The Silicon Jungle

by Shumeet Baluja

  “Why the hell did you give him all this information?” Atiq roared suddenly. “Why?”

  Stephen was taken aback at Atiq’s anger. “It’s all for ACCL. They are doing incredible work to ensure that our liberties are not taken away.” He felt absolutely ludicrous touting the party line to Atiq, especially when he realized that he wasn’t even sure that’s what the party line was. He could have said a lot more, about how he fully supported their work, but this probably wasn’t the audience for it.

  “And secondly,” Stephen continued, “you told me to.”

  Once again, all other motion and noise in the room halted.

  “What are you talking about?” Atiq yelled.

  “At the party, on the night after we won our internships for the summer, you said to give him all the data he wanted.”

  The two other men simply listened. This was exactly the type of thing they had hoped to hear.

  “Why would I say that? I would never say anything like that!” he exclaimed. “Despite anything you may have thought I said, you should have known better. You’re supposed to be smarter than that. You can’t just give out this information to anyone who asks. That’s, that’s, that’s just simply stupid. What were you thinking?”

  Stephen sat upright in his chair like a chastised child. “I didn’t give any information to anyone else. All the advertisers I worked with weren’t given anything like this. But, Atiq, at the party, you even called Sebastin the ‘moral conscience of Silicon Valley.’ What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Forget the party, Stephen. You should have known better. That party was probably only the second time I had ever met Sebastin. I barely remember him. His company was one of the hundreds of advertisers we invited to the party. For God’s sake, Stephen.”

  “I thought it would be okay. You spoke so glowingly about him, and asked me in particular to help him. You’ve got to remember that, right? Then, when I saw what type of work ACCL did, it made sense.”

  “It was a party, Stephen. I spoke glowingly about everyone and with everyone. That’s my job, to make sure all the people at that party like me, like Ubatoo, and want to keep spending their money here. That’s what we do, Stephen. What else was I supposed to say there?”

  The earth was slipping from underneath him. “Do you even know Sebastin at all? Hasn’t he been talking to you on the phone about this project?” Stephen asked desperately.

  “No. I haven’t spoken with him since the party. It sounds like you’re the only one who’s been talking with him. Even if I did know him, though, Stephen, I would never have given him any of the information you did, even if he were my own flesh and blood.”

  “What else did you give him?” Rajive asked.

  “I only gave him the lists that I just showed you. I didn’t give him any code or anything. He can’t replicate these results; he can’t run the analyses again. He only has the lists.” Stephen wasn’t sure if this was any consolation to anyone but himself.

  Rajive walked behind the desk to where Stephen was sitting and started clicking the mouse. “I need you to look at this,” he called back to him. “This is the set of queries you made on Ubatoo’s databases in the last three months; Atiq retrieved them for me. For the last thirty minutes before you came in here, Atiq and I were sitting here, trying to make sure we understood the magnitude and breadth of what you’ve done. I need you to look very carefully at this list. This is all your work, right? Are we missing anything?”

  Every request for information for the advertisers, ACCL, or even to satisfy personal curiosity that Stephen had made from any of Ubatoo’s data repositories was stored here. He didn’t know that they were all logged and kept for posterity, though in retrospect, that should have been obvious. Almost every minute of his life at Ubatoo for the last few months was displayed on that screen, from his first day of selling diet pills, to his work on JENNY, his work for Sebastin, and even his own project. Every request for information he had ever made from Ubatoo’s cloud—it was all there, shining brightly for anyone to see on Atiq’s computer screen.

  “It’s mine. Yes, it’s mine.” He scrolled the page down. “Mine.” Scrolled some more, “Mine. Mine. There’s some other stuff in there too that I don’t remember, but yes, almost all of it is mine.”

  Atiq started to ask a question about the material he didn’t remember, but was interrupted by Alan. “You said something about meetings with the people on the list that you gave to Sebastin. What do you know about that?” Alan asked.

  Stephen at first didn’t hear Alan. Too much noise in his head was competing for attention. From the mass of scenarios he imagined, he couldn’t find the one that made sense. “Where’s Sebastin?” Stephen finally asked in a mumble.

  But nobody answered. Alan just repeated his question.

  Stephen exhaled deeply. He didn’t know how to navigate this anymore. And now he had to tell them about Molly and the meeting. This wasn’t going to go well. He knew, now, how it seemed. Too much was too suspicious. Statistically speaking, he knew nobody would believe that everything he had said and all he was about to say, was just coincidence. This was not going to go well.

  -A PERMANENT POSITION-

  August 11, 2009.

  Stephen had been separated from Atiq when they were escorted from the Ubatoo grounds. At approximately 8:50 p.m., Atiq and Stephen found themselves in the parking lot of a nondescript office building forty minutes by car from Palo Alto. Stephen thought he saw signs indicating it was an FBI building, but wasn’t sure, and wasn’t going to ask. Before Stephen was allowed to exit the car, he glimpsed Atiq being escorted inside. He hadn’t been able to look Atiq in the eye when they spoke at Ubatoo; it was good they weren’t together now.

  Unlike the movies, there was no storming of the Ubatoo offices with tear gas, and villains being thrown to the ground amidst urgent yells; there wasn’t even any coercion or hardball tactics. Instead, there was a very irate Alan, and a slightly more understanding Rajive, who had taken them back to their own offices when they realized it was late and a lot more needed to be done. Sure, there were other officious looking guards who came with them, but the drama wasn’t in the flashing lights or the blaring sirens. Rather, it was in having no idea what was coming next, and the knowledge that the more truths he told, the worse things were going to become.

  Just like in the movies, the room he was in now was all too familiar. Fluorescent lights radiated a sickly blue-green blanket over everything and emitted a faint electrical buzz—dull enough to pass unnoticed had there been anything to distract him, but tortuously unceasing in the enveloping silence. A clean but old table stood nearby with nothing on it, and of course one-way glass adorned the wall. He had no idea if anyone was watching him or whether this was just the first empty room they could find.

  Over what seemed like hours, he repeatedly believed he caught glimpses of silhouettes behind the glass, but each second glance revealed nothing. If he was being watched, he knew he wouldn’t come across as the typical criminal. Nothing in his actions could be construed as being the slightest bit defiant. Whatever they wanted to know, he would tell them. The only fact that had not yet come out, though he assumed it would before the night was through, was how thoroughly Molly had created EasternDiscussions. So far, he had only mentioned that she had been invited to the suspicious meetings because of her research, not that she was running a web site that surely some division of Alan’s organization was already monitoring.

  When the door to the room finally opened, he had no concept of how long he had been sitting there. Had it been an hour? Had it been four? He was just relieved to have someone finally come in. He still clutched the vague hope that someone would understand his side of the story. It was Rajive who walked in—alone. If there was anyone who would at least listen to him, it would be Rajive.

  “So,” Rajive began. “We’ve looked up your girlfriend, Molly. She has quite the background, too, doesn’t she?” Rajive unfolded a piece of paper he had in his hand a
nd glanced at it before speaking again. “Her site, EasternDiscussions.com, is doing remarkably well. Some interesting messages on it, too. What’s your involvement?”

  Stephen stared back in dismay. There was nothing left to tell. “Rajive,” Stephen called out his name in desperation. “Listen to me. I swear, I’ve never even read her site. She doesn’t get involved in my work, and I don’t get involved in hers. She’s just doing it for her thesis. That’s all there is to it. You can call her to verify, call her advisor, call anybody. That site has nothing to do with me.”

  “But you must have helped her get it started and running, right? I mean it’s not completely her doing is it? Anthropology and Political Science? From what I remember, they’re not usually the ones who are quite computer savvy enough to figure out how to get such a successful site up and running in just a month, or has Brown changed their curriculum that much?”

  “Rajive, you know how this is. I know you do. I helped her get it set up, then she ran with it. The visitors come to the site and they post what they post. She studies it, that’s all. I had nothing more to do with it.”

  “Then how did it get so popular so quickly Stephen? Are you sure it didn’t have anything to do with Ubatoo? It’s not common for sites to be that lucky, is it? That’s just another coincidence, I guess?”

  What did Rajive want to hear? He had helped her. But he had helped because it was Molly, not because of what she was doing.

  “Stephen, help me out here. I used to be a bit of a computer guy, too. I’m impressed you even made it into Ubatoo, really, I am. I know that says a lot about how smart you are. I need to ask you, what happened? So far, looking over my notes, we have you giving private information about your users to someone who is likely selling it to one or more terrorist organizations. Then, we have you trying to launch a service that tells all people, including terrorists who are actively being watched, mind you, how likely it is that we are monitoring them. And, by the way, that’s all based on information sources we still don’t fully understand. As if that wasn’t enough, now, within the last few hours, we learn that your girlfriend is the creator of what can only be described as a successful political, usually extremist, playground. Oh, and did I forget to mention that you attended, or well, according to you, drove your girlfriend to, a meeting that you yourself admit was likely some form of terrorist recruitment? Am I missing something, or is that enough?”

  Stephen was not prone to crying. But he was on the verge of tears out of sheer frustration. “Rajive, you’ve got to believe me. I did all of this to impress Atiq and help Molly. You’ve got to ask Atiq, ask Molly. Just ask them. I didn’t even want this internship. Molly will tell you. She’s the one who encouraged me to try for this internship at Ubatoo. I was happy where I was before, at GreeneSmart.”

  “You know, we did ask Atiq. He denies knowing that you were working on any of this. He says he had absolutely no idea.”

  “He didn’t, he didn’t. He’s not lying. He didn’t ask me to do any of this. I keep telling you, I did it to impress him, to get a full-time offer, that’s all. I don’t know what else I can tell you. I was just trying to do something worthwhile. I thought Sebastin was, too. You should have heard Atiq at the party; he said so many good things about him. I just wanted—”

  “Stephen, all I can tell you is that you should probably make other plans for your next career move. I don’t think that full-time offer from Ubatoo is coming anytime soon.” Rajive started toward the door. “Here’s the thing, Stephen: We really need to find Sebastin. Do you pray, Stephen? If you don’t, now’s a good time to start. You should pray that Sebastin’s not selling your list to anyone. It wouldn’t be good for you if he was.”

  “I told you, I really don’t know where he is. I have no idea. What about all of the rest of ACCL? They must know something.”

  “I hope you can think of something else to tell us. Stephen, for your sake, think. I mean really, really think hard.” With that, Rajive left the room, and Stephen was again left looking at his broken-down reflection in the one-way mirror.

  Stephen cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes. The panic was setting in again and it took all his conviction to stop from utterly crumbling into himself. What else could he say? Where was Molly? What happened to Sebastin? What now?

  -FOR ADAM-

  August 11, 2009.

  No more putrid stench of those who had been there before him. No more vision of bodies in rooms. It wasn’t the Bellagio, but it was good enough. Ninety miles outside of Las Vegas in a dump of a casino near the Valley of Fire Park—home for the next several days.

  Sebastin sat in the lounge with the waitresses in their skimpy slutty uniforms. They watched him as closely as he watched them, they made sure he was taken care of—all the drinks he wanted and all the attention he desired. He had been generous with his tips. This type of attention he liked. The offer of drinks he couldn’t resist, but the offers for more would have to wait until later. First, he had to attend to business; M. Mohammad would be here soon. When M. Mohammad requested a meeting, to check up in person on Sebastin’s progress, Sebastin couldn’t decline. There was too much at stake—safety and money, for example.

  Mohammad wasn’t pleased to be traveling this far into the middle of nowhere, to the desert, to the Valley of Fire, in the heat of the summer. But this was the only condition for meeting that Sebastin was able to insist upon. He knew better than to be anyplace he could be found; if Rajive wasn’t looking for him yet, he soon would be. Better to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He had already handed over the list of 5,000 to Mohammad, and had been paid in full. It wasn’t much, but it was more than Rajive was going to pay. The bridge to Rajive had been burned—no, scorched—to ashes. He wouldn’t be going back to Rajive now.

  He was on his own. If this was his life now, dealing with M. Mohammad, then fine, this was his life. No more California, no more parties at Il Fornaio, no more interviews proudly presenting ACCL to the world. No more. Eventually, he was certain, he would make his escape, maybe after this delivery that Mohammad was coming to check on. If not this one, then maybe after the next. But it wouldn’t be much more than that. A little bit more money, a little bit more spending cash to ease his way—and he would be done. Still nowhere as rich as Mark, or even Elizabeth or Nate. No, if he were in their shoes, he wouldn’t be doing this. But he wasn’t in their shoes, and that was reality. He might as well face it. Just a little bit more, and he would have enough, and he would call it quits.

  When M. Mohammad came in, dressed as he always was, in a suit with no tie, the shameless stares of the locals and tourists alike brought a joy to Sebastin’s heart. Guess you’re not quite American, enough, huh, Mohammad? Motionless, Mohammad waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light and the tacky swirling neon displays on the ceiling before finding his way to Sebastin.

  Sebastin stood up to greet him, his hand outstretched.

  Mohammad sat down at the table instead.

  Sebastin sat down, too, smiling. Of course, Mohammad wouldn’t shake his hand. He should have expected as much. Mohammad looked back at him with resentment in his eyes.

  “What is this place, Sebastin? Why did you bring me here?”

  “You were the one who wanted to meet,” Sebastin replied, with the courage of knowing that these people all around him were his people—even if he didn’t know them. They were his people, not Mohammad’s.

  “I have no list from you, Sebastin. Why?”

  Sebastin took his time in answering. He wanted to play with Mohammad the same way he had played with him when they first met. “You already have the list. I gave it to you weeks ago.”

  “This is not a game, Sebastin. Where is the second list?”

  “The one with everyone’s financial information? That list?” Sebastin asked innocently.

  Mohammad didn’t answer for a long time. Sebastin suspected he was imagining what he would have done to him had they been alone. But they weren’t. This wasn’t
exactly Times Square, but there were enough people around that doing anything more than silently fuming wouldn’t be possible.

  “Yes, Sebastin. That list,” Mohammad responded sternly.

  Sebastin looked around the room and motioned for a waitress to come over—the oldest, most shriveled, most smoke-battered one he could find. He waited until she reached them before speaking. “I’d like another drink.”

  The waitress looked at Mohammad and then back to Sebastin. “How about your friend, there? What’ll he have?”

  Sebastin tore his gaze from the waitress to look at Mohammad. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” She looked back at him over her shoulder, and walked away instead. Sebastin might have felt bad for him, were he not enjoying this so much.

  “You’ll have your list, Mohammad, as soon as I have it.”

  “When?” he whispered, barely audible over the talking and laughing, the slot machines rattling their coins, and the video-poker machines announcing their presence to anyone nearby.

  “As soon as I do.”

  He considered killing Sebastin right here. It would be worth it. It had been a mistake to meet here. It had been a mistake to work with Sebastin. Yet, he had given him a list of 5,000 brothers—5,000. It would take months to contact them all, but it would happen; it had already started. He must continue working with this kafir, must continue putting up with him and his kind. He must do it for Adam. For Adam. So his boy could grow up in a world without places like this. Where people, people like these, knew what it was to show respect and have dignity. Knew what it was to be . . . better. For Adam, he did this.

  “I hope it is soon, Sebastin.”

  “I want to be done with this even more than you, Mohammad.” It was the first real thing Sebastin had said to him. “I want to be done with this, with you, with everything.”

  His lips were dry and dusty and it hurt Mohammad to smile. “Me as well, my friend,” Mohammad said. “Pray, Sebastin. Pray that we don’t find out who your anonymous sources are before you do. Once we do, Sebastin, you’ll be done with us, and us with you, once and for all. Then there’ll be no more need for you—,” he scanned the room, taking in all its dirty filthy occupants, “—or your friends, anymore.”