“Not likely. Who is he? The editor? What’s his name?”
“I was already on that, see? As the Indian reporter, I got the guy’s office number at his bureau. But when I called, it turned out he never worked there. They don’t know him. It’s a dead end, Lurker. It’s impossible to find him. He doesn’t exist. And the story can’t be picked up off the wire until it comes out from the edits, see?”
“The IP.”
“Oy?”
“Am I stuttering? The fucking IP address. If the cunt suppressing my story is sporting a false identity, then I’ll track him down.”
“Oh my god. Right. I’ll e-mail it to you now. I sure feel sorry for this bloke when you get hold of him, Lurker. You’re going to take him out. You’re the best, mate. There’s no way—”
“Arrtrad?”
“Yes, Lurker?”
“Don’t you ever again tell me that something is impossible. Ever. Again.”
“No worries, mate. You know I didn’t mean to say—”
“I’ll catch you in the funny pages, mate.”
Click.
The teenager dials a number from memory.
The phone rings once. A young man answers.
“MI5, Security Service. How may I direct your call?”
The teenager speaks in the clipped, self-assured voice of an older man who has made similar calls hundreds of times. “Forensic computing division, please.”
“Of course.”
Clicking, then a professional voice answers. “Forensic computing.”
“Good morning. This is Intelligence Officer Anthony Wilcox. Verification code eight, three, eight, eight, five, seven, four.”
“Authorized, Officer Wilcox. What can I do for you today?”
“Just a simple IP lookup. Numbers are as follows: one twenty-eight, two, fifty-one, one eighty-three.”
“One moment, please.”
About thirty seconds pass.
“Right. Officer Wilcox?”
“Yes?”
“That belongs to a computer in the United States. Some sort of research facility. Actually, that didn’t come easy. There was quite a lot of obfuscation involved. The address bounces globally from a half dozen other places before landing back there. Our machines were only able to track it down because it exhibits a pattern of behavior.”
“What’s that?”
“The person at that address has been editing news articles. Hundreds of them over the past three months.”
“Really? And who is at that address?”
“A scientist. His offices are at Lake Novus Research Laboratories in Washington State. Let me just look it up for you. Right. His name is Dr. Nicholas Wasserman.”
“Wasserman, eh? Thanks very much.”
“Cheers.”
“Catch you in the funny pages.”
Click.
The teenager leans forward, his face inches from the webcam. As he pecks at the keyboard, the clusters of acne spreading fractally across his face come into focus. He smiles, teeth yellow in the light of the computer monitor.
“I’ve got you now, Nicky,” he says to no one in particular.
Lurker has already dialed the phone with one thumb, not looking. The chair squeaks again as he lies back, grinning.
The phone on the other end rings.
And rings. And rings. Finally, someone picks up.
“Lake Novus Laboratories.”
The teenager clears his throat. He speaks in a slow Southern accent: “Nicholas Wasserman, please.”
There is a pause before the American woman responds. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Wasserman passed away.”
“Oh? When?”
“More than six months ago.”
“Who’s been using his office?”
“No one, sir. His project’s been mothballed.”
Click.
The teenager stares blankly at the phone in his hand, his face gone pale. After a few seconds, he tosses the phone onto the computer desk as if it were poisonous. He rests his head in his hands and mutters, “Tricky bastard. Got some moves, do you?”
Just then, the cell phone rings.
The teenager watches it, frowning. The phone rings again, shrilly, vibrating like an angry hornet. The teenager stands up and considers his next move, then turns his back on the phone. Wordlessly, he snatches a gray hoodie from the floor, throws it on, and walks out.
A closed-caption television image. Black-and-white. In the bottom left corner, the caption reads: Camera Control. New Cross.
Looking down on sidewalks bustling with people. In the bottom of the screen, a familiar-looking shaved head appears. The teenager walks up the street, fists stuffed in his pockets. He stops on the corner and looks around furtively. A pay phone a few feet away from him rings. It rings again. The teenager gapes at the phone as people pass him by. Then he turns and ducks into a convenience store.
The television image flips channels to a security camera inside the store. The teenager grabs a soda and sets it on the counter. The store worker reaches for it but is interrupted by his cell phone ringing. With a conciliatory smile, the worker holds up one finger and answers the phone.
“Mum?” asks the store worker, then pauses. “No, I dunno anybody named Lurker.”
The teenager turns and leaves.
Outside, the security camera pans over and zooms in on the teenager with the shaved head. He looks directly into its lens with expressionless gray eyes. Then, he throws his hoodie over his face and leans back against the spray-painted roller door of a closed shop. Arms crossed and head down, he watches: people around him, cars, and the cameras that are perched everywhere.
A tall woman in high heels clip-clops past at top speed. The teenager visibly flinches when pop music blasts from her purse. She stops and digs the phone out. As she raises the phone to her ear, another tune blares from a businessman passing by. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the phone. He looks at the number and seems to recognize it.
Then, another person’s phone rings. And another.
Up and down the block, a chorus of cell phones ring, play music, and vibrate with dozens of simultaneous calls. People stop in the street, smiling in wonder at one another as the cacophony of ringing fills the air.
“Hello?” ask a dozen different people.
The teenager stands frozen, shrinking inside his hoodie. The tall woman waves one hand in the air. “Excuse me,” she calls. “Is anyone here named Lurker?”
The teenager wrenches himself away from the wall and hurries down the sidewalk. Cell phones bray all around him, in pockets, purses, and bags. Surveillance cameras follow his every move, recording as he shoves past bewildered pedestrians. Panting, he rounds a corner, throws open a door, and disappears inside his own house.
Again, the webcam view of a cluttered bedroom. The overweight teenage boy paces back and forth, flexing and unflexing his hands. He mutters one word again and again. The word is “impossible.”
On the desk, his cell phone rings again and again. The teenager stops and simply stares at the piece of vibrating plastic. After a deep breath, he picks up the phone. He lifts it slowly, as if it might explode.
With his thumb, the teenager answers the phone. “Hello?” he asks, in a very small voice.
The voice that responds sounds like a little boy’s, but something is wrong. The intonation is strangely lilting. Each word is bitten off, individual from the others. To the teenager’s attuned ears, these small oddities are magnified.
Perhaps this is why he shivers when he hears it speak. Because he, of all people, knows for certain that the voice on the other end of the line does not belong to a human being.