after the other, down through the entire list. Words were spoken, but Sebastin understood none of it. He was dizzy. The sunlight was still blazing through the window, picking up specks of dust and debris in the room on its way to burn Sebastin’s eyes. He could do nothing but look straight up, struggling to keep out of the blinding sunlight. It was only when he saw the iron table and the smear of the still-fresh blood trail that it registered that his head was still stinging and the wet in his hair might not be sweat.
There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for all the calls to be made. Wait to see if Stephen’s list was as good as he thought it was. Wait to see what would happen next.
Sebastin woke to the sound of the three talking hurriedly. He had blacked out—he didn’t know for how long, but he suspected it wasn’t more than a few minutes. Sitting up on the floor with his back to the bed, he moved a little, but not without an immense amount of pain. His head was still stinging hot, but he was cold and sweating, and his shoulder and neck where the man had pinned him down for who knows how long were throbbing.
He hesitantly touched his forehead. He winced as he felt the still warm blood. He gingerly slid his finger through his soaked hair to find the extent of the cut . . .
“Sebastin, good of you to come back to us.”
“You are a lucky man. We will buy the list from you. We also want you to go back and ask your sources for more information for us.”
What should he say? What could get him out of this alive? “I don’t know how I can get more information. I told you, all of it was given to us anonymously.” There, that was right.
“Find a way to get a message to them, Sebastin. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
How much were they going to pay? How much is it worth to them? He started as high as he thought he could get away with, but how was he supposed to estimate the value of this list or how much they had access to? “I want five million.” It was fifty times what he was getting paid by Rajive.
“Dollars? You were hoping for five million dollars? Why not fifty million, Sebastin? Stop the joking. Sebastin, you lie on this filthy floor in your own blood, afraid for your life, and yet you still beg for money. Maybe we should just check your home. You wouldn’t have left the list there, would you? You’re not that stupid, are you? We could give you nothing, Sebastin, and just take the list. What would you do then? I think, Sebastin, that you are in no position to ask for anything.” Mohammad cast a slow pitying glance down at Sebastin before continuing, “But we’ll be fair. You and I will do business again. We’ll call you to tell you what we will pay.”
A kick to the head and he almost blacked out again.
Another kick. And he did.
-THE YURI EFFECT-
July 17, 2009.
Stephen’s eyes opened as the morning light began trickling into the darker corners of the room. His blurry eyes focused first on the dirty glass from the night before. It was partially filled with a forgotten mix of rum, coke, and melted ice water. He heard the familiar tap-tap of a keyboard nearby. As he drowsily willed himself to an upright position, he found himself still on the couch where he had fallen asleep a few hours earlier. “Did you sleep at all?” Stephen asked, spying a blurry Molly, still hunched over her keyboard in the same position as when he had fallen asleep.
She turned to look at him. “No, not yet. I’m going to sleep in a bit. Just got a few more things to do.” Even in his state, he could see her eyes were puffy and must be throbbing from the sleepless hours. Most likely, she had forgotten to blink enough. That’s what happens to all computer addicts. Her eyes would be searing for the rest of the day.
He lifted himself slowly from the sofa and walked to Molly. Leaning over her shoulder, he ran his fingers through her dark brown hair. “Aren’t you working at GreeneSmart today?”
“Not for another four hours. I’ll take a quick nap before then,” she replied, taking his hand from her hair and holding it in her own.
They sat at the dining table together, the sun streaming in from one side, the computer monitor reflecting it from the other. A few cautionary words about overdoing it or about her need for sleep would have the same effect on her that they had on him. Despite that, he said the expected words—told her not to overdo it, caringly suggested she get some sleep, and wished her the best of luck. But the moment he left to take
a shower, the tap-tap of the keyboard continued, just as it had before he started talking.
By the time he entered the main room again, Molly had replaced him on the couch and was fast asleep with an alarm clock propped beside her. He didn’t wake her to say goodbye, but he did stop to look at her for a few seconds. She would have fit in so well with any of the groups he had relished working with in the past, at SteelXchange, in grad school, even in college.
As he was leaving the apartment, he glanced back once more to assure himself he hadn’t woken her up. He couldn’t help but worry about the impact he had had on her. Would she have let herself be so carried away with her work if they hadn’t met, or had they enabled each other’s mutilation of balance? It wasn’t clear there was a difference between work and life for them, though. The work was interesting; the reason that they worked this hard wasn’t because they needed to.
By the time he entered Building 11, it was already 10:30, much later than usual. He wanted to dive into his e-mail before he went to talk with Yuri. Even before his monitor could wake up, Kohan was standing next to him. “Had your cappuccino today?” Kohan asked.
“Not yet. Give me a second. Let me just check my e-mail to make sure nothing urgent has come up. Ten minutes, okay?”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I saw you walking in, checking your e-mail on your phone. Nobody wrote you e-mail in the last fifteen seconds.”
Stephen smiled. “I am connected, therefore I am.”
“Okay, whatever. Come on, let’s go. I have some news to tell you.”
The minute they were outside, Kohan launched full speed into his spiel. “Guess what Yuri got yesterday?”
“I have no idea. I was going to talk to him this morn—” But Kohan didn’t let him finish.
The Silicon Jungle Page 20
