Things have gone downhill ever since. Not just because Azi remains bruised and uselessly angry; and not just because what he has recently found out is taking a lot of processing; but also because, as he was told in no uncertain terms, his objective this evening is to escalate his intimacy with Munira. Not exactly his area of expertise.
Staring at the angular crockery and glasses Odi has set on the table, Azi allows Munira to fumble for conversation.
“So, Odi, you guys met at university?”
“Yes, yes. Student union, 1998. Although neither of us were there.”
“Excuse me?”
“Neither of us were there, because we were in the computer science lab. Working late, as we did most nights, until they threw us out at closing time.”
Odi muffles a snigger at his own wit. Now that Munira is here, his manner is more self-indulgent than businesslike—with hints of well-heeled smugness. The character Odi is playing has done much better than Azi since leaving university and isn’t afraid to flaunt it. Perched towards the edge of an obviously expensive chair—like everything else in the flat, it seems never to have been used—she presses on.
“I should have known. You hit it off?”
“Eventually. Not to begin with.”
“Right. It takes a while.”
“To start with, he thought I was a bit of a prick. Many people do, I have noticed.”
Another snigger. Munira fails to look charmed.
“But you became friends anyway?”
“You could say so. Azi and I did not do many of the regular student things, but we both had a taste for computers and inexpensive alcohol.”
“And what are you up to these days?”
“I wrote a piece of software that someone paid a great deal of money for. It has paid for many other things in turn.”
Odi waves his hand in a casual encompassing gesture that makes Azi grit his teeth. Odi is remarkably convincing in the role of benefactor-cum-provocateur: supercilious, faintly debauched, accustomed to handling the human traffic of hangers-on. Munira, Azi realizes, is trying to compose her expression into something like gratitude—but it isn’t really working. At best, she looks like she’s fighting indigestion.
“So this place is—?”
“Somewhere I keep for special guests. It’s discreet and serves a purpose. May I serve you some food?”
At last finding something to look genuine about, Munira nods. Odi has placed a heaped bowl of salad on the glass lounge table—leaves, grains, cheese, pomegranate seeds—alongside dark, dense bread and chilled white wine. Whoever the people behind Odi actually are—Azi feels torn between the account he’s been offered, and visions of a cackling bald man running the show from inside a volcano—they clearly understand aspirational millennial cuisine. Odi serves himself after Munira, then Azi, then continues speaking through a mouthful of bread.
“Azi has told me a little of your story, Munira. I don’t need to know more, and I don’t want to know more, except for these two things. What do you need—and what will happen if you don’t get it?”
Munira looks to Azi. His turn. Half a glass of wine has softened his focus, but he has rehearsed what needs to be said. He takes a last sip, for luck, and clears his throat. “We need to find out as much as we can about who ripped our lives apart, what they are doing, and how we can stop them from finding us and…making trouble. Pretty clear-cut, I think. Safety, security and technology required. Dire consequences feared.”
Despite the wine, Azi feels shaky by the time he finishes. Saying things makes them real, even if they started out less than true. His home, his history: both of these have evaporated into abstraction. They are things that used to exist. How long has Munira felt like this, he wonders. How many other people are living like this, right now—running from something, the borders to their past suddenly closed?
Odi rolls some wine around his mouth in a magnificently irritating show of self-indulgence. “Well. It seems to me that you two homeless Brits are in need of rest, recuperation and as much incidental pleasure as we can manage. Do you not drink, Munira?”
“No. Thank you.”
“Very sensible. The body is a temple!” To her arched eyebrows, he adds, “I am not mocking you, no. You seem more sensible than Azi here, who I have seen in quite a state on multiple occasions. That pub, what was its name?”
“The Crown,” Azi improvises, thinking back to the days when he used to hang out in pubs with real people. There were never many but, once upon a time, there were some. Then, gradually, there weren’t. “Yes, the Crown. That’s the one. I fell into the fruit machine. It kept sneaking up on me.” As the past decade yawns beneath him, he tries to look like he’s recalling a hilarious incident.
Odi nods, as if fondly transported, then musters a more serious tone. “Well, clearly you two have stumbled on something serious. And this is what we live for, you and I—lives at stake and freedom on the line. This is why people protest on the streets, hide in embassy cupboards, hack the Pentagon. The world is going to shit and it’s all recorded, somewhere. If we don’t fight for truth and justice, who will? Come on, both of you, I am being sincere. Let us toast your safety and your success.”
Odi brandishes his drink at them. As the glasses clink, Azi touches one hand lightly to his chest, remembering pain.
If there is any freedom to be won here, it won’t be on Odi’s watch.
Two hours later, Munira and Azi are still sitting beside one another at the glass table, the laptop and the remains of dinner in front of them. Odi stepped out five minutes ago, seemingly drunk—although Azi noticed that he didn’t actually consume much of the alcohol he slopped into his own glass—leaving Azi to unveil his “plan” to Munira in peace. And this means introducing her to Jim.
With a flourish, Azi begins: a synopsis of his own escapades, a few dropped hints around accessing Gomorrah, Jim’s life story. The wine helps. Munira’s eyes widen. For the first five minutes she simply listens, her face unreadable. Then she lets out a delighted cry.
“Azi, you cunning little catfish—wriggling around in a pond full of Nazis! This is too good, really. Total fascist ownage! How long have you been at this?”
He tries to look modest, not entirely successfully. “A year, ish. Maybe eighteen months.”
“Wow. Wow! And what is Jim up to, these days? I get the feeling you’ve got another nice surprise for me.”
This time Azi doesn’t even attempt modesty. Instead, glowing with Munira’s praise, he outlines the nature of their opportunity: of Odi’s plans as modified by, he would like to think, his own rather greater finesses when it comes to matters of deception.
As Azi sees it, the electronic activities practiced by Defiance fall into three categories: mobilizing their base; forging fruitful connections with like-minded groups; and preparing themselves for political power. Underlying this is a simple proposition. A large number of upstanding citizens feel themselves threatened on all sides—by Islam, by self-serving elites, by unemployment and outsourcing, by the loss of certainties they’ve forgotten they were never sure about. Defiance believes that xenophobic ultra-nationalism is the long-awaited answer to their prayers.
The party doesn’t put things quite like this, but then it doesn’t need to. Given that the majority of the base they’re aiming to rouse consists of angry white men, pricking their aggrieved pride is about as complex as toasting a slice of bread. You simply spread a story about someone who isn’t like them (non-white, non-native, female) getting something that they feel entitled to (a job, a home, sympathy) and then wait. For older people, you do it with words and pictures. For younger people, you do it with video, memes and snark.
What Jim has recently volunteered to do is turn the latest barnstorming speech from the party’s German leader, Tomi—fresh from a week of increasingly prominent appearances on network television—into a mailshot aimed at sympathetic audiences across the UK and America. Core party members handle the European operation, but Jim is
now considered a foreign asset of impeccable enthusiasm. All of which has Munira, who has by now started flicking through the open tabs for herself, transported with delight.
“I love what you’ve done with those swastikas in that gif! Very contemporary.” Intensely aware of her proximity, Azi gestures at the screen.
“They’re not swastikas. Important distinction, especially in Germany. They’re patriotic crosses, some kind of Teutonic thing. These people never call themselves neo-Nazis, remember, not a whisper of the N-word in public. They deploy only the most ancient of racially pure Christian imagery.”
She nods, scanning the highlights of Tomi’s speech. “Azi, this is amazing. I knew you were good but this is next level. You know what I find scariest, though?”
“Er, the fact that you’re simultaneously being pursued by murderous Islamists while potentially pissing off neo-Nazis and the custodians of an ultra-secure darknet marketplace?”
“Apart from that.”
“Apart from that, no.”
“The fact that most of this guy’s speech…”
“Tomi.”
“…that most of this guy’s speech, Tomi, sounds kind of reasonable. Resistance against a totalitarian religion. Taking pride in your neighborhood. A return to common sense in politics. He’s funny, kind of a loudmouth uncle. It would be so much better if they were all racist idiots. But they’re not.”
Azi takes a deep breath. Here is something, finally, that he can speak honestly about.
“People ask me where I’m from, sometimes, back home. And when I say I’m from Croydon, they then say—”
“Yes, but where are you really from. I’ve been there. What do you tell them?”
“East Croydon. Then I tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“No, you don’t.”
“In my head, every time. Not so much with my mouth.”
“Because then they might kick your head in.”
“I keep my head down. Online, that’s where I make a difference. Trouble is, it’s the same for them. Nobody is ever alone, now, no matter what their flavor of crazy. Someone who agrees is only a click away. Someone who has been there before, got the T-shirt, built the bomb. I hate these people, Munira. I hate what they are, I hate what they do. But most of all, I hate what they pretend to be—how they persuade the world that they’re right.”
They both pause—but not for long. Because Azi has something remarkable up his sleeve.
How will Jim sufficiently wow Defiance’s senior management in as short a time as possible? This is a crucial question, because there’s no point doing anything unless Jim can gain Defiance’s blessing to make an approach to Gomorrah. Odi’s team have thus provided something truly impressive: a video, allegedly obtained via Jim’s existing darknet contacts, offering a taste of the riches available in exponentially more abundance via Gomorrah. It’s a brilliant piece of work, and it goes something like this.
President Barack Obama looks directly into the camera from behind the desk of the Oval Office and, in measured and statesmanlike tones, declares that the United States is a nation founded upon the principles of white, Christian exceptionalism, that it is the solemn duty of patriots to drive out those who do not fit into this vision, and that they should do this by any means possible. The speech lasts approximately ninety seconds. After it has finished, he looks soberly into the camera for a moment, gives a neat Nazi salute, then reaches below the gleaming wood of the Resolute Desk and pulls out a shotgun, the barrel of which he slots into the roof of his mouth. Then he blows his own brains out.
It’s a technological proof of concept, demonstrating the algorithmic manipulation of high-definition video. It’s also extremely good. The software generating it has processed a selection of existing recordings, then created an immaculately convincing virtual being: one able to do and say anything its controllers wish.
Azi has heard about similar tech under development, but nothing approaching this level of accomplishment. Clearly, they have enough under wraps to dangle some as bait, with a concealed additional package—a few lines of malicious code embedded in the subtitles, granting permanent access to computer memory if anyone watches the video outside a secure system. Given the appeal of its content, this is more than likely. Azi himself once infected half the computers in an elite hacking team by mocking up some grainy footage of the Bin Laden raid, then sending it via a spoofed friendly email address. This is phishing’s golden rule: almost everyone is susceptible to sufficiently expert enticement.
Munira stares at the screen, then at Azi, then back at the screen again. “This is unbelievable, Azi. Un-fucking-believable.”
He tries to turn on the modesty one last time. “I’ve had it around for a while. Custom job. For the enticement of neo-Nazis…it’s part of my old plan. I had the video specially made to reel them in. And there’s a special something extra buried in the subtitles, for anyone stupid enough just to click and play.”
“Nice. Friendly. So the plan is that Jim becomes our way in, and then…”
Her words hang in the air. This is the crucial part. For all her openness, Munira has told Azi very little of what she does and doesn’t actually know about Gomorrah—and about who is hunting her. But Odi and Anna were clear that she represents about their only hope of accessing it—and that her trust in her savior, AZ/Azi, is their best hope of accessing her knowledge. Azi tries to radiate reassurance.
“Jim does the email campaign, shows this to senior Defiance types, boasts about his darknet contacts, does some cool tech stuff for them, then mentions Gomorrah. And they think, why not give it a try, let’s see if he can deliver? That’s where you come in—because the people behind Gomorrah would never in a million years let you, me or any random anywhere near it. But a known white supremacist with the backing of the world’s most successful neo-Nazi movement…he’ll be vouched for. They might even let him sell some warez.”
Munira pauses. “And you’re sure this will work?”
“Of course not. But I do know that it’s custom-designed Nazi catnip: a black president removing the top of his own head in the name of white supremacy. And it’s an advert for someone’s very specialist services. You’d have to be a rubbish power-mad fascist not to want it.”
Munira smiles, letting her elbows drop forwards onto the table. “Can I ask something?” Her tone is soft, uncertain. “I mean, I know how it sounds but—that was a weird vibe, with you and Odi. Earlier. Were the two of you ever an item? You know, together…like, boyfriends? That kind of thing.”
Azi leaps back in his seat. “What? God, no. Jesus. We were close, but he’s not my type. I mean, he’s a man, and that’s not really my thing. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that kind of thing. I just don’t, you know…What gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know. Even though he’s doing us this big favor, you just seem so…I wondered if you had a history.”
Azi snorts. “No, that’s just me and my non-existent people skills. I can barely handle talking to the postman. Not that people do that anyway, these days. I guess I feel bad that I haven’t seen much of Odi, before all this. I’ve been shut away a long time.”
“I’ve noticed. I’d say you should get out more, but it’s hardly the time. Unless, you know, you fancy a bit of dancing, a night on the town?”
“You’re joking, right? I mean, if we could…but you’re joking. Right? I mean, that’s not exactly…Yes, you’re joking. Of course.”
Munira stares at Azi for a beat. “I don’t do well with them either, relationships. Especially men. I guess you’d call it trust issues. There were a lot of traditional ideas in my family, a lot of expectations. I didn’t fit many of them. Know what I mean?”
“Uh, I think so. It was just me and my mum, growing up. Not a lot of community: she’d burned whatever bridges she used to have. So I did my own thing. I had a friend. I had a modem.”
She flashes a grin. There’s a steel to Munira, bright at moments like this. They’re both le
aning forwards, and Azi can feel the heat from her body—alongside something matching in his own. By some measure, she is the most physically attractive woman he has ever spoken to for longer than five minutes. When was the last time he got close to someone he liked, let alone loved?
With a shock, he realizes that it must have been his mother, in both life and death: when he embraced her to say goodbye at the start of term, then when he embraced her body in a windowless room after the identification process. Not a mark visible, yet all life gone. It made no sense. It still doesn’t. At home, sometimes, he kept on speaking to her—asking the cramped rooms full of her things what they thought. The sofa proved a good listener.
Azi stares, blinks. Munira is speaking. “Azi? Don’t tell me you’re dropping off. Focus. I need to know more about you, now we’ve started. I reckon I deserve a few details. Do you have a type? Do you have a track record?”
He blushes. “No type, and not much of a record. I’ve always liked smart. That’s it, really. Smart.”
“Smart. And sassy? Any other words beginning with S?”
“Sometimes.”
“Seriously?”
“Stop. I’m running out. Sleep, silence, I like those words too.”
“Hell, no! I’ve seen what you’ve seen. We need coffee and chocolate. Old-fashioned stimulants. The German is gone, the night is young. We’re going to do what we do. We’re going to work.”
She grins again. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all going to be all right.
Then she leans forwards and kisses him on one cheek, the other cheek, and—fleetingly, impulsively—in-between. Stunned, Azi runs a fingertip across the heat her lips have left behind. He has just realized two things. His troubles have barely begun; and the point will soon come at which he can no longer lie to her.
Thirteen
The Gomorrah Gambit Page 8
