Deep State ds-2

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Have them send their assassins in again,” Dagmar said. “That’s the only way we’ll catch those bastards.”

  “I doubt they’d send in gunmen again,” Lincoln said. “Not with the base on the alert.”

  Dagmar looked at him sourly.

  “I’ll try to think of something to tell the Turks that will really fuck them,” she said. “But in the meantime I’ve got to try to work around the technology that those idiots gave to the black hats.”

  Lincoln nodded.

  “You do that,” he said.

  The modem expeditions went reasonably well. Lola and Lloyd did their best on the Akrotiri aerodrome and scavenged three modems, which they took back to the ops room to see if they’d work with Richard’s virtual DOS environment. Helmuth guided Richard and Dagmar through Limassol, first to an electronics store where they bought an armful of the latest internal and external modems, then to the waterfront, where they began moving through a series of small cafes and shops.

  “You no want jacket? Nice handbag?”

  The merchant at the leather goods store, a portly man with a mustache, was puzzled by Dagmar’s line of inquiry.

  Dagmar hadn’t so much as cast an eye over the store’s merchandise before leaning over the counter and noting the dusty modem keeping track of credit card sales. Now she took a look at the coats and jackets hanging on the racks. Some of them seemed quite nice.

  “I’ll buy a jacket if you’ll give me your modem,” she said.

  This was an offer that was more to the store owner’s taste-he understood this kind of bargain better than he could comprehend a strange offer simply to buy his antique modem. The last transaction processed on the modem was a double-breasted belted jacket made of shiny, butter-smooth brown leather, cost 135. It fit Dagmar as if it had been tailored for her. The credit card receipt would be submitted to Lincoln as a business expense. As far as Dagmar was concerned, this was a win-win transaction.

  This was Dagmar’s only success of the morning, but Helmuth and Richard bagged two modems apiece, and they were in an upbeat mood as they met in a cafe for a lunch expertly cut from a sizzling cone of pressed beef and lamb by-products. The gyros were as good as any Dagmar had eaten. She received a number of compliments on her jacket.

  Their guards, discreetly armed, sat at their own table and ate burgers.

  After eating, they ordered Turkish coffee, dark as molasses and nearly as sweet, guaranteed to keep their energy levels high through the afternoon.

  Richard showed off his own major purchase-an entire computer, an ancient PC clone in a heavy steel case, which Richard had bought for the sake of its internal modem. The purchase had taken a fair amount of bargaining, with the owner convinced he was somehow being swindled. In the end Richard had simply taken the man to an electronics store and bought him a completely new fully tricked-out office machine, complete with a printer.

  “I think I got the better deal,” Dagmar said, admiring her jacket.

  “Not really,” Richard said. “The modem is one thing, but this is another.” He pulled the keyboard out of the shopping bag in which he had carried his prize.

  “IBM Model M,” he said. “Nineteen-eighties technology. The keys use a special patented buckling-spring design. The whole thing is solid steel- nothing like the cheap plastic keyboards you see now.” He hefted the keyboard, demonstrating how heavy it was. “Built to last for millennia!” he said cheerfully. “In the event of nuclear annihilation, this keyboard will be the only surviving evidence of human achievement.”

  “That’s a Greek keyboard,” Dagmar pointed out.

  “I’ll convert it to English.” Richard put the keyboard back in the shopping bag. “Now I’ve got to find a PS/2 to USB converter; otherwise it’s just a nonfunctional antique.”

  “That keyboard might draw more power than your USB connection gives,” Helmuth said.

  “I’ll work something out.” Richard’s smile was brilliant.

  Dagmar’s phone began to sing Thelonious Monk. The display didn’t show the number calling her, and she assumed it was the ops center.

  “This is Dagmar,” she said.

  “The Internet is back,” Lloyd said.

  She straightened in her seat. “We’ve got Internet!” she said, and saw the others react.

  “Has the Internet come back in Ankara as well?” Dagmar asked.

  “Yes,” Lloyd said. “And we-”

  “Is Rafet all right?” Dagmar asked.

  “Yes. He’s got the drones over Ankara trying to find out what’s happening.”

  Dagmar formed a triumphant fist with her free hand.

  “Right, then,” she said.

  “Dagmar,” said Lloyd. “We have the Internet now-but you’re in trouble. You need to look at the English online edition of the Turkish Daily Gazette.”

  Alarms began to throb in Dagmar’s skull.

  “What is this about?” she asked.

  Lloyd’s voice was crisp and businesslike.

  “You’ve been outed,” he said. “Just read the article; then get back here. You and Lincoln need to get together.”

  ROCK STAR DUPES DEMONSTRATORS

  DISSENT ORGANIZED TO PROMOTE POP ALBUM

  ISTANBUL, 0621. Sources report to the Daily Gazette that recent anti-government demonstrations inside Turkey have been orchestrated by a U.S.-based multimedia firm operating at the behest of English pop star Ian Attila Gordon, whose album Ararat has just been released.

  Sources say that Gordon, who played James Bond in the recent film Stunrunner, filmed in Turkey, engaged Hollywood-based Great Big Idea to promote his album by creating popular enthusiasm in Turkey. Great Big Idea, which normally produces online games, also produced a Turkish-themed game to promote the Bond film.

  In Great Big Idea’s current promotion, participants are asked to appear in public areas carrying items such as CDs, scarves, and flowers. The events were presented as gamelike activities, and participants were not told that their involvement would ultimately be used to promote a pop album.

  Some of these events have become the focus for anti-government demonstrations, though it is not known whether Great Big Idea intended this or whether agitators seized the opportunity to use gullible members of the public for their own purposes.

  “I’m completely disillusioned,” said one participant, a college student giving her name only as “Neriman.” “I had been led to believe that the political dimension of these actions was sincere. To find that it was a cynical maneouver intended only to sell pop music is a great disappointment, to say the least.”

  Great Big Idea has not commented, and in fact their company policy is never to confirm or deny participation in any media event.

  The organization is headed by media mogul Dagmar Shaw, described as “a shadowy figure” who was investigated for a series of murders and terror bombings in Los Angeles three years ago.

  Ararat is described on its own Web site as “a revolution in music.” The album is said to be inspired by Gordon’s experience in Turkey filming Stunrunner and features Turkish backing musicians.

  UPDATE 0945. Mr. Gordon has not offered comment, but a spokesman reached early this morning seemed very surprised and said only, “That’s just pure loony tunes, ken?”

  “Fuck me,” Dagmar said, as she followed the link to Gordon’s Web site. She had read the story on her handheld as Richard drove the party back to Akrotiri. Their guards followed in a Rover, and behind the guards was a Ford Transit that carried the guards’ communications gear, the stuff that actually worked under the influence of the High Zap.

  Dagmar was staggered. The article had just enough truth to be believable, just enough power to send the movement she’d created rocking back on its heels.

  If Bozbeyli had blamed the CIA for his troubles, it would only have been the sort of thing any dictator was expected to say. Few would have taken the complaints seriously, even if they were shown to be true. But blaming a Scots rock star at least had the advantage
of novelty and would guarantee headlines in the tabloid and entertainment press.

  If the U.S. government had been blamed, at least the U.S. would have been assumed to have acted for its own rational or political reasons. But bringing Gordon into it tainted the whole enterprise with celebrity and money-no one would want to risk their lives in a political action knowing that the whole point would be to sell records and make someone else famous.

  And Dagmar had to admit that the timing was perfect. The story had broken when the Zap had isolated Dagmar in Akrotiri and when her people in California would be asleep. She had been unable to respond to any of the allegations, and any denial would never catch the original story.

  The junta had restored the Internet to Ankara because the Zap was costing the local economy far too much money. And they’d restored it to Akrotiri because the damage was already done.

  The road curved alongside the sea, a deep brooding azure. Cargo ships swung at anchor waiting for cargo, their waterline high above salt water. Far out to sea, Dagmar could see a patrol boat coasting in British territorial water.

  “We’re being gamed,” she muttered.

  “Sorry?” said Richard.

  “I said,” she repeated, “that we’re being gamed.”

  “Damn right we are!” Helmuth spoke up from the backseat.

  Dagmar kept her eyes on the uneasy ocean. Her shock was beginning to fade.

  She knew that there was only one thing to do when you were gamed by someone.

  Game them back.

  Jet noise was back, along with the Internet. The sound of turboprops thrashing air sounded through Lincoln’s office.

  “I need to talk to Ian Attila Gordon,” Dagmar said.

  Lincoln’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “You think I’ve got his number?” he said. “When I was working on Stunrunner, it’s not like I ever got to talk to the star-I only dealt with PR people.”

  “Can you call any of them?” Dagmar asked.

  “Yeah, sure. But I doubt they’ve got the star’s number, either. If we knew who represented him, we could get him through his management.”

  Dagmar considered the problem.

  “In that case,” she said, “I need to talk to Odis Strange.”

  She had gone into conference in Lincoln’s office as soon as she had returned from her errand to Limassol. Richard and Helmuth had carried their spoil into the ops room to begin the business of putting together a DOS network.

  Lincoln reached for his handheld.

  “I’ve already had a conversation with Mr. Strange,” Lincoln said as he thumbed buttons. “He wants to fly his daughter’s body home, but the authorities are flying in a special pathologist from England, and he couldn’t come in because of the Zap. I think he’s upset-also, I think, high.”

  “Judy said he was on the wagon,” Dagmar said.

  “Maybe he was smart enough not to call her when he was out of his mind.” Dryly. “By the way, he kept asking awkward questions about what Judy was actually doing out here.”

  “He’ll find that out later today if he tunes in the news,” Dagmar said.

  “Here’s his number,” Lincoln said. He held the phone to Dagmar. Dagmar unholstered her own handheld, and Lincoln neatly transferred Odis Strange’s number to Dagmar with the press of a virtual button.

  Dagmar pressed Send. Lincoln drew his own phone back.

  “It’s very early in the morning in California,” he said.

  “I’ll have to hope that Odis Strange keeps rock-star hours.”

  The ring signal repeated five times before Odis Strange answered. During that time Dagmar paced back and forth along the two-yard-long empty strip in front of Lincoln’s desk and managed three complete laps.

  “Hello.” He didn’t sound as if Dagmar had dragged him from sleep.

  “Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “my name is Dagmar Shaw. I’m calling from Cyprus. I was Judy’s boss.”

  “I already talked to that guy,” Strange said. His tenor voice was crisp, and the words came fast but distinct, rap-rap-rap, like the sound from a telegraph key.

  “The person you talked to is the man I work for,” Dagmar said. “Judy worked directly under me. In fact, we were roommates.”

  “I’d like to know exactly what Judy was doing out there,” Strange said. Rap-rap-rap.

  “Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’m a game designer. Judy worked for me earlier this year, in the game we ran in Turkey.”

  “I heard about that,” Strange said. “I’d still like to know what the hell was going on.”

  Dagmar decided to evade that subject.

  “The authorities,” she said, “tell me they’re doing everything they can to locate the men responsible.”

  “The fucking authorities know more than they’re fucking telling.” Rap-rap-rap. “I should fly out there myself and bring my AR-15 and ask those fuckers some questions. That gun can fire damn near a hundred fifty rounds per minute, and that’s on semiautomatic.”

  “Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said, “a situation has come up, and I need your help.”

  “Fuck those people up!” Strange shouted. “Fuck them up with two-two-three rounds!”

  Dagmar winced and held the phone away from her ear. Lincoln looked at her with saturnine amusement. She turned away from him and stared at the evil eye amulet on his wall.

  “Mr. Strange-” she began.

  “When can I bring Judy home?” Strange demanded. “Her mother’s a damn wreck. The people there are all giving me the runaround.”

  “I don’t know,” Dagmar said. “But I promise I’ll find out for you.”

  “I need to go down there and break some heads,” Strange said. “Bring a crowbar.”

  “Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I need your help.”

  The statement seemed to surprise him.

  “My help?” he said. “What the hell can I do?”

  “There’s a false rumor going around,” Dagmar said. “People are saying that I-that Judy and I were hired by Ian Attila Gordon to overthrow the Turkish junta.”

  “What in God’s name-” Rap-rap-rap and then a brief pause. “Attila was doing this? Attila was trying to overthrow the dictators?”

  “Well,” Dagmar said, “no, he wasn’t.”

  “It’s the CIA that put those guys in power,” Strange said. “Those Turkish generals are CIA way back. That’s how they got to be Turkish generals in the first place!”

  Dagmar tried to stay relentlessly on topic.

  “I need to coordinate with Attila,” Dagmar said. “I need to talk to him, so we can agree on what to say to the press.”

  “If you’ve been fucking with the generals,” Strange said, “you’re damn right you need to coordinate.”

  “I didn’t say we were doing that.” Dagmar couldn’t help herself.

  “I still can’t figure out,” Strange said, “how Attila got into this.”

  “Do you have contact information for him?” Dagmar persisted. “Judy said you knew him.” A verbal memory flashed into her mind. “She said you thought he was a tosser.”

  Strange laughed. “Yeah, he fucking well is,” he said. “I’ve got it on my phone.”

  “Good, because-” And then the line went dead.

  Dagmar looked at her phone in annoyance. Lincoln’s window rattled to the sound of Eurofighters crashing the sound barrier somewhere above the Med.

  “What happened?” Lincoln asked.

  “I think he cut me off accidentally when he was trying to access Attila’s number.”

  Lincoln sighed. “Is he crazy out of his mind?”

  Dagmar considered this.

  “Who am I to judge?” She shrugged. She hit Redial.

  “What the fuck?” She jumped as Strange shouted in her ear before she even heard a ring signal.

  “That’s what I want to know!” Strange said. “What the fuck? Double-you Tee Eff. Know what I’m saying?”

  Persist, she told herself.

  “Did you manage
to get me Attila’s contact information?”

  “Yeah. I got it right here.”

  As he gave the number, she pressed the Write button on her handheld and scribed the number in the air and into her phone’s memory.

  “Thank you, Mr. Strange,” Dagmar said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, when I hear anything about Judy.”

  “Yeah,” Strange said. “Thanks.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dagmar said. “We all loved Judy here.”

  She pressed the End button and felt herself sag in relief.

  “That seemed to go well,” Lincoln said dryly.

  “I’m the envy of my friends,” Dagmar said as she connected. “Now I have two rock stars on my speed dial.”

  “Let’s hope only one of them is crazy.”

  The number answered after the first ring.

  “Hello?” a Scots voice said. “Who is this? If this is aboot that pish on the telly…”

  “Is this Mr. Gordon?” Dagmar asked. She wasn’t completely certain: when Ian Attila Gordon sang, it sounded as if he were from Memphis.

  “Aye.” The voice was cautious.

  “Mr. Gordon,” Dagmar said, “this is Dagmar Shaw. I’m the person you’re supposed to have hired to overthrow General Bozbeyli.”

  “Thank fuck fir that!” Attila Gordon seemed relieved to have a fellow victim to talk to. “Ah jumped a fuckin mile when Ah heard the phone.”

  “It’s pretty crazy,” Dagmar said.

  “The arseholes even hacked the Web page! Aw that ‘revolution in music’ mince wasnae meant tae be there. We couldnae change it back, ’cause thid altered the passwords!”

  “They’re very good,” Dagmar said, “whoever they are.”

  “Look,” Attila said. “The guys are trying tae put thegither a statement denying the story. Maybe we should coordinate-”