“Really? What do people say?”
She grins. “You don’t know already?”
“It only works when I’m close. Can’t tell what people are saying about me long distance.”
She thinks about how to phrase it.
“There are a lot of people who claim to be ex-CIA. Or ex–Special Forces,” she says, hoisting the bar with a small grunt. “Not many who say they can read minds, though. But you can see how that might lead to some skepticism. Some people think you’re running some kind of scam. But some people—the ones I spoke to, before I set up our meeting—they know you can do some interesting things. Like the Eckerd job. Or OmniVore. They don’t think you’re a con artist. They just think you’re dangerous.”
Well, at least she was polite.
“Dangerous. That’s flattering, I suppose.”
“What do you expect? Given some of your clients . . .”
She leaves it there, but I can see who she’s talking about. People like Nikolai’s father. Clients who might expect a permanent solution to their problems. Which would make me a very expensive hired thug.
I can’t really argue with that, though, so I just watch her lift the bar again.
She finishes her set, then sits up and looks at me from the bench, one eyebrow arched, her expression camera-ready.
“I also heard there was a woman on that island with you,” she says.
I shrug. “There was. She left.”
She smiles. “I bet. What happened?”
I’ve asked myself the same question. It seemed like I had everything I wanted. A retreat from all of you people and the constant high-pitched whine of your thoughts. A solid cushion in the bank. Even a woman who’d taken a bullet for me and came and found me again anyway.
Kelsey had worked with me. She was assigned to help me by my client. She knew what I was, and accepted me for it.
But nothing lasts. That’s the thing. I began to worry about the size of the cushion in the bank. I missed the feel of sitting in a private jet. I spent a lot of time wandering around the house, wondering what to do with myself.
So I began taking jobs again. And that upset Kelsey. Not so much that she said anything. But she didn’t have to. Even if I couldn’t see the thoughts marching across her brain, I would watch her unconsciously rub her shoulder where the bullet hit her. She could still feel an echo of the pain.
She got angry, but she kept it inside. It didn’t all come spilling out until she found out what I’d done to one of her former coworkers, and how I’d gotten the nest egg sitting in my money market account. He’d made a mistake that nearly got me and Kelsey both killed. He was the reason she’d been shot. So I bankrupted him.
It was all perfectly legal. And I figured I had a good reason.
But that was too much for her. She knew this guy. Had worked with him for years. And even though he’d betrayed her, she couldn’t live with my idea of justice. She didn’t want to be part of that.
I knew she’d made her decision when she kissed me good-bye one morning as I left for a job. I knew she’d start packing her bags as soon as the boat took me away.
I left anyway.
When I came back, there wasn’t even a note. But then, she knew I didn’t need one.
The island house seemed too empty after that. And I noticed for the first time that Seattle is really incredibly gray.
Not long after that, I moved myself into the suite at The Standard. I told myself it was for work, that I needed to be back in L.A. for the jobs.
“Different priorities,” is what I finally tell Sara. “We wanted different things. Usual story.”
“Maybe,” Sara says. “Then again, maybe you’re just not very good at happily-ever-after.”
Again, I can’t really argue with that.
17
Security Is Our Top Priority
Before we go out to the server farm, I pull my own gun out of my luggage. I’ve been scanning around us all day, checking for any of Godwin’s hired help or the signs of another flashmob. Nobody’s pinged my radar so far, so maybe he doesn’t know we’re coming here.
And Iceland is, statistically speaking, one of the safest places in the world. Despite all of those murder mysteries set in the cold reaches of Scandinavian countries, there’s almost no violent crime in Iceland. Homicide is practically nonexistent. Most of the time the cops don’t even carry guns.
Still, I remember what happened the last time I left my gun at home. I load a clip into the Walther, put it in the holster under my jacket, and head to the car.
The data center stands—like so much else around here—on a vast, empty plain. The online brochure says it used to be a NATO facility, but it’s been totally retrofitted and upgraded. Even so, it’s possible to look at it and see the last outpost at the end of the world—a final remnant of civilization after whatever Apocalypse eventually manages to bring us down.
Reykjavík is known worldwide as a haven for data. The cold temperatures mean that the server farms don’t have to waste as much money on air conditioning to keep the computers from overheating. And they also benefit from the cheap geothermal power that runs just underneath Iceland’s frozen ground.
I’ve been in server farms back in the States before. The ones I’ve seen are little more than warehouses filled with row after row of computers, stacked and racked and humming quietly as data pours through them.
But this place has spent some money on the customer experience. The building is an architect’s dream—all clean lines and sharp angles—with giant panes of glass and mirror-finish floors in the lobby. Despite the vast emptiness just outside, Mr. Einar Magnusson, the data center’s manager, is smiling and cheerful. He’s like a breath mint in human form—crisp and fresh and clean, bright green eyes filled with delight as he greets us.
Sara has led him to believe that Stack might be interested in investing heavily in data storage, and Magnusson is already counting the money in his mind. He’s glad to take us on a tour of the facility, eager to show off.
He opens a locked door with a key, a thumbprint, and a retinal scan. “Security is, of course, our top priority,” Magnusson says. “No unauthorized personnel can access our facility, and we have multiple redundant systems in place to ensure that there are never any breaches of our data.”
Then he holds the door for us and gestures for us to walk right in.
We get our first look at the server farm. In its own way, it is almost beautiful.
The light is low. Blade servers, all fitted with glowing blue LEDs, stretch for what seems like miles in every direction. There is an unearthly hum as the data of a billion people—their emails, Web searches, movies, photos, and naked pictures—fly through the room on their way from one corner of the globe to another.
Our original plan might have just hit a snag, however. Sara was supposed to distract Magnusson by asking a slew of technical questions while I found the server for Downvote and then copied its data onto a portable hard drive.
Did I mention that what we’re doing isn’t strictly legal?
Yeah, it’s not.
As part of its drive to boost its economy with the money from these data centers, Iceland’s government takes the privacy of their clients very seriously. It usually requires a warrant and a diplomatic request from the U.S. government to crack open one of these servers.
We don’t have those. So Sara and I were hoping to get in and out of here as quickly and quietly as possible.
Unfortunately, this isn’t like anything we were expecting. I thought there’d be something like a map. Or maybe even a sign.
Seems a little foolish now.
So, Plan B. Get it from Magnusson. Sara is already well into her questions. I interrupt. “How do you keep track of it all?” I ask, putting a little more awe into my voice than is strictly necessary.
Magnusson’s expression doesn’t change, but inside his mind, he’s spitting mad. He was enjo
ying being the focus of Sara’s attention.
“What?” he says, perhaps a little more sharply than he intended.
“How do you know whose data belongs in which place?” I say, keeping the gee-whiz tone.
Magnusson smiles, and a layer of condescension slides down over his thoughts. “It’s actually quite simple. Our clients are organized by their IP addresses. We have dynamic switching capability, so it is quite an easy thing to expand server capacity beyond the initial blades as needed—”
“Yeah, but isn’t there some kind of, I don’t know, guide? I mean, how do you ever find what you’re looking for?”
He does not quite roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “We maintain a constantly updated directory,” he says, and points to a simple desktop terminal on a nearby table.
“Very cool,” I say. “Would you demonstrate?”
Magnusson smiles, and this time it’s almost genuine. He’s happy to show me how easy it is to answer my question, since it only makes him look smarter in front of Sara.
“Certainly,” he says, and walks over the keyboard and begins typing away. He enters his password, which I snag as his fingers dance across the keys—November1234, that’s just sloppy, probably the default and he’s never changed it—and then enters a string of numbers to find a specific server.
A map immediately comes up on the screen, with a green line leading from our location to the server rack.
“You see?” he says. “Child’s play. All you have to do is enter the name of the client, or the IP address, and we can find the location in seconds.”
“Outstanding,” I say. “Thanks so much.”
And then I hit him with the sensation of an overwhelmingly full bladder.
Childish, I know, but he’s almost like a substitute teacher. I can’t help torturing him. Besides, we do need him out of the way, and this is probably the most painless method to do that.
He holds out for an admirably long time. He tries to keep his mind on his sales pitch to Sara, but eventually his eyes start to cross. “Excuse me,” he says quickly, and heads for the door. “Please do not touch anything,” he adds, just before he starts to sprint to the lobby. “I will be right back.”
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I head back to the terminal, enter in his password, and then type in the IP address of Downvote’s server.
A map pops up on the screen, just like before, only this time leading us downstairs three levels and to the back of the facility. Of course it wouldn’t be close by.
Sara frowns. “Let’s get going.”
“Magnusson won’t be gone long,” I tell her.
She makes a face. “If he comes back before we do, we’ll tell him we slipped away for a quickie. We’re kinky like that.”
Before I can dig any deeper into that, she’s moving quickly toward the metal stairwell at the center of the floor.
There are levels and levels of racks of computers, all with the same eerie blue glow. Sara and I keep checking the numbers on top of the rows. Everything looks alike. It would be easy to get lost down here. That end-of-the-world feeling just keeps getting stronger.
Despite having what is an undeniably spooky talent, I’m not usually much for omens or vibes. But I can’t help feeling like something is wrong here. I tell myself I’m just being paranoid—having a mob attack you will do that—and nothing is bouncing off my radar. We’re totally alone down here.
We find the row of servers we’re looking for, and head down, checking the boxes as we go. We find the box with the Downvote server inside, and Sara opens her bag. She’s got a compact sixteen-terabyte Samsung drive—which ought to be enough to suck whatever data we need out of Downvote’s server. She hooks it up with a fiber-optic cable, activates a special software package that Stack prepared for us, and starts transferring the information.
Then I think I hear something.
I scan our surroundings. Nothing. The only thoughts I’m picking up are Sara’s.
Nobody else. It’s possible I heard Magnusson come back into the data center—he’s far enough away that I wouldn’t hear his thoughts—but he would probably start calling for us.
Still, I could have sworn . . .
A second later, I know I hear something. The sound of something moving on the floor. Probably a mouse or a rat or a lemming or whatever they have in Iceland.
Only this sounded much bigger.
I stop listening with my talent. And start listening with my ears.
I remember something from my days of Special Forces training. When the operators would teach us how to move. How they emphasized being quiet, but not too quiet. How the wrong kind of silence was almost as big a giveaway as the wrong kind of noise.
This is the wrong kind of quiet.
I start walking slowly down the row of servers, toward the noise. Sara looks up at me, sharply. I gesture for her to stay silent.
I don’t pull my gun. I mean, that would be paranoid. Nobody alive can sneak up on me.
I’m sure I’m going to feel like an idiot when I look around the corner and find nothing.
The guy hits me just as I stick my head out from behind the server racks.
It’s a good, solid punch, with lots of weight behind it, and I bounce off a rack of servers before I hit the floor.
Despite the spots dancing in front of my eyes and the ringing in my ears, I still don’t quite believe it when I look up and see a man, dressed all in black, wearing mirrored goggles and a ski mask, standing above me.
All I can think is, Totally fucking impossible.
Then I’m rolling out of the way as he tries to stomp on my head.
He just barely misses me. I scramble away from him as fast as I can, but I’m crab-walking and he’s on his feet.
I finally remember: Sara.
“SARA!” I shout.
No response. I’m about to scream again, but he catches up to me and swings a kick that lands right in my ribs, knocking me flat on my back again, taking the wind right out of my lungs.
I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t see anything coming.
Usually I never lose a fight because I can see all my opponent’s moves before he makes them. But I’m getting no thoughts from him at all. As far as my talent is concerned, there’s nobody there. I’m getting my ass kicked by a ghost.
He puts another kick into my side as I lie on the ground. The surprise is almost as bad as the pain. But when he winds up to do it again, I manage to get over my shock enough to catch his leg.
All right then, I think. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.
I haul him off balance, and he has to twist and turn away from me to keep from getting dragged down to my level. I use the space to hop to my feet, ignoring the pain in my head and my sides. He’s way ahead on points, and I want to even the score.
I throw a punch that he dodges easily, but I catch him with the kick that follows it. He grunts, but that’s the only sound he’s made so far.
I throw another combination of punches. He dodges and blocks them—he knows what he’s doing—but I keep up the pressure, and he can’t counter fast enough.
I finally drive a hard left past his defenses, and I hear something crunch under the ski mask as I connect.
It’s eerie, being this close to someone and not knowing what they’re thinking.
On the plus side, however, when I hit him, I get none of his pain. None at all.
It’s like a Get Out of Jail Free card. I throw myself into the fight, advancing on him, punching, kicking, grabbing, just to see what I can get away with.
Which, as it turns out, is what he was waiting for. He lets me get over my feet and overextended, and then grabs my wrist and yanks back. Within a second, he’s got me wrapped up in a complex choke hold.
Exactly the kind of trap I would never usually fall for, except it feels like I’ve got a paper bag over my hea
d. I’m fighting like an amateur here.
I’m losing oxygen fast, I’ve got no chance of breaking the hold, and this goddamn ninja is still barely breathing hard.
So I swallow my pride and pull my gun.
I will tell myself later that I didn’t really want to shoot this guy because I want to know how he’s able to silence his thoughts. Or some crap like that. But the truth is, I really thought I could take him hand-to-hand.
As soon as he sees the gun come out from under my jacket, he ratchets up the pressure on my throat. I get a little dizzy, but it’s not fast enough. I can still aim the gun over my shoulder in the general direction of his head.
He breaks the hold and shoves me away into one of the metal racks before I have a chance to pull the trigger. So at least I know he’s not stupid. Or bulletproof.
I suck down fresh air and turn, aiming the gun at the same time, but he’s already ducked behind another rack of servers.
I run after him, but it’s like he’s vanished. There are too many twists and corners and blind spots. He could be five feet away from me or a hundred yards. I have no way of knowing.
For one of the few times in my life, I’m forced to rely on my ears and eyes like everyone else.
I can’t say I’m enjoying it.
“SARA,” I shout again.
Still no answer. But I can hear her thoughts now that someone isn’t pounding a steady drumbeat on my skull.
She’s being smarter than I am. Keeping her mouth shut. I move quickly and quietly toward the spot where I left her.
She’s not there anymore. I can feel her close by, however. She’s hiding. I put myself in her head for a second, and I feel that she’s already got her gun out. Smart move.
I figure our ninja must be unarmed, or he would have shot me instead of fighting. And while it’s possible there are other people in the world who can stay completely off my radar, it’s not likely they’re hiding in here with us right now. Which means we’ve got him outnumbered.
Flashmob Page 18
