Snow Storm

22

Gordon went to work straight away. The lawyer had been despatched to get on with his end of things, though it had to be noted, he didn’t look too confident in it.

He talked a good fight. Gordon would concede that. But “John Smith”? What kind of alias was that? Not much of a one for thinking on his feet, this stuffed suit, going on that basis. Setting that aside, it had been fun being Jackie Chan, even if he didn’t have the fight skills or the legendary tuxedo. It would be hard to find one to fit really if he was totally honest with himself, which with regard to things like his weight, personal appearance or personal hygiene, he seldom was.

Denial was indeed, not just a river in Egypt. In Gordon’s case it was an all-encompassing life style choice. Things could get on top of you. That was just a fact of life. It was something he’d learned from his mother. He’d stopped going to see her after a while; after the madness had fully kicked in.

Keeping his head down was key. He’d done his research on the matter, after visiting various security conferences, having hacked their systems and gained entry as a delegate. The irony appealed to him and far outweighed his distaste at having to be in a room with other people.

It was only when the hits got big that your head was effectively above the parapet and had a price on it, though as it happened that was what had made him bigger in the first place, performing a bit of an audacious hack on a Russian database he thought might have evidence of the moon landings being faked. It seemed a long time ago now. Other hackers had tried similar things of course, usually in the US, and been well and truly busted. Gordon thought he would have a go at Russian government files, figuring that they would probably have an idea of what was going on with their main rivals during the cold war and that their files might not be as secure as those of the CIA or NASA, that he’d be less likely to be caught and, if caught, less likely to be deported, the UK government being less inclined to suck up to the Russians. The thought that it would be a lot more hard core if he was deported did not escape him though. Another factor was his ability to speak and more importantly read Russian.

In the event, he’d managed to turf up nothing. Or so he’d thought at the time.

Late one night, the following November, there had been a knock at the door. That was how he’d come to know Oleg Karpov. It would be the first and last time they would meet at his flat.

The Lithuanian had explained very calmly in heavily accented English that he was well aware Gordon had been keen to access the databases concerned. He did look like a spy, not that Gordon had seen any outside the realms of his extensive pirated film collection but this must be what they looked like he assured himself; the kind of person you wouldn’t notice in the passing. Other than the man’s undoubted weight issues there was nothing to mark him out, and this probably helped in the sense that people tended to underestimate the obese, giving him the edge in terms of surprise if need be.

Gordon’s mind ran riot, imagining worse case scenarios involving Polonium sandwiches and Siberian salt mines. Karpov was “connected to” the security services he said and threw Gordon by saying he admired his work, a compliment he could not take lightly as he wrestled to stay in control of his bowels and retain some façade of composure. He felt like a duck in the water; all calm and tranquillity on the surface as the feet manically paddled to keep everything in order.

He’d always known his reach would exceed his grasp one day but nonetheless he’d kept on pushing through. It was an admirable quality, he’d told himself. But how many times had he been lectured on the dangers of hubris without it sinking in to any degree?

When Karpov made him an offer, logic dictated he was unable to refuse. The Lithuanian had, he explained, the contacts and knowledge concerning the use of certain facilities that might be useful to “a young man starting out in the information technology field.”

At first he wondered what the old guy was on about. What did he see as the point to helping him out? What was Karpov to gain from this? And more importantly what did this guy know about computer systems? Karpov must have sensed the doubt in the younger man and humoured him by explaining in more depth. This would also be the first and last time this happened.

It seemed Karpov had the contacts and wherewithal to arrange access to certain networks inside Mother Russia and the former Soviet Union at large; bot nets that could be used to do one’s bidding from the safety afforded by what was left of the iron curtain. These were Gordon’s to do with as he pleased, within reason, in exchange for the odd “favour” now and again and a certain cut, fifty percent it would transpire, of Gordon’s take.

“Cut of what?” his younger more naive self had asked.

“Whatever you like.” Karpov had replied. “We in our organisation pride ourselves on encouraging creativity. Think about it. If you have the power to be protected from view, what would you do? Think perhaps, of being the invisible man for the day. You have an entire network of other people’s computers at your disposal without even their knowledge of such a thing. Thousands of them and no chance of being caught. You can crash web-sites. You can go more or less undetected wherever you like with impunity and you have a degree of protection from a country who, let’s face it, are not known for their handing over of those who breach certain security networks or their willingness to divulge information to banks, security agencies or, really anybody in the west. What do you do? Your only limit is your imagination. As I say, we will, of course call in certain favours, as will Mother Russia. Naturally nothing too insidious. I doubt you’d mind that. You are not, from what my information suggests, given to strong convictions either moral or political.

Gordon shook his head begrudgingly as he felt a chill in the room.

The old man smiled. Knowing he’d got his point across and clearly knowing his new associate was aware they owned him now, he attempted to lighten the mood, accentuate the positive. “So what’s it going to be?” he asked. “You’re the invisible man. What do you do?”

“Probably spy on girls,” Gordon replied, only semi-consciously.

Karpov laughed. “Girls can be provided,” he boomed with a dismissive swoosh of the hand, “if that sweetens the deal for you.”

And that had been how Gordon managed to not only evade dying from polonium poisoning, but also not die a virgin.

This particular favour was nothing to him. As he set to work, he wondered who would take over the running of the girls Oleg despatched on a regular basis.

They were the kind of human contact he could not do without.