was unimportant, a minor place that produced little of great consequence. At least a quarter of the city’s low-rise concrete office buildings were dark and empty. There wasn’t a single warehouse that wasn’t partially covered in rust.
Cloud didn’t like or dislike Elektrostal. For him, the dirty city, its shabby, woebegone people, its lousy restaurants, its crappy weather, and its foul mood were all irrelevant. Elektrostal was the entry into the world he actually lived in. The way a scientist might live deep within the infrastructure of a cell, Cloud lived within the digital pathways of the Internet.
Inside, Cloud climbed the stairs. The first two floors sat dark, empty, and unused. The third floor was dimly lit. Glancing through the fire door, Cloud could see that fully half the floor was taken up by high-powered computer servers, fifty-eight in total, enterprise-class, Chinese-made Huawei servers, all in steel cases that could be wheeled and repositioned. They’d been stripped and sanitized of all digital identifiers that might enable remote tracing or real-time location discovery. A half dozen large industrial air conditioners were kept on around the clock, no matter the time, weather, or season, to moderate the heat generated by the servers. Even in the dead of winter, the temperature in the room never fell below eighty degrees.
Cloud arrived at the fourth floor. The space was cavernous, open, brightly lit, and immaculate. All interior walls had been removed. At the center of the room, a series of tables were set up in a large U shape. On top of the tables sat computer screens, long lines of them, and before the screens were chairs. There were thirty-six separate computer screens in all.
Every square inch of the floor, walls, windows, and ceiling was covered in a thin layer of copper mesh, epoxied like wallpaper and designed to prevent eavesdropping or other forms of electronic signals capture from outside the building.
Sascha looked up at him as he came inside, barely registering his entrance.
“Hello, Cloud.”
“What about Malnikov?” asked Cloud. “Has he been contacted by the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“Not that we’re aware of.”
“‘ Not that we’re aware of ’?” snapped Cloud rhetorically, annoyance in his voice. “What does that mean? I thought we are intercepting every phone call and electronic communications Alexei Malnikov makes.”
“My only point, Cloud,” said Sascha sheepishly, holding up his hands, “is that we technically wouldn’t be aware if someone walked up to him and started talking.”
“We just acquired a nuclear bomb,” said Cloud. “Don’t be so fucking literal. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cloud nodded.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You always were the boy who cried wolf, weren’t you? I should’ve left you at Saint Anselm.”
Cloud walked to Sascha at the far end of the room and stood next to his chair. He glanced at one of the screens in front of him. It showed an online chess game.
Cloud did a double take.
“You took one of my rooks,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You’re distracted,” said Sascha. “Otherwise I know you would not allow me to get within a hundred miles of your rook, Pyotr.”
Cloud stared at the screen.
* * *
Sascha was one of the few people in the world who had known him back before Cloud existed, when he was Pyotr Vargarin, little Pyotr, son of the famous scientist Anuslav Vargarin, who’d killed himself and his wife in a motorboat for reasons no one knew, leaving Pyotr an orphan.
They met at the only home he could remember, a dank, dreadful place in Sevastopol called Saint Anselm by the Sea, the city’s only orphanage, a cruel and horrible place, run by an alcoholic priest named Father Klimsov.
“Pyotr,” said Cloud. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”
A memory flashed.
“Pyotr, please come in,” Father Klimsov said one day.
It was
Cloud didn’t like or dislike Elektrostal. For him, the dirty city, its shabby, woebegone people, its lousy restaurants, its crappy weather, and its foul mood were all irrelevant. Elektrostal was the entry into the world he actually lived in. The way a scientist might live deep within the infrastructure of a cell, Cloud lived within the digital pathways of the Internet.
Inside, Cloud climbed the stairs. The first two floors sat dark, empty, and unused. The third floor was dimly lit. Glancing through the fire door, Cloud could see that fully half the floor was taken up by high-powered computer servers, fifty-eight in total, enterprise-class, Chinese-made Huawei servers, all in steel cases that could be wheeled and repositioned. They’d been stripped and sanitized of all digital identifiers that might enable remote tracing or real-time location discovery. A half dozen large industrial air conditioners were kept on around the clock, no matter the time, weather, or season, to moderate the heat generated by the servers. Even in the dead of winter, the temperature in the room never fell below eighty degrees.
Cloud arrived at the fourth floor. The space was cavernous, open, brightly lit, and immaculate. All interior walls had been removed. At the center of the room, a series of tables were set up in a large U shape. On top of the tables sat computer screens, long lines of them, and before the screens were chairs. There were thirty-six separate computer screens in all.
Every square inch of the floor, walls, windows, and ceiling was covered in a thin layer of copper mesh, epoxied like wallpaper and designed to prevent eavesdropping or other forms of electronic signals capture from outside the building.
Sascha looked up at him as he came inside, barely registering his entrance.
“Hello, Cloud.”
“What about Malnikov?” asked Cloud. “Has he been contacted by the Central Intelligence Agency?”
“Not that we’re aware of.”
“‘ Not that we’re aware of ’?” snapped Cloud rhetorically, annoyance in his voice. “What does that mean? I thought we are intercepting every phone call and electronic communications Alexei Malnikov makes.”
“My only point, Cloud,” said Sascha sheepishly, holding up his hands, “is that we technically wouldn’t be aware if someone walked up to him and started talking.”
“We just acquired a nuclear bomb,” said Cloud. “Don’t be so fucking literal. You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cloud nodded.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You always were the boy who cried wolf, weren’t you? I should’ve left you at Saint Anselm.”
Cloud walked to Sascha at the far end of the room and stood next to his chair. He glanced at one of the screens in front of him. It showed an online chess game.
Cloud did a double take.
“You took one of my rooks,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You’re distracted,” said Sascha. “Otherwise I know you would not allow me to get within a hundred miles of your rook, Pyotr.”
Cloud stared at the screen.
* * *
Sascha was one of the few people in the world who had known him back before Cloud existed, when he was Pyotr Vargarin, little Pyotr, son of the famous scientist Anuslav Vargarin, who’d killed himself and his wife in a motorboat for reasons no one knew, leaving Pyotr an orphan.
They met at the only home he could remember, a dank, dreadful place in Sevastopol called Saint Anselm by the Sea, the city’s only orphanage, a cruel and horrible place, run by an alcoholic priest named Father Klimsov.
“Pyotr,” said Cloud. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”
A memory flashed.
“Pyotr, please come in,” Father Klimsov said one day.
It was
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