The Silicon Jungle

by Shumeet Baluja

  The man with the stained shirt, the man who Alan had invited from the NSA, spoke. “Our scientists have their hands full. We have immediate concerns that need to be addressed. You suggest we forget about those?”

  Of course, the man was right. The most rewarded scientists were those who chose to be immediately effective, and they accomplished this by helping integrate or evaluate outside technologies, at the peril of their own research. The few who had chosen an alternate path, to pursue their own longer-term research, were stowed away in a few small relatively obscure groups, and most were left to figure out for themselves how best to be relevant. These scientists lived in fear of their projects being cut because of few immediate results. As anticipated, this problem perpetuated itself—few scientists excited about their work meant that recruiting the next star scientists would be excruciatingly difficult. They were constantly losing the best and the brightest candidates to outside companies offering incentives, in terms of support, research freedom, and compensation, far beyond the offers any government agency could realistically make.

  And that was that. The next line, which Rajive would hand them on a silver platter so everyone could get along the next day, was the one all nine in the room would rally around. “Exactly, right. What we need is more. We need more scientists. We need more people to not only satisfy our current needs but also to look forward and to rebuild the expertise in-house.” What he really wanted to say was that they needed someone with the balls to reallocate people to prepare for the long term, to figure out how intelligent intelligence agencies are going to operate in five, ten, or even, gasp, twenty years. Had Rajive known about Ubatoo at the time, he might have tried using it as an example to strive toward in terms of how to balance innovation and immediate results. But at the time, Ubatoo was still young, and nobody could have known where their management techniques would take them. Instead, all the intelligence agencies emulated the large, and habitually ineffectual, consulting companies they worked with, and thus the problem of where they were today.

  By the end of his twenty-minute slot, which ended three minutes early, Rajive had said all he needed to say. At the end of the meeting, handshakes were offered, and even Alan had forgotten about the earlier bad feelings. Beyond the perfunctory pats on the back, the presentation on what was supposed to be the potential sources of leaks and the intricate deconstruction of the complex processes and information flows through the intelligence agencies were largely forgotten or more likely never really heard. Instead, what was heard was the need for more money—especially if they were to take on further reaching projects. This was not the group who would reconfigure the current plans, not the group to cut projects and make the hard decisions. No, this was the group that needed ammunition to ask for more. More of everything. And this was just the ammunition they needed.

  Though Rajive was vociferous and persistent for years after the meeting, he was not invited back. He had little success in convincing management to build almost anything internally instead of looking outward for faster, cheaper solutions. Repeated pleas to incubate technologies in-house were ignored, but not for lack of trying. Rajive became the champion for internal technology conceived, built, maintained, or, at the very least, supervised by their own people. Yet, as situations became more urgent and desperate, long-term thinking was harder to fathom. More outsourcing companies than ever, with ties to Japan, China, and Israel to name a few, had their software installed behind all of the agencies’ secure walls.

  Rajive’s advice was never followed. However, thanks to Rajive’s investigations and Alan’s maneuverings, both he and Alan received commendations for their long-term strategies combined with their recognition of current issues. It was, as their manager proudly declared, “Something that all employees should strive toward.”

  Given their project and its recognition, both Alan and Rajive were internally thought of as excellent candidates for cultivating and managing collaborations between internal and external technologists and scientists, as a first step toward reducing the hold of the large outsourcing companies. In time, through a number of department mergers, reorganizations, and renamings, Alan and Rajive were catapulted into new positions created to do exactly that. Finally, Rajive was able to initiate some of his plans, even if he had to do them himself. It was through his own perseverance that the hushed but abundant interactions with ACCL, as well as similar exchanges with dozens of other scientists, companies, and Silicon Valley techies, were born.

  -CONTROL, FOREGONE-

  August 6, 2009.

  Time: 8:04.

  Stephen’s right hand tightly clutched his keys, waiting for the clock to mark 8:10. He would go in the house then, no excuses, no more waiting. Repeatedly, he fingered the tips of each key, trying to distinguish the sharpest. With each, he pressed it savagely into his left arm until he was certain that any more pressure would draw too much blood. He had to find just the right one—the one that could plunge the deepest into someone’s neck if it came to that. He knew it was all impossible. Molly was just in a meeting. This had to be all his imagination. Just a meeting—that’s all it was. But what if it wasn’t? He would go in, and then what? What would he do? What would he do with a key?

  8:07 . . .

  Stephen’s phone chirped. It was a text message from Molly, “Out in ten. Be there.”

  Where else would he be? His hand loosened its grip and the keys dropped to the floor. But within a minute he recovered, turned on the car and made a sweeping U-turn to his original space in front of the grey house. It was 8:09, and Molly was already exiting the door. No one was with her.

  “You okay?” Stephen asked as Molly climbed in the car.

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  She smelled of smoke and spices. She reached her hand over; he let her pull his right hand away from the steering wheel. Their fingers were locked as the house became a speck in their rear-view mirror.

  “You okay?” Stephen asked again.

  “Yes.”

  He gave her a few seconds, as long as he could, then asked, “What happened? How many people were there? Were you the only one?”

  “I wasn’t the only one. There were five men in there. We just sat in a circle on the floor, on a white sheet, and listened while one of the men talked.”

  “Did he tell you about the lists?”

  “Yes, yes. He said a lot about lists. He talked all about them. He talked about the targeting, the paranoia that it’s causing, and how unfair everything we must endure is. He was intense. Very intense. I don’t know what happened to him before, but when he spoke, it was just hate.”

  “That doesn’t sound like ACCL.”

  “I don’t think it was ACCL, Stephen.”

  “Who do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know. But it didn’t sound like a warning speech as much as anger . . . rage . . . pure rage.”

  “Maybe it was one of the volunteers who works with ACCL. Sebastin mentioned there are hundreds of volunteers working for them.”

  No response from Molly, so Stephen continued. “Did anyone else say anything?”

  “No. Not at first. But the man who was speaking seemed to know the others, except for me and one other, Ali.”

  “Did anyone talk about what you should do now? Is there a way to get off these lists?”

  “I, I don’t know. They didn’t talk about that. They just asked questions. They asked whether we’ve seen any signs of being watched, or anything out of the ordinary. They asked us about how we got on the lists, what we were doing, our backgrounds, all the standard questions, was I married, how long have I been in the U.S., where I last traveled . . . the usual.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I answered the questions. What else could I do? I told them several times that I really didn’t think that anyone was watching me. They repeatedly cautioned me to be vigilant in my lookout. Then they asked us how I thought the people who made the lists should be dealt with.”

  “What d
oes that even mean? What did you say?”

  There was an extra second of silence before Molly answered, “What was I supposed to say? What kind of question is that? I made up something. I basically said what Sahim Galab would say.” She didn’t want to elaborate, but there was no escaping it. “He would say that he detested the fact anyone who was studying, even peacefully, anything to do with Islam was automatically an enemy.”

  “That’s all? Was that enough?”

  “No. I guess I went on a bit. I don’t remember it exactly. I just remember that I talked for a long time, longer than I wanted to. I probably said something about this being typical American aggression and that it should be dealt with severely. I couldn’t tell if everyone bought it, especially coming from me.”

  “Why would you say that?” Stephen pleaded.

  “I didn’t know what else to do. They wanted an answer. What else was I going to say? I think Sahim would have said that.” The adrenaline was dissipating now. She was thinking more clearly. “It’s just like what I do on my web site—I just had to do it in person this time. How else was I going to find out what they were thinking if they didn’t trust me?”

  “I don’t know, Molly. This really doesn’t sound like the ACCL at all. We have to tell Sebastin about these volunteers.”

  “I don’t think they were ACCL, Stephen, and I don’t think they were volunteers, and I don’t think they were warning me about being on a list.”

  The words hung in the air, waiting to be acknowledged. Molly quietly continued, “I think they were just trying to feel me out.”

  “For what? To join ACCL?” Stephen asked, hoping this was what Molly was referring to, but knowing full well it wasn’t.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. But I think it was to join something, just not ACCL,” Molly replied, not wanting to mention anything more specific, lest it be true.

  Stephen felt sick. What had he gotten her into? She had her suspicions. Stephen had his. And they were the same.

  “What about the other person, Ali?”

  “I don’t know. He said he wasn’t married and he talked about jobs and money a lot. That’s all I know. What he wanted to do to the people who made the lists was a lot more disturbing and explicit than I was expecting. He’s been thinking, fantasizing, about that a lot. He did refer to some of the posts he’s made on EasternDiscussions. I tried, but I couldn’t recognize him from what he said. I’m sure he used an alias. I don’t know if I’ve ever noticed him before.”

  “Did anyone there know that EasternDiscussions is your site?”

  “No, though it was brought up a couple of times. I bet that most of them have been on it. I doubt anyone had any idea I run it.”

  “Did you tell them you were there because of your research, because of EasternDiscussions?”

  “Oh, God, no. Come on, Stephen. They take their posts and messages seriously. I can’t tell them anything like that.”

  As the miles between the house and them grew, Stephen calmed down almost as much as Molly already had. “I wish we could find out more,” Stephen heard himself say, though he would never have said it aloud if she were actually still in the house.

  “I know. Me, too. But it was getting a little too intense. When they started in on Ali, I was done. I wasn’t sure where it was headed at that point.”

  “And they just let you leave?”

  “Of course they did. What else would they do? This was just our first meeting, Stephen. You know, maybe I’m reading the whole thing wrong. Maybe we’re both jumping to the same, I’m going to guess, wrong conclusions about what was going on in there.”

  “Maybe. What’s next?”

  “We’re supposed to meet again in a couple of weeks. I’ll get an e-mail later to find out the specifics of when and where.”

  “You’re not planning on going, are you?”

  “Why don’t you talk to Sebastin first, then we can figure it out from there?” Molly replied. She didn’t cherish the thought of going back either, though these were exactly the research subjects she had been waiting for.

  -FOUNDATIONS-

  August 6, 2009.

  Crashing from an adrenaline high, tired and ravenous, neither Molly nor Stephen was ready to go back to their apartment after the meeting in Milpitas. When the Ubatoo buildings appeared on the horizon, both agreed it was a good night to stop at one of Ubatoo’s cafeterias. It was past 9 p.m., and thanks to their nerves, neither had eaten anything since that morning.

  With food and loaner laptops in hand, they found an empty conference room and immediately hunkered down into their own private worlds in silence. It was almost 11:00 before Molly looked up at Stephen, only to find him staring back at her.

  Molly spoke first. “Walk outside for a while? It’s still early.”

  Molly held onto Stephen’s hand as she led him out of the building into the cloudless quiet California night. It wasn’t until they were well out of earshot of the buildings that Stephen spoke. “You know that just because you’re on this list I made, doesn’t mean you’re on any official list—or that you ever will be. And even if you were, as soon as anyone checked, they’d see they made a mistake and your name would come right off. You know that, right?”

  “I know. I also know you’re really worried about it, probably more than I am. If I am on some list, though, it’s not the end of the world. I’ve got nothing to hide. I haven’t done anything wrong. Let them watch me,” she said unconvincingly. “It’s not your fault, Stephen. I wonder if you worked on your program some more, whether my name would fall off the list—maybe it’s just a mistake? You did say it was a difficult project. Maybe we’ve worried about all this for nothing.”

  Maybe it really was nothing, maybe he was just wrong—a simple mistake. Molly’s name was on the list, which was clear proof that he must be wrong, right? How many others like Molly were on the list? And how many were on the list for good reasons? Just how wrong was he? Then again, what about Molly and what she does, who wouldn’t want to at least give her a second look? No, no, that’s wrong. It was Molly—just Molly. His mind was reeling, stumbling through a chaotic maze of connections and conclusions being drawn, torn down, and recreated again.

  Minutes passed before Molly spoke again. “What were you looking at while we were eating dinner back in the conference room?”

  “Well, you mainly,” Stephen replied, turning his head toward Molly.

  Apparently that response warranted a hand squeeze, as Molly held on tighter. “I mean before that, when you were busily working away?”

  “I was looking at Sebastin’s e-mail account. I wanted to see if he had sent out any mails about tonight’s meetings.”

  “Had he?”

  “No. I didn’t find anything. If he did send any, he didn’t send them using his Ubatoo e-mail account. I also checked the accounts of the people he had been sending e-mail to in the last few weeks. There were only eighteen people he talked with regularly, and twelve of them used Ubatoo’s e-mail. But, at least from those twelve, I couldn’t find anything interesting.”

  “You can do that? You just read everyone’s e-mails? Do you listen to their phone calls and watch what they do online, also?” Molly asked, surprised.

  “We don’t listen to phone calls.”

  “You do all the rest?”

  “Sometimes. I had to do the same thing for ACCL, too, you know.”

  “I guess I do now. I just never figured that’s what you did,” Molly said. “I wish I had that kind of information for the people that I’m studying on EasternDiscussions. Why didn’t you tell me about all of this?”

  Stephen wound up apologizing, but not for anything he had anticipated. He apologized for not sharing the resources he had. Before the walk ended, Stephen had promised to help Molly look up the e-mails and whatever other activities they could find on some of the posters on EasternDiscussions, despite Stephen’s trepidation in doing so. First, this struck Stephen as crossing some fine, albeit arbitrary, line. Second, h
e didn’t want to get Molly involved in this any more than she already was.

  In Building 11, the LCD screens were awash in pink, with Yuri and Kohan merrily talking and laughing away. When they saw Stephen and Molly walk through the doors, the laughing subsided, the LCDs were quickly turned off, and hastily Yuri stood up, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “What were you two doing?” Molly asked suspiciously. She had met Kohan many times before and Yuri once or twice. Not hearing a response, Stephen volunteered one for them, “Watching people surf for porn.”

  “You two are a class act,” Molly replied without a moment’s hesitation. She walked over to Stephen’s desk, opened her laptop, and started getting ready for her own investigations.

  Yuri held out his hand for Stephen to shake. “I accepted the offer today. I thought about what you said, Stephen. I told Atiq I would accept.”

  “Hey, congratulations!” Stephen replied, shaking Yuri’s hand. Today, with everything else on his mind, his congratulations were real.

  “Kohan has told me about the project you are working on now, Stephen,” Yuri continued. “I think it’s wonderful you’re even allowed to do this project here. I can’t believe that too many companies, or even countries, would allow your project.”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly told anyone about it yet, to tell you the truth. We’ll see what happens when they find out what I’m doing.”