In Dagmar’s business, scope creep was a deadly danger. Plots could have so many elements and dimensions that they would run completely out of control. So could the software projects, and the video and audio. Half the anxiety of her job was making sure her projects were streamlined enough to be online by the deadline.
Richard looked at Helmuth.
“They’re using our tactics,” he said. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“Yes,” Dagmar said. “We sent the meme out into the world, and now anyone can use it.” And then she studied the men putting down books on the ground, setting them in patterns that might be Arabic writing.
“I wonder if it’s Kronsteen,” she said.
Ismet looked up at her. Dagmar explained.
“We’ll know if it’s Kronsteen behind it,” Ismet said, “if there are a lot more demos like this in different parts of the world. Because then he’ll be trying to trivialize the whole process, show it’s just a game that people are playing.”
“Yeah,” Richard said. “If people are suddenly using these techniques to protest the appointment of a dogcatcher in Aswa-n, then it’s Kronsteen behind it.”
Kronsteen’s work was revealed later in the day, when Turkish television released an interview with an imam who had allegedly defected from the Tek Organization. He proclaimed that Riza Tek’s goal was to restore the caliphate and establish sharia law in Turkey and that Tek’s money was behind the rebellion.
“Now we’re a Scots rock star, Kurdish rebels, and religious zealots,” Dagmar said.
“We contain multitudes,” Richard said. Dagmar looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t reckoned him as the sort of person who would know Whitman.
She turned to Ismet. “Estragon,” she said, “can you write an editorial pointing out the insanity of all these competing claims?”
“The nationalists aren’t going to see contradictions in this,” Lloyd said. “They’re going to see conspiracy.”
“Well,” Dagmar said. “Then let’s give them one.”
They began the editing and uploading of the various videos. Ismet wrote an editorial denouncing the imam and pointed out that his own government said that the rebels were working for a Scotsman.
Lincoln had been away for most of the day. As evening came on, he arrived and called Dagmar into his office. He held out a sheet of paper.
“I’ve been on the phone with the team in the States working on the High Zap. Turns out they have a clue as to the team—or more likely the individual—who reverse-engineered the High Zap.”
“They recognized the way he codes?”
Lincoln looked disgusted. “They haven’t managed to decompile the Turkish version yet. Whatever algorithm the guy used was elaborate beyond description.” He looked at Dagmar. “He signed it after he compiled it—they must have let him compile it himself.” He looked skeptical. “Problematic from the security point of view.”
“Maybe they were in a hurry.”
“Anyway.” He opened his briefcase and took out a single sheet of paper. “He signed it with his handle, but we don’t know who the handle belongs to. He calls himself ‘Slash Berzerker.’ ”
He put the paper on the table and turned it so that Dagmar could read it.
“Slash Berzerker?” Dagmar said. “What is he, fourteen?” She looked at the paper and checked the spelling. “Fourteen,” she said, “and a bad speller?”
Lincoln only shrugged, then retrieved the paper.
“Are you going to burn that?” Dagmar asked.
“If you want me to.”
“I’ve never seen a spy burn an important paper before.”
Lincoln shrugged again. “Whatever lifts your luggage.”
He crumpled the paper, then looked around the room.
“I don’t have an ashtray,” he said.
She grinned. “You could swallow it.”
Lincoln put the crumped paper on top of his safe, rummaged in his desk for a disposable lighter, and then set fire to the paper. It burned into a gray ash, and the smell of burning began to fill the office. Lincoln batted at the air to disperse the smoke.
“The things I do for people,” he muttered. “Are you satisfied now?”
“Yeah.” Dagmar rose from her chair. “Because I know exactly how I’m going to find Mr. Berzerker.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FROM: Hastur
Mad kung fu proxy for Turkey peoples.
82.215.28.123
Ports 39000–39013
Dagmar sat on her couch, gin and tonic in her hand. Her feet were raised on a pillow, her toes waving at her. She could feel little molecules of alcohol traveling through her body, each going about its happy business of unknitting a ravel’d sleave of care. Or two.
Her phone was pressed to her ear, and California was on the other end of the connection.
“All right,” Dagmar said. “You’ve got Murchison’s henchman, right?”
“Yes,” Calvin said. “Brickman. He’s going to steal Harry’s identity and commit enough fraud to get the police after Harry.”
“Okay,” Dagmar said. “I want you to give Brickman an online handle, okay?”
Calvin was bewildered.
“Why? He doesn’t need one.”
“Write this down,” Dagmar said. “His handle is going to be ‘Slash Berzerker.’ That’s Berzerker with a z.”
“Slash Berzerker?” The words were interrupted by little half breaths as Calvin bent to scrawl the name on a pad.
“You got that? Two words, Berzerker with a z.”
Dagmar heard the tinkling noise of Calvin putting down his pencil.
“Dagmar,” he said. “Brickman wouldn’t use a handle like Slash Berzerker. He’s a total professional; he’s been pirating identities for years. He wouldn’t use a noob-sounding name like that.”
“You can give him some kind of nostalgic reason for using it,” Dagmar said, “like maybe it was the handle he used when he was fourteen. But there has to be a reference to Slash Berzerker in Thursday’s update.” The gin had set her mind spinning; she began to expand on the idea.
“You could use a graphic of a computer login, say,” she said. “The username would be Slash Berzerker, but the password wouldn’t be visible. It would be hidden somewhere else, and when the players give the password they’ll get some new information.”
“About Brickman.”
“About anything. As long as there’s a reward for a job well done. Talk to Marcie and see if she can produce something like that on short notice.”
“I…” He hesitated. “Can you tell me why I’m doing this, Dagmar?”
“It’s a kind of co-production thing,” Dagmar said. “With the project I’m working on over here.”
“The project that I’m not supposed to know about, but which seems to be the Turkish revolution.”
“Yes,” Dagmar said. “That one.”
“I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing, Dagmar,” Calvin said.
Dagmar took a sip of her drink. Dioxide bubbles tickled her nose.
“This time,” she said, “I think I do.”
She had no sooner hit End than “ ’Round Midnight” began to play. She thumbed Send.
“Briana,” she said.
“Turn on the BBC News right now.” Richard’s voice. Dagmar lunged for the remote.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Attila Gordon’s on the news again.”
She managed to catch the last few seconds of the report. Turned out that Ian Attila Gordon had traveled to Rome for a meeting with the Turkish prime minister and his government-in-exile. There was Attila, leather and blue chin and neck tattoo, smiling and nodding and shaking hands, talking about “coordinating actions,” whatever those might be.
“Remember,” Attila said to the camera, “the general strike takes place tomorrow. The polis might make yi open your bag, but they cannae make the customer traffic with yi.”
“My god,” Dag
mar said, in something like awe. “My little boy’s grown up to be a sociopathic glory-seeking politician.”
“Next stop, Downing Street,” said Richard.
“Peace oot,” Dagmar said, and thumbed End.
She turned off the television, finished her gin and tonic, and lay half-reclined on the sofa as her knotted muscles began to relax. She contemplated making herself another drink and had about decided that was a good idea when there was a knock on her door.
Dagmar flicked aside a corner of the curtain, saw Ismet waiting for her, and felt a flush of pleased surprise.
“Come in,” she said as she opened the door. She could smell backyard charcoal grills on the outdoor air.
Ismet stepped inside. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. He had shaved, and she could scent more talc than disinfectant on his skin.
“Did you see Attila?” he asked.
“He’s making the most of his opportunities,” Dagmar said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he visited the Pope tomorrow.”
“That’s already been announced,” Ismet said.
Dagmar laughed. “Would you like a drink?”
Ismet would. She made two drinks, and they carried them to the couch and sat. He put a hand to his ribs as he turned to her, but the pain must have been momentary, since he continued to face her. He raised his glass.
“To Attila.”
“To our own little Frankenstein monster.”
They touched glasses, drank. He made an interested face.
“In Turkey they make these with lemon, not lime.”
“They’re good that way, too.”
Ismet adjusted himself on the couch, touched his ribs again, then put the hand down.
“I’ve gone off the narcotics,” he said. “Now it’s just aspirin for me.”
“You must be feeling better.”
“I am.” He gave her a careful look. “And you? You are all right?”
Dagmar waved a hand. “I have my moments.”
He tilted his head. “I am sorry if—if I made any of those moments worse.”
She sighed, touched his knee. “You’ve been hurt,” she said. “You’ve got to look after yourself.”
“I did,” he said. “I have for a couple days now.” He offered a rueful smile. “But now I’m lonely.”
She looked up at him, at the purple bruises that discolored his face. “Strange,” she said. “So am I.”
He leaned toward her—winced, clutched his ribs—leaned closer, then kissed her. His lips were pleasantly moist.
Ismet drew back, hand still on his ribs, and took a few breaths.
“I was going to say,” he said, “that I’m no longer afraid that you’re going to beat me up.”
She nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I was angry when I said that. But I wasn’t angry with you.”
Dagmar nodded again. She took a sip of her drink, then leaned forward and kissed Ismet again. They kissed a good long while.
When they stopped, Ismet had to take another few quick breaths.
“I forgot to breathe,” he said.
“Don’t do that.”
“You know,” he said. “If this is to go any farther, you’re going to have to do all the work. I’m not very… flexible.”
She laughed. A battered, bruised, half-crippled man and a crazy lady.
“We are the junkware,” she said, and kissed him again.
For two days the Lincoln Brigade tried to stay atop the general strike. From the information available, the strike seemed to go well. Amateur videos showed police vandalizing shops that had closed, but even those shops that remained open had few customers. Turkish television showed Ankara streets as jammed with cars as ever, but the images could have been filmed weeks earlier.
At night, everywhere in the country rebels came into the streets and brawled with the police. The Brigade organized a pair of demos. One of them, weaving along Irfan Bas¸tu from the Altinpark toward the center of Ankara, was four kilometers long. It was so huge the police didn’t dare to try to stop it. The demo eventually dispersed when word came that the Sixty-sixth Motorized Brigade had saddled up and was coming back to town, tanks at the head of the column.
Ian Attila Gordon seemed to be everywhere, on every medium. He had a private audience with the Pope. He appeared on chat shows. His album charted at number eight, with three singles in the top five. A T-shirt with his picture and the label KEN YE REVOLUTION? suddenly appeared at stands and counters throughout the world.
Lincoln said that his colleagues from the American embassies and consulates in Ankara, Istanbul, and Adana were working the phones and visiting generals, trying to get one of the military men to commit to the return of the republic. So far there had been no success.
The Seagram’s ARG updated at noon on Friday, Pacific time, which was ten at night in Cyprus. The Lincoln Brigade was still in the ops center, and Dagmar on the phone to Marcie at Great Big Idea, when the new pictures rolled onto the screen.
Now they could only await developments.
Corporal Carrot says:
Googling Slash Berzerker. Nothing here.
Classicist says:
Did you try spelling “Berserker” correctly?
Corporal Carrot says:
Yep. Nada.
Vikram says:
By the way, has anyone noticed that everyone in this game is always drinking whiskey? Which may not be unusual in and of itself, but have you noticed that they ALWAYS DRINK RESPONSIBLY?
Lots of booze, but no alcoholics in this game! Usually these games are full of human wreckage, both addictive and compulsive. THAT’S unusual!
Hippolyte says:
That’s an interesting point.
LadyDayFan says:
Harry just found out the police are after him. Do we think he’s been committing actual fraud, or do we want to blame Mr. Berzerker for Harry’s problems?
Hanseatic says:
This will probably lead nowhere, but I used to play on Blood Harvest with someone who used the Slash Berzerker handle. We must have mowed down tens of thousands of undead between us.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Are you still in touch with Slash?
Corporal Carrot says:
Chatty! Haven’t seen you here in a long time!
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
I’ve been overwhelmed by mundane existence in the last few months. But I noticed a new adventure has started, and I’m trying to catch up.
Hanseatic says:
The guy I played online with probably has nothing to do with our current game. He was using that handle at least a couple years before anybody even thought of this game.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Still, if it’s the only lead we’ve got… Can you message him?
Hanseatic says:
Not until I get home from work and load Blood Harvest. And then I’d have to hope he’ll log on.
ReVerb says:
You’re playing this ARG at work! That’s the spirit!
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Anyone else out there have an account with Flashpoint Gamez? You could message him.
Hippolyte says:
My husband has one. But what questions do I ask?
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Ask him where he is and who he is and what he does for a living. The answers might be misleading, but even misdirection tells us something.
Hanseatic says:
I’m in Gdynia, and I played using the mirror site in Bucharest, so my guess is that Slash was somewhere in Eastern Europe.
Alaydin says:
Hi everybody, I know that guy. He’s not a character in the game; he’s a friend of mine here in Turkey.
Hippolyte says:
I’ve been worried about the players in Turkey I met during the Stunrunner game. Are you all right, Alaydin?
Alaydin says:
Well, I’m on strike. My business closed down. Th
ere’s a lot of military here in Adana so there’s nothing much else that can be done.
Hippolyte says:
Take care of yourself, Alaydin. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Alaydin says:
Thank you!
Corporal Carrot says:
Your posts are coming through a little funny.
Alaydin says:
Turkish keyboard.
Corporal Carrot says:
Oh right.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Alaydin, I’d like to ask you about your friend Slash. Does he play ARGs?
Alaydin says:
He played Stunrunner, but he wasn’t on the bus with us. I think he really prefers first-person shooters.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
If he played Stunrunner, then Great Big Idea might have co-opted him for this game in some way. This might be an attempt to keep the Turkish audience they captured for Stunrunner. Has Slash ever been an actor or worked in video?
Alaydin says:
He’s a computer engineer. He has never been in show business.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Can you possibly give us his name? And a way to get ahold of him?
Alaydin says:
I do not want to give away his name without permission.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Can you give us email, then?
Alaydin says:
This really is not the same Slash Berzerker. Hes out of the country anyway.
Chatsworth Osborne Jr. says:
Where is he?
Deep State Page 32
