The sound of the Klaxon had awakened Peter, who sat up on the couch and was dismayed to see that last night hadn’t just been a bad dream.
Zula got up and went to the bathroom and peed. She was debating whether she ought to look in the mirror or just shield her eyes from the sight of herself. She heard Peter cursing about something. She decided not to look in the mirror. All her stuff was in the shoulder bag anyway.
She emerged from the bathroom to find Wallace sitting rigidly in his chair, quite pale, mostly just listening, almost as if the phone had been shoved up his arse. Peter was pounding away furiously on his laptop. The T’Rain game had vanished from the screen of the computer that Wallace had been using and from Zula’s as well. In its place was a message letting them know that their Internet connection had been lost.
She smelled cigarette smoke.
No one was smoking.
“Tigmaster’s down too,” Peter said, “and all the other Wi-Fi networks that I can reach from here are password protected.”
“Who’s smoking?” she asked.
“Yes, sir,” Wallace finally said into his phone. “I’m doing it now. I’m doing it now. No. No, sir. Only three of us.”
He had gotten to his feet and was lurching toward Peter and Zula. He came very close, as if he couldn’t see them and was about to walk right through them. Then he stopped himself awkwardly. He took the phone away from his head long enough for them to hear shouting coming from its earpiece. Then he put it briefly to his head again. “I’m doing it now. I’m putting you on speakerphone now, sir.”
He pressed a button on the telephone and then laid it on his outstretched palm.
“Good morning!” said a voice. “Ivanov speaking.” He was somewhere noisy: behind his voice was a whining roar. The pitch changed. He was calling from an airplane. A jet. “Ah, I see you now!”
“You … see us, sir?” Wallace asked.
“Your buildink. The buildink of Peter. Out window. Just like in Google Maps.”
Silence.
“I am flyink over you now!” Ivanov shouted, amused, rather than annoyed, at their slowness.
A plane flew low over the building. Planes flew low over the building all the time. They were on the landing path for Boeing Field.
“Soon I will be there for discussion of problem,” Ivanov continued. “Until then, you stay on line. Do not break connection. I have associates on street around your place.”
Ivanov said this as if the associates were there as a favor, to be at their service. Peter edged toward a window, looked down, focused on something, and got a stricken look.
Meanwhile another voice was speaking in Russian to Ivanov. Someone on the plane.
“Fuck!” Wallace mouthed, and turned his head away as if the phone were burning his eyes with arc light.
“What?” Zula asked.
“I have correction,” said Ivanov. “Associates are inside buildink. Not just in streets around. Very hard workers — enterprising. Wi-Fi is cut. Phone is cut. Stay calm. We are landink now. Be there in a few minutes.”
“Who the fuck is this person on the phone!?” Peter finally shouted.
“Mr. Ivanov and, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Sokolov,” said Wallace.
“Yes, Sokolov is with me!” said Ivanov. “You have good hearink.”
“Flying over the building — from where?” Peter demanded.
“Toronto,” Wallace said.
“How — what — ? — !”
“I gather,” Wallace said, “that while we were playing T’Rain, Mr. Ivanov chartered a flight from Toronto to Boeing Field.”
Peter stared out the window, watched a corporate jet — Ivanov’s? — landing.
“Google Maps? He knows my name?”
“Yes, Peter!” said Ivanov on the speakerphone.
“You might recall,” said Wallace, “that when I arrived, the first thing I did was to send an email message using the Tigmaster access point.”
“You lied to me, Wallace!” said Ivanov.
“I lied to Mr. Ivanov,” Wallace confirmed. “I told him that I was delayed in south-central British Columbia by car trouble and that I would email him the file of credit card numbers in a few hours.”
“Csongor was too smart for you!” Ivanov said.
“What the fuck is CHONGOR?” Peter asked.
“Who. Not what. A hacker who handles our affairs. My email message to Mr. Ivanov passed through Csongor’s servers. He noticed that the originating IP address was not, in fact, in British Columbia.”
“Csongor traced the message to this building by looking up the IP address,” Peter said in a dull voice.
Thunking noises from the phone. “We are in car,” said Ivanov, as if this would be a comfort to them.
“How can they already be in a fucking car?!” Peter asked.
“That’s how it is when you travel by private jet.”
“Don’t they have to go through customs?”
“They would have done that in Toronto.”
Peter made up his mind about something, strode across the loft, and pulled a hanging cloth aside to reveal a gun safe standing against the wall. He began to punch a number into its keypad.
“Oh holy shit,” Zula said.
Wallace hit the mute button on his phone. “What is Peter doing?”
“Getting his new toy,” Zula said.
“His snowboard?”
“Assault rifle.”
“I have lost connection to Wallace!” Ivanov said. “Wallace? WALLACE!”
“Peter? PETER!” Wallace shouted.
“Who is there?” Ivanov wanted to know. “I hear female voice sayink holy shit.” Then he switched to Russian.
Peter had got the safe open, revealing the assault rifle in question: the only thing he owned on which he had spent more time shopping than the snowboard. It had every kind of cool dingus hanging off it that money could buy: laser sight, folding bipod, and stuff of which Zula did not know the name.
Wallace said, “Peter. The gun. In other circumstances, maybe. These guys here, down on the street? You might have a chance. Local guys. Nobodies. But.” He waved the phone around. “He’s brought Sokolov with him.” As if this were totally conclusive.
“Who the fuck is Sokolov?” Peter wanted to know.
“A bad person to get into a gunfight with. Close the safe. Take it easy.”
Peter hesitated. On the speakerphone, Ivanov had escalated to shouting in Russian.
“I’m dead,” Wallace said. “I’m a dead man, Peter. You and Zula might live through this. If you close that safe.”
Peter seemingly couldn’t move.
Zula walked over to him. Her intention, in doing so, was to close the safe before anything crazy happened. But when she got there, she found herself taking a good long look at the assault rifle.
She knew how to use it better than Peter did.
On the speakerphone, the one called Sokolov began to speak in Russian. In contrast to Ivanov, he had all the emotional range of an air traffic controller.
“Zula?” Wallace asked, in a quiet voice.
Down in the bay, the voice of Sokolov was coming out of someone’s phone. Feet began to pound up the steps.
“Clips,” Peter said. “I don’t have any clips loaded. Just loose cartridges. Remember?”
Peter, that is not a home defense weapon, she had told him when he’d bought himself the gun for Christmas. If you fire that thing at a burglar, it’s going to kill some random person half a mile away.