The Gomorrah Gambit

by Tom Chatfield

  Now, Munira is glowing with unexpected hope. This is the first time in months, she tells him, that she hasn’t been constantly looking over her shoulders: now it’s just every ten minutes. Her happiness gnaws at his guts. Azi walks and awaits further instructions via the phone in his pocket. This is all he knows, because this is all he needs to know. Like Jim, he’s merely the tool of someone else’s deception. So he keeps talking.

  “Tough childhood?”

  “For my dad, yeah. Less so for me. He hated his old man, the way his mother was treated, everything. I guess he wanted it to be different for his kids. School, computers, wearing trousers and T-shirts—he wanted me to have that. Mum, not so much. Her family, not at all. You come from a big family, you know what it’s like? Anyway, I was able to tell the rest of them to stick it, most of the time. I’d run away a lot. Sit with my third-hand laptop on a bench, stealing the Starbucks Wi-Fi. This was five or six years ago, when you were middle-aged.”

  Azi nods, riding the wave of her conversation, content to listen.

  “I was a good girl. But I was smart, and they didn’t see that. Apart from Dad, they all just wanted me to meet a nice boy, make nice babies. He got me that old laptop—and then I decided to find out how things really worked. And there was a boy, of course. An unsuitable white boy with glasses and a World of Warcraft habit.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “He cheated on me, so I hacked his Battle.net, sold everything he had for cash and made him cry. Bet you’ve never done that to a girl. I’m sure you were a nice boy.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “I knew it. Let me guess. Did you make your mother proud? Photos on the stairs, your height marked on the doorframe with pencil. The apple of her eye.”

  “Not to put a downer on things, but…she’s dead. My mum died. Before I got to make her something closer to proud.” Memories shift inside him, struggling towards the surface. He pushes them down. Munira is horrified.

  “Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to, you know, take the piss out of your dead mother. I don’t watch my mouth. I get carried away.” Her expression is a mix of mortification and pity.

  “It’s fine. Honestly. I love…I like that you’re honest with me. I just think I need something to eat.”

  “I saw a veggie place near here. It was rammed, which is good given our interest in privacy. Then again, nobody knows we’re here apart from your mysterious friend, and you say he booked the flights through an equally mysterious agency, so what exactly is there to worry about?”

  “You’re asking me a question?”

  “No. Yes. I think I’m asking you to explain one more time what we are doing here. Because I’m happy to be here, sure. But…look at us. They almost got you. Because I was looking for you. How can you know they aren’t watching now?”

  Azi suddenly feels very old and very tired.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. This whole situation has been insane from the start.”

  Munira shakes her head, pushing away whatever angst was building. “Sorry, sorry. I know that. It’s hot, my head hurts. Azi, I just want all of this to go away.”

  Her tone is still light and fast. You wouldn’t think from her expression that they were anything other than a couple of tourists deciding where to go for food. Azi has no idea which of her selves is more real—the fast-talking hacker, the hunted victim, the confident joker, the rebel daughter—and it seems she isn’t sure either. Obviously, she ought to get away from him. Perhaps, if he makes a move on her, that will be a plausible means of getting her to vanish. Historically this has always proven to be pretty effective.

  But the people sending him orders through his mobile phone would know, because they know everything. They have planned for every improvisation he might attempt. After years of thinking he was the smartest person in the room, it occurs to Azi that he has spent most of his life in rooms containing just one person. With an effort, he summons his best impression of reassurance.

  “Look, look. This is not because of you. It’s because of them, the people who are after you. Always, because of them. And I fucked up. That’s on me. All you did was ask for help, from the person you felt was in the best position to provide that help. Not your fault he turned out to be, upon closer inspection, slightly shit. None of this is your fault.”

  She snorts, looks around, then clasps his shoulder—as if touching another human were the easiest thing in the world. Their ensuing silence isn’t quite companionable, but the tension has dissipated. It’s too much, thinking one thing and saying another. Surely people normally get some government-sponsored training for their double life?

  Joining a queue of preposterously attractive and under-clothed young people, feeling outmoded and unanchored, Azi nurses the hope that his day will improve on the far side of a falafel wrap.

  Like everything else in the modern mobile workplace, the tradecraft imparted to today’s intelligence assets revolves around apps. Also, like everything else in the modern mobile workplace, this allows for considerable economies when it comes to training budgets.

  The mysterious new phone Azi was given in exchange for everything he used to own looks entirely ordinary, but is running a heavily modified version of Android from which every vulnerability has systematically been stripped (in tech as in warfare, the smaller the surface exposed to attack the better). Via this delectable device, he has, since their meeting at Victoria Station, been experiencing the solicitudes of an app named New Action Directives Issued Remotely, or NADIR for short.

  Running this app is the only thing Azi’s phone can do. It tells him what to do next, and then he does it. Essentially, NADIR is a satnav, and its psychological effects are dismayingly familiar. The more you encourage someone to rely upon step-by-step instructions, the more they behave like someone who requires step-by-step instructions to do anything: passive, unquestioning, liable to drive off the end of a pier if commanded. Azi is well aware of this effect—he has exploited it in others often enough—and is disturbed to find his own mind numbing in response to the app’s not-so-gentle prompts.

  Apart from using the phone to stay in touch with his “friend,” they are forbidden from undertaking any online activities. Azi has sold this to Munira as a security precaution—but it’s also an effective isolation tactic. He hasn’t been offline for this long since he was fourteen years old. It’s like his mind has shrunk. Entire rooms full of knowhow are emptied and boarded up. Although, he would concede, the absence of constant interactions with neo-Nazis can only be good for his faith in humanity.

  So far, their instructions have been to wander parkland, plazas and museums in a strange simulation of tourism. It’s four hours since they landed in Berlin, and Azi is starting to feel stretched thin. To make matters worse, his falafel tasted like sawdust and he could kill for some fried chicken. When a new action directive arrives, he’s so eager to read it he almost drops the phone.

  Tell her you are leaving, to meet your friend. Walk three blocks east from the Brandenburg Gate, along Unter den Linten, and await further instructions. She is to meet you outside Checkpoint Charlie in two hours.

  How can they be so sure she’ll listen to him, he wonders? How do they know she won’t run? Azi’s heart sinks as he contemplates just how confident they must be—and just how complete their surveillance. What he needs to do, he tells himself, is stay calm. Eventually, there will be an opportunity to snatch some advantage. There’s always something that hasn’t been anticipated.

  “Hey, Munira.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve heard from my friend. He wants to meet, just me. We’ll sort things out, then pick you up outside Checkpoint Charlie. In two hours.”

  “Because if I’m living in a spy novel I might as well see the sights, right?”

  “Something like that. Just a couple of hours, then you’ll be safe.”

  She gives him a hard look.

  “Safe. That sounds good. Lucky for you that I’m not bothered
about being abandoned in a strange city, trusting a man I just met. I’m not even slightly terrified, just so you know—”

  “Munira. It will be okay, and I will be there. I promise.”

  She laughs, as if not quite in control of her voice.

  “That’s good to know. That’s great. I’m just…I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I’ve spent a long time being afraid. I really, really want to trust you, Azi. Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened to your mum?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want to know something real, about you. My dad is dead. I didn’t tell you that. Heart attack, two years ago. I think, if he was still alive, none of this would have happened. He’d have kept an eye on my cousins, given them a good talking-to. Or turned them in to MI5. Right. Your turn.”

  Azi stares at her. Suddenly, only the truth will do.

  “It was my second year at uni. Hit and run, completely random. Except she always crossed the road without looking, in the same spot, so I guess I could have said something. If she had ever listened to me about things like that. Which she didn’t. I got a note in my pigeonhole. That’s how long ago this was: a little piece of folded paper, with a university crest on it, telling me to see my tutor at once about a serious personal matter. I knew, right then. Because there was nothing else in my life that mattered. It was just me and her—then it was just me. I can’t believe how long ago it all was.”

  Azi and Munira look at each other. He has never said this much about his mum to a living soul. Munira pauses, unusually inscrutable. Then she reaches out with both arms and clasps him, drawing herself into his chest, lifting her lips in a whisper beside his face.

  “Don’t let me down, Azi. Please. Come find me.”

  And before he can answer, she has gone.

  Nine

  Azi picks his way along the street, buffeted by crowds, remembering the clean smell of Munira’s hair, the clasp of her arms. He has no idea what to do with the echoes of these sensations, but nor can he stop his body remembering them.

  The wide pavements around the Brandenburg Gate are clotted with tourists on walking tours: mostly young Americans, their eager caffeinated gazes sliding off Azi’s face. Once he is in the right area—and certain Munira isn’t following him—he pulls out the phone again. He has to admit, the app is an excellent form of cover. As a tourist, he’d look peculiar if he didn’t spend most of his time staring fixedly at a digital device.

  NADIR tells him to turn into a café on the main road’s south side. It’s the kind of place he hates: a coffee-shop-cum-makerspace-cum-advert-for-trans-national-tech-brands, mixing exposed brick, aspirational furniture, baked goods and inspirational verbs. Worst of all, there’s free high-speed Wi-Fi that everyone apart from him can use.

  Having sufficiently hated the space, Azi shifts to hating everyone inside it, and then on to hating himself. Finally, he surrenders to the app’s latest command: buy a coffee and wait at a table for two. Is he allowed a toasted sandwich, he wonders? The fact that he is even asking this question is depressing. He adds one to his order—compared to London, it’s astonishingly reasonable—then sits and waits for the bearded barista to bring it over. Immediately after it arrives, a tall blond man of about his own age sits down opposite him and begins to speak, his accent heavy but precise.

  “Azi!” the stranger exclaims with alarming familiarity. “It is good to see you, my friend! I am so glad you could make it.”

  Silence doesn’t seem to be an option. Azi clearly ought to be accustomed to random people who know everything about him invading his space and launching into conversation as if they’ve been friends from birth.

  “Yes. Er, how are you?”

  At this point his sandwich arrives and he’s grateful for something else to focus on. He picks it up and takes a quick bite, then coughs as scalding cheese removes a layer of skin from the roof of his mouth. The man carries on as if nothing has happened.

  “You should check your messages. And then give me a hug, you rascal! A proper one, man to man, friend to friend.” The stranger’s bonhomie is so convincing that Azi momentarily wonders if he does, in fact, know him.

  He checks NADIR. The words trust this man and do what he says appear. Great. He rises and fumbles into a clumsy embrace. The blond stranger is lean but roped with muscle, his limbs tight against the fabric of a skinny gray T-shirt. He looks like a climber, or an endurance athlete. Everything about him is pared down and action-ready. By comparison, between his several days of stubble and battered trainers, Azi feels like someone the master race wouldn’t have much trouble mastering.

  “Follow my lead, stay nice and calm,” the man whispers before sitting down fast and pulling out a tablet which he taps away on as he talks. “We are all thrilled you could take the job. People like us—people like you and I—we’re rare commodities. That must be why we are such good friends! But this is not a place for talking shop.”

  “Right. So we are—” Azi’s attempt to interrupt is politely but firmly halted by a raised finger, so he attempts another bite of the sandwich. It doesn’t go much better than the first.

  “We are two old friends at a rendezvous. A lovely French word, don’t you think? Catching up for about five minutes, which is the typical length of time such things take, I am told. And then it will be time to depart for proper conversation in greater privacy.”

  “Right. Remind me, how did we meet? Uni? Spy camp? A bit odd that I’m not quite able to remember, but I’m sure you’ll help me out.”

  “Azi, Azi, you require no alibi, no lies, because who you are is known to nobody else here. How wonderful that your lifelong discretion has done all the legwork for us! But for the sake of argument, let’s say that we studied computer science together, got on like a burning house, generally had a marvelous time. There will be details at our destination.”

  “And that is where, exactly?”

  “Just follow my lead. You are an expert on this, I think: the memorable and the forgettable. We are a team, Azi Bello. Working together to rescue the lovely Munira Khan—who I think you are starting to like quite a bit, yes? Smile, relax and tell me a little about your trip.”

  The lower half of Azi’s face does something that couldn’t, even generously, be called smiling. “You’ll have to forgive me, but today I have an app for a brain and no free will. I’m a bit short on improvisational banter.”

  Already a vision of genial relaxation, the man seems somehow to turn this up a notch, reclining into his seat while tapping his tablet with disinterested dexterity. It’s like sitting opposite a Vodafone commercial. Aren’t InfoSec agents supposed to be nondescript, as opposed to chiseled extras from a lifestyle catalogue?

  “Well, we have a minute, my friend. In my experience, the best thing is always to keep as close to the truth as possible. Let us try again, for the sake of practice. Tell me about your trip.”

  Azi attempts a genial tone. “Delightful, considering it was the most terrifying three hours of my life to date. Although there’s a lot more competition for that now, after your girl Anna dropped in for coffee. Let me think. Rock, hard place.”

  “Now, now. You’re a smart guy, Azi. And doing well so far under all this pressure. Can I give you some advice?”

  “Oh please do.” Azi has the sudden sensation that he’s two people, and one of them is regretfully watching the other start to lose his shit. Ah well, one of him thinks, you were always going to fall apart at some point. It may as well be while you’re sipping Kaffee mit Milch with a trained Teutonic killer.

  “You have been under a great deal of pressure, of a kind you are unused to. It is tough. So you should relax, allow yourself to enjoy this. Think of it as a foreign vacation, with step-by-step instructions. Being looked after every step of the way—a friend such as I rolling out the red carpet! It is all so much better than the alternatives.”

  “Okay. So…” With an effort of will, Azi makes the more measur
ed version of himself take the reins. He can do this. Just a normal day, just a normal café. He can pull back from whatever brink he strayed towards. “We met at university, in London. We stayed in touch, online, through work projects. We haven’t seen each other in real life for years, but we must be close, because you’re offering myself and Munira a place to stay. Given the way you look, I’d say we don’t share too many hobbies.”

  The man opposite him taps his palms in brief applause. “Exactly! And my lack of knowledge of your personal life is easily explained due to you not existing on any form of social media. It’s very good really, your absence of Facebook. There are some details that cannot be improvised, which I’ll take you through. Including my name, which to you is Odi Wolff. And now it is time for us to depart. Companionably.”

  “Can I finish my sandwich at least? All I’ve had today is bad falafel.”

  “If you like. But you haven’t had much luck eating it—and there’s great food where we’re going.”

  The man Odi stands up and ushers Azi out of the coffee shop.

  Ten

  Kabir feels he has finally experienced a revelation like those he dreamed of when he set off from home all those months ago—a fire in his heart that illuminates the world. Unfortunately, this revelation has taken the form of fear, self-loathing, nausea, sleeplessness and desperate guilt, all neatly swaddled in the fact that he will be executed if he reveals any of these feelings.

  On the plus side, he hasn’t yet been burned screaming inside a cage, which puts him several steps ahead of the subjects of his recent edit job: enemy fighters whose immolation it is his job to reconfigure in slow-motion replay in order to make the whole experience more filmic. On the minus side, he has begun to talk in his sleep, waking himself up with the muttering, and he’s worried that a point will soon come at which he no longer controls what he says during the daytime either.