Jonny spread his hands open questioningly. “That’s it? Look, I don’t care about the technical mumbo-jumbo. I just want to know what it does. And here I was, thinking you were one of Mensa’s finest.”
“I am. But this guy is some kind of meta-geek. Sergey Brin-level.”
“Funny you should say that,” Jonny said. “The guy who built this is also Russian.”
Jonny decided not to burden Shin with any further information on that front. The last thing the poor guy needed was more stress on his plate. Instead, he asked, “What about the earmuffs?”
Shin thought about it for a moment. “You said the guy said it would give you some kind of advantage in a tough situation. The ear protectors must be some kind of shield against it.”
“But from what? When I tried it, I couldn’t hear anything, even when I took them off.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily hear anything. The wavelengths could be so short that they’re outside the audible spectrum. Kind of like a dog whistle. The protectors are probably meant to shield your inner ear from the oscillation caused by the waves.” Shin thought about it. “You know they’ve got these things for crowd control now. Sonic weapons. They blast out loud noise that’s very focused, like a spotlight. Kinda like what they did at Waco. They had these things deployed around the Olympic stadiums in London last year. I’m thinking maybe this is in the same ballpark, only it’s a different technology. And what effect it’ll have exactly… I can’t say. I can tell you it’s probably not gonna be very Zen.”
“How bad can it be?”
“The cell-phone towers, like the one this guy’s jacked? They’re microwave transmitters. Same basics as in the oven. A microwave oven cooks food using microwave radiation. A cell phone can do the same if it’s turned up high enough. That’s why there’s all this research into cell phones: do they cook our brain cells and give us cancer, all that stuff. I don’t buy into it. But it all depends on the frequency of the waves-and how much power is feeding them.”
Jonny felt a stir of excitement. “You think this thing could fry someone’s brains?”
“It’s possible.”
Bon had sauntered over and started listening in while eyeing Shin disdainfully. Shin did his best to ignore the pile of muscle looming over him and kept his eyes on Jonny.
Jonny asked, “What about the laptop?”
“It’s got to be the command and control unit, but I can’t get in it. It’s password-protected. Must be rigged to go to sleep when the power drops, then comes to life when you hit the switch on the dashboard.”
Jonny said, “Try ‘Daphne.’”
“Why ‘Daphne’?”
“Just try it,” Jonny ordered.
Shin typed it in, then shook his head. “No go.”
Jonny frowned, frustrated at being so close to something he felt held big potential. Then he remembered something Sokolov had said more than once. “Try ‘Laposhka.’”
Shin’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Try it.”
“How do you spell it?”
“How the fuck should I know? Like it sounds.”
Shin went to work. He typed in a few letters, hit the Return key. Hit a wall. Then he tried again using another spelling.
The screen came alive.
His face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin. “Bil-eomeog-eul.” Goddamn. “We’re in.”
The screen showed another synthesizer, only this one was virtual. It had banks of controls and digital readouts on it, as well as several buttons that had Cyrillic writing under them.
Jonny sat patiently as Shin’s studious eyes explored the screen, the electronic deck and all the wiring, back and forth. Finally, he looked up. “I think he’s picked out several specific frequencies and saved them to these buttons, like you save FM stations on a car stereo. The first one’s preset as the default frequency. That’s the one it would have broadcast when you were going to use it. But beyond that-I can’t tell you what effect it has or what it’ll do.”
Jonny went all quiet and thoughtful for a long moment. Then he said, “Let’s go try it out.”
Shin objected, “What, now?”
“Right now.”
“We don’t know what it does.”
“Exactly,” Jonny said. “Only one way to find out.” He turned to Bon. “You up for that?”
Bon grinned from ear to ear. “You bet.”
Jonny pointed at the van. “And better slap some fresh plates on it. These ones are hot.”
Bon went off to do it. Jonny turned to Shin. “This should be fun. Come on.”
Shin hesitated. “You did hear what I said about microwaves, right?”
“Every word.”
Shin seemed bewildered.
“Let’s take it down to Brighton Beach,” Jonny said. “Try it out on some Russkies. Seeing as one of them invented it.”
Shin took a couple of steps away from the van.
“Not for me, man,” he said, his finger doing a wiper blade. “No way. I’m outta here.”
Jonny stepped closer to him. “Come on. I need you for this. Besides, what the fuck else you got to do tonight, you and that piece-of-shit PhD of yours? You’d rather go home and stare at your nice framed diploma while Nikki finds new ways to call you a loser?”
He put his arm around the gaunt man and headed him back to the van. “Come on, bro. Where’s your scientific curiosity? You, me, and the Pulgasari,” he said, pointing at Bon and using his favorite nickname for him, that of the Korean Godzilla-like monster. “Let’s go fry us some Russkie motherfuckers. What do you say?”
Shin hesitated, then nodded. Then he remembered something. “The earmuffs,” he told Jonny. “You said there were two sets?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s three of us going,” Shin pointed out. “Maybe I’d better sit this one out.”
Jonny thought about it for a moment, then grinned. “You and I can wear them. See what you can rustle up for the Pulgasari. I wouldn’t be too worried about him. It takes a lot to get through his thick skull.”
KOSCHEY SLOWED DOWN AS he drove by the restaurant on his first recon pass, his eyes surveying the place’s entrance and its immediate surroundings and picking out points of interest with the speed and precision of the best multipoint autofocus software.
There was a gaggle of people outside the Green Dragon’s double doors, smoking and chatting away in small cliques. The Asian community, he knew, were heavy smokers, and all the way there, he’d noticed huddles of smokers outside bars and restaurants. He spotted an armed bouncer closer to the doors, standing alone, staring down the sidewalk at nothing in particular. He was wearing a black T-shirt under a sleeveless black leather vest that didn’t do a great job of hiding the shiny grip or holster strap that was peeking out from underneath it. Koschey also spotted a man in a parked car two spots away from the restaurant’s entrance, clearly keeping an eye on the place. A cop or a federal agent, no doubt. Koschey assumed it would be the same out back, at the service entrance.
He didn’t think he needed a second pass.
He drove the Yukon around, selected a strategic place to leave his car, and pulled in. Then he got out, walked around the block, and headed toward the restaurant, slowing his pace, timing his approach.
He’d adopted yet another look for the occasion, a smooth, metrosexual combo of gelled-back hair, jeans, charcoal-gray turtleneck, beige corduroy jacket, and trendy black-rimmed glasses. He could have been an architect or a graphic designer, except that an architect or a graphic designer wouldn’t have an unsheathed fixed-blade boot knife balanced up his sleeve.