Impermanent Universe

by Vern Buzarde

  A gaggle of working girls outside his window chanted aggressive insults in unison at passersby in several languages. They laughed, spat, and giggled at unsuspecting innocents who happened to wander over the invisible line of delineation into their self-proclaimed turf. At least two in the group had voices way too low for women. Both repeatedly flipped their skirts provocatively at potential customers, daring them to acknowledge anything out of place, all to the gleeful approval of the other girls.

  He opened the used laptop, purchased an hour earlier for the equivalent of twenty US dollars from a street vendor with a mobile cart who also offered a wide array of bootleg burner cell phones, prepaid credit cards, and DVDs of movies not scheduled for release for months. The laptop’s scarred exterior casing was tattooed with stickers, the initials M.K. centered in a red heart floating on a cloud. Worn pictures of Asian rock stars and video game characters filled the remaining surfaces.

  Milo browsed the lines of available Wi-Fi signals until he saw burunggaruda52. He looked at the tiny slip of paper on the table and typed “katasandi1.” He checked the time—6:45 p.m. The fake passport he had used for the trip was still in his front pants pocket, and he considered hiding it before leaving for the meeting.

  Looking around the room, he noticed a large crack in the upper corner of the wall where it met the ceiling. He stood on the cot and estimated he could just reach it. As he retrieved the passport, Milo suddenly noticed a slight glow emanating from the jagged hole. Two eyes. A whiskery nose. A giant rat bared its yellow teeth, and Milo fell backward off the bed. Plaster dust drifted onto the pillow below, followed by the sound of urgent scratching of claws on concrete.

  Milo shook his head, returned to the laptop, and typed a series of passwords. When the site opened, he inserted a flash drive, entered the amount of ten million dollars, and hit download. After a few seconds, he logged off, removed the flash drive, and left.

  He crossed the street to a bar called the Tankard and looked for his contact. Smoke was thick and music blasted from the DJ’s speakers, the over-amped bass vibrating the tables and walls. The crowd was a mix of locals and expatriates, some sitting at tables, others hunched over the bar. Girls of all ages and sizes were strategically positioned to encourage frequent drink orders, particularly by the expats. A tall Indonesian man standing at the corner of the bar wearing a military uniform, including a green beret, lifted his cigarette slightly, then turned away. Milo joined him at the bar.

  Neither looked at the other.

  “You should order a drink,” the man said.

  Milo waved at the bartender. “Beer, please. Bintang.”

  “I assume you have the fee,” the man said.

  “As we agreed. In bitcoin.”

  “Wait here.” The man walked to the back of the bar and entered a door.

  Milo wrapped his hand around the beer but was not inclined to drink. He caught the scent of formaldehyde. Ten minutes later, his contact returned and said, “Follow me.”

  They walked through the door in the back, then passed through a small steamy kitchen with a sticky concrete floor. The scents of fried rice, boiling noodles, grilling beef, and chicken sate on small skewers, mixed with the cigarette smoke billowing from the two cooks, seemed to suck the air from the room. Both cooks were soaked with sweat. A small older toothless woman gently washed mugs and glasses in a large plastic tub, setting them on a tray, which a teenage boy hoisted above his head and delivered to the bar.

  They exited the kitchen into a narrow alley where an ancient black Mercedes in mint condition waited, and got in the back seat. Milo didn’t bother to ask where they were going. It didn’t matter. The car lurched and jolted through the snarled traffic, the cars coming so close to one another that collisions seemed inevitable. Foggy, damp air poured out of the old air-conditioning system, misting everything like morning dew. As they passed certain sections, traffic came to a standstill, and a crowd of children and elderly street people approached, hungry for any stipend offered. Milo had seen it all too many times. Too many humans chasing too few resources. All doomed the day their mothers became pregnant.

  An hour later, they finally entered what appeared to be a large residential section, although it was difficult to tell as each house was surrounded by eight-foot-tall bamboo fences, and most had a guard in front. The whole thing felt like a large maze. After several turns, they pulled up to an iron gate. The military man had a conversation with the guard, who called him Jawad, and the gate opened. They drove up a winding driveway for thirty yards, to the front of a large stucco house with a clay tile roof. The doors of the Mercedes were opened from the outside by two armed guards, also dressed in uniforms.

  Through the foyer and down a hall displaying a collection of small framed paintings and photographs, they came to a large well-appointed room with two-story windows overlooking a huge lit pool. A young man dressed in white asked, “May I offer you something to drink? A whiskey, or tea, perhaps?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “General Budiarto will be here momentarily,” Jawad said. With that, he exited, leaving Milo alone.

  He scanned the room, absorbing the layout of the place. The general had good taste, Milo thought. Either that or someone he hired did. Elegant contemporary chandeliers hung from fifteen-foot teak ceilings. A red antique barber’s chair sat in an arrangement with several clean-lined oxblood leather sofas. A blue ping-pong table in the back of the room stood next to an elegant bar. Photographs of a plump girl with a pretty face graced several walls. One was taken outside Buckingham Palace, the girl sticking out her tongue at a stoic guard wearing a red tunic and furry bear hat.

  Three oversized televisions were strategically located, offering a clear view from anywhere in the room. Each was tuned to a different international news station, the volumes muted and closed captioning on. The house was a nice mix of new and old Asia, something unexpected.

  Budiarto came in wearing khaki shorts, leather sandals, and a batik shirt. He looked thinner and healthier than his military photograph online. He smiled and said in perfect English, “Welcome, Mr. Ackerman. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. Unfortunately, due to the time difference with your country, I find myself working more at night than in the day.” He offered his hand, and they shook.

  “No, General, thank you for taking time to meet with me. I understand how busy you are.”

  “Well, I do have to admit, I was curious. Your reputation, you see. It’s a bit hard to understand. How does someone like you, someone who obtained so much wealth at such a young age, simply turn his back on the world that made him rich and disappear? Perhaps a traumatic event? A psychological problem?”

  Milo smiled, unbothered by the general’s lack of tact. “No. I had a moment of clarity. I lost faith in what we were doing to the human race. The technological beast my peers and I were creating grew too powerful too quickly. I don’t want to contribute to that anymore.”

  The general studied Milo. “And when you say technology, just what do you mean? Like Facebook? Twitter? Or more like cellular phones and computers?”

  “General, I’m sure you have better things to do than to listen to an eccentric ex-Silicon Valley type expound on the evils of what most perceive to be progress. Maybe we should get on with the business at hand. I don’t want to waste your valuable time.”

  “No, no, quite the contrary. I find it fascinating. I’ve even read that you consider yourself…” He seemed to be searching for the right words, then he asked Jawad, who was just reentering the room, something in Bahasa.

  “Neo-Luddite,” Jawad responded.

  “Yes,” Budiarto said. “Neo-Luddite. I’m curious Mr. Ackerman, would this term be applicable to you? An accurate description?”

  “The term Luddite came from Ned Ludd, someone who probably didn’t even exist. If he did, my guess is he would be fairly disappointed to be associated with what the
term has come to mean. No, I’m afraid my views would be considered much more radical than that.”

  The general smiled, poured a scotch, and lit a clove cigarette. The scent instantly overwhelmed the room. “I must admit I have a fascination with you and your contemporaries. All that power and influence before your balls had even properly matured. Even now, no real life experience. Basically still little boys. Maybe never to understand real manhood. There is no other time in the history of the human race where people such as you and your peers would be allowed such levels of power. Power reserved only for those capable of taking it. Holding it. Nature would not allow such a thing.”

  Milo wondered how many times in his life an adversary had underestimated him. Rabbits. Or maybe in this case, a rat. “I do like to think my testicles have developed to their full potential. But you may be right. I can’t argue that it’s outside the purview of nature.”

  The general smirked condescendingly, his opinion of the well-known American billionaire clear. “May I at least ask what your business is with this man? As you know, he is in great demand.”

  “I need him. Iko Sukarno has a special kind of expertise. His skill set is difficult to duplicate. Virtually impossible.”

  “Well, this I do know. It required a substantial commitment of time and money to kidnap him from the Russians. Not to mention the two men who died in the effort.”

  “I understand. That’s why I agreed to the asking price of ten million. Per our agreement.”

  “And Jawad tells me you brought the money. In bitcoin.”

  “Yes.” Milo retrieved the flash drive and held it up.

  “Do you mind if I verify?”

  “Of course not.”

  Budiarto downed the scotch, then opened a laptop sitting on the bar and plugged in the flash drive. He opened the file and smiled.

  “But it can’t be transferred without the encryption code,” Milo said.

  The general’s smile remained, but his eyes narrowed. “Encryption code. That’s smart.”

  Milo knew Budiarto didn’t get where he was by adhering to the tenets of his Muslim upbringing. Wheels were turning inside his head. Options. Ways to maximize his return. He had surely already thought it through. But the file was encrypted.

  “You took a big risk coming here tonight, Mr. Ackerman. Showing up in person. If you want to know the truth, I’d say it was quite reckless.”

  “I’m not much of a delegator. That’s never been my way. I’m very hands-on.”

  The general studied Milo, seemingly evaluating him one last time, but Milo knew he’d made up his mind before they even met. “You are already known as an eccentric hermit. Nobody would think it unusual if you simply disappeared. As far as I can tell, you’re already considered somewhat of a ghost. And I know for a fact there is no record of an individual named Milo Ackerman clearing Indonesian customs. Entering Indonesia.”

  “Yes. I used an alias.”

  Budiarto grinned as though he’d won a poker hand with a large pot. “Which, again, doesn’t really work in favor of your security. I’m trying to decide if your early access to privilege and wealth has made you so naive you’re disconnected from reality or if you have some sort of death wish.”

  “General, I can assure you, I am quite aware of what’s real. An argument could be made that I have a wish for death. But not mine. At least not yet.”

  Budiarto grinned and poured himself another scotch. “Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I attempted to persuade you to voluntarily give me the code. Without turning over Sukarno. You really have no recourse. No one knows you’re here. I could cut your fingers off, one by one, until you offer me the code. I could do this until you begged me to stop. As a matter of fact, since these transactions occur electronically, what would keep me from demanding more?”

  Milo smiled slightly. Jawad moved toward him, retrieving the Beretta 9mm pistol from his holster and installing a suppressor on the end of the barrel. He guided Milo to the ping-pong table and forced his right hand flat against the surface.

  Milo offered no resistance, admiring the table’s sturdiness and the fact that it appeared perfectly level. He had played some pretty mean ping-pong in his startup days. “Is this teak?” he asked.

  The general stared, looking impatient. He turned to the computer screen and smiled. “I see the dollar amount is as you said it was. That’s a lot of money. I have a daughter, you know. In college, abroad. It’s expensive.”

  “Yes,” Milo said, “I’ve heard that.”

  “Now, we really don’t have to make this painful. Cutting one or two of your fingers off until you give in won’t change anything. It would only prolong the inevitable. Make it that much messier. You are a fox who has been caught in the steel jaws of a spring-loaded trap. A trap I set for you. Gnawing your paw off in an effort to delay isn’t going to change things.”

  Jawad wedged the pistol into his holster, the suppressor preventing it from resting securely. He pulled out a white-handled knife, pushed a button, and a blade popped out. Budiarto made what sounded like a disparaging remark about the size of Jawad’s knife and yelled something. Another man, this one dressed as a cook, entered from the kitchen, holding a large butcher knife, and handed it to Jawad.

  Jawad held the knife against Milo’s index finger.

  “Last opportunity,” the general said. “If you don’t cooperate, your texting ability will be greatly diminished. Ah, I forgot. Since you hate technology so much, I doubt you do a lot of texting. I promise, though, if you cooperate, your death will be swift and painless. One bullet to your head. You have my word.”

  Milo was silent.

  “I have to say you seem calm for someone about to be cut into pieces and fed to the dogs. Do you think this is a game?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?” Anger flashed in Budiarto’s eyes.

  “Is it teak? The ping-pong table.”

  Jawad’s eyes were locked on Budiarto, waiting for a signal to slam the blade down. The general blinked, but before Jawad could start, Milo said, “General, there are two files on the drive. Please open the other, then click on the link. You may want to take a look before things escalate further.”

  Budiarto continued to stare at Milo, a strange sense of wonderment now pasted on his face, like something wet had been thrown on him. Budiarto opened the other file and flinched, as if something on screen reached out to grab him. His countenance went from apex predator to prey. He cursed in Bahasa, then ordered Jawad to release Milo.

  “What have you done here?”

  “You are looking at a partial list from the CIA’s file on you. Your Swiss bank records and balances. Perhaps most interesting are the details of your covert cooperation with the United States government. But none of that comes close to what the CIA knows about your role in the planned coup to overthrow President Widodo. The file uploads automatically to the internet exactly five minutes after you opened it. I would say that gives you a little over three minutes to salvage what’s left of your miserable life. My guess is you’ll be shot for treason before sunrise.”

  “Stop this. Please, turn it off.”

  “No.”

  “What?” He pulled the gun from Jawad’s holster and pointed at Milo’s head. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Make it stop! Please! I’ll do anything. The man you want. He’s here. In the house. You can have him. Free. Keep the money.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want? Tell me what you want!”

  Milo looked at Budiarto, then at Jawad, and said, “Shoot him.”

  Budiarto gaped in disbelief, then pointed the gun at Jawad’s forehead. “Tuan, tidak—”

  He pulled the trigger. Jawad’s head recoiled, cracking against the wall like a melon, and he slumped to the floo
r. Blood oozed from the front and back of his head, pooling, then spreading through the edges of the ivory-colored tile like tiny red canals.

  Milo looked at the cook and nodded his head. The cook turned and ran toward the kitchen door, but Budiarto shot him twice in the back. The suppressor was so efficient that the only real noise came from the impact of the rounds penetrating flesh with a dull smack.

  “Please,” Budiarto said, “turn if off now.”

  “Give me the gun,” Milo said softly.

  Budiarto hesitated for no more than two seconds, then passed it over, handle first, trembling. A guard knocked on the door, and Budiarto yelled to him that everything was all right. Milo stopped the clock on the download with eleven seconds to spare.

  “Get on your knees now, General.”

  He did.

  “Remember, for the rest of your life, in the event anything happens to me, this file goes viral exactly eleven seconds later. There is nothing you can do to stop it. And I saved the best for last.” He clicked on another link and wheeled the laptop around to give the general a clear view.

  Budiarto’s facial muscles went slack when a live video feed of his beloved daughter, Kayla, who was attending Oxford, appeared, sitting in a bar with several of her school friends. Nothing more needed to be said. He understood.

  “I will need an escort to the airport for myself and Mr. Sukarno, and expedited processing through customs. You are now my servant. For the rest of your life. You may not hear from me ever again. You may hear from me tomorrow. I can destroy you with a thought. I can destroy your family with another. Do we understand each other?”

  Budiarto nodded. “It is my fate for crossing paths with the devil himself,” he mumbled.

  “No. The devil was a dream, a powerless mythical character invented by righteous zealots in an attempt to justify their darker human impulses. I am real. And what I will do won’t resemble anyone’s dreams. I am bringing the new reality.