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of his hand and walked away with a
confident stride. Maybe his mission had failed, but he felt an incredible rush
of energy at having moved from theory to action.

Chapter four
     
    Isaac’s
legs carried him home without any thought. He wanted to run, not walk and get
back to his computer as soon as possible. He didn’t really know what had
happened, but his head was absolutely clear and working at maximum capacity.
    It
was time to search among the ones who had nothing to lose, those who attacked
COMA openly. He had to look at all their social networks with a maximal focus
on the marginal types. To hell with any society celebrities. To hell with the
rich ones. First he had to create the backbone.
    Isaac
carried on working and analyzing until morning. It appeared that the most
suitable candidate was the marginal Bikie after all with his obvious contempt
for COMA. Some posts reeked of disillusionment and rage, everything that Isaac
himself felt yesterday. A conversation with him would go differently for sure.
One of Bikie’s strong points was his profession as a systems administrator and
programmer. And the candidate worked as a barman, had no money, all the makings
of an anarchist, and on top of that was as strong as an ox. If things worked
out with him, physical security would come as part the deal. It wouldn’t take
much to find Bikie, he definitely didn’t have a concierge for correspondence
and so tracking him down would be easy.
    Thinking
about physical protection, Isaac spotted another candidate, a husky young
athletically built, black guy... With such high creativity rating, what could
have attracted him to sport, Isaac wondered. If you had enough natural talent
both for sport and for using your brain, then why not? Abdul Djebali, age
twenty-three, a member of the national track and field team. A French father
and Algerian mother. A Muslim. Training, training, more training. “Aha, I know
that gym,” Isaac exclaimed, examining his Instagram. “That’s where I’ll find
him.”
    Isaac
went to bed, but tossed and turned restlessly even though it was already past
sunrise. He fell asleep around eight, maybe later, and then woke up at least
twice, the clock showing 8.40 and 9.30. He had to force himself to sleep a bit
longer: He had two candidates for today, and the second one worked until three
in the morning. Isaac closed the curtains tightly, plunging the room in total
darkness and fell sound sleep.
    The
administrator at the gym said that the afternoon training would finish at four
o’clock. Isaac went to grab a pizza and came back a little earlier than that.
When he spotted Abdul, he introduced himself and asked what he was doing after
the gym. They agreed to sit and talk in a café in the port at six. The
sportsman turned out to be a very amiable guy. That was the pattern – the less
money people had, the more accessible they were.
    With
nothing else to do, Isaac went straight to the café. He took a table on
the terrace and examined the yachts. Some were empty; some had jolly groups
sitting on them, with music playing. Sailing into Monaco was always an event
and the people were in an excellent mood.
    Around
five, a huge white ocean liner with an aqua-park on its upper deck sailed into
the port. “Fortune Transatlantic «was printed on its side in large letters
Probably from America. The liner took about twenty minutes to dock, and then
tourists started pouring out. God, there were so many, like a huge anthill!
Cameras held at the ready, lots of them in identical baseball caps, the people
just kept coming out, on and on. Isaac heard their shouts of enthusiasm. “I
live here,” thought Isaac, “but I don’t see the beauty of this place. My eyes
stopped registering it ages ago; I can’t even remember the last time I looked
at the sea. It’s probably been a year, maybe more, since I even went swimming.
That’s how we live, not noticing anything, submerged in our day-to-day cares,
our work. But people are