Skinner

by Charlie Huston

  Blue Jacket watches his compatriots being bottled up, teargassed, and water-cannoned on screen.

  “You will leave?”

  Jae nods, she finds the protesters’ Wi-Fi network password written on Post-its stuck to every computer in the room, puts the Toughbook online.

  “Money, where from, how much? Details.”

  “Some cash. Wire transfer. Ten thousand euro.”

  “From?”

  “Romania. And digital funds.”

  She starts searching Romanian wire transfers, Romanian banking, Romanian terrorist hackers.

  Only way to reliably get money transferred in and out of Romania is through Western Union. Fucking no wonder, Romania. Does it get dirtier? Post–Soviet bloc criminality, waves of it, money laundering, black market cigarettes, sex slave trade routes. Sex slavery leads her into porn and she has to click out of a string of self-propagating windows. Finally force-quits her browser. Opens a new window. Her computer is going to need a massive virus scan and a bath after that.

  She needs to know more about the money.

  “What kind of digital funds? Format?”

  “Bitcoins in a Dwolla account. Direct deposit from there to a BNP Paribas account, euros. Three hundred bitcoins, exchange, merde, seventy euro each, more. Eighty-seven? Over twenty thousand euro.”

  Searches: Bitcoins, Dwolla, BNP Paribas. The first leads to the infamous nexus of anarchism, uber-geek hacker techno programmer math, pure economic theory, online gaming, online drug trade, and constant calls for investigation from members of the US House of Representatives. She finds Mt.Gox, the primary trade hub for the crypto currency; bitcoins currently trading at one hundred fourteen dollars and sixty-seven cents each. Dwolla shows as e-commerce, online money transfers. Dealing primarily in cash but bitcoins as well. Layers of anonymity accreting here. She tries to find out more about the creation of bitcoins. Wall of tech-speak. Math again. And BNP Paribas? Big bank. Legit. As legit as big banks can be.

  What about the Dwolla account?

  “Account details, Dwolla?”

  Blue Jacket leans past her, flips through some mess, scraps, empty paper cups from the Swedish coffee chain Wayne’s. He finds an envelope with chickenscratch ballpoint on the back, puts it in front of her and moves away.

  “Shiva gave password, security question answer, these things.”

  She opens the account, just a few bitcoins left. Clicks through to the profile. A name, Courtney Cline. Address in Montana. Dwolla users must have a US address. A cell phone number (call it later or why bother?). Gmail address. For all the many ways the Internet sprays our identities across the globe, it also gives us tools to obscure any new ones we care to create. She maps the Montana address, Bozeman. She clicks for a satellite view, street view, a small ranch house across a four-lane highway from a casino called The Cat’s Paw. Globalized hacker terrorism at its best. The identity is no doubt legit, either stolen or bought. Someone living across the road from a casino is likely to have a price for just about anything.

  She shakes her head.

  “Montana.”

  Blue Jacket points at the map she’s opened.

  “I did not know Montana was a real thing. Just from American cowboy movies.”

  Her brain finally spits out some math for her, simple addition.

  “That’s not enough money for all this gear. Where did the rest come from?”

  “Credit cards. Numbers. Expiration dates. Limits. Black market. Twenty-five euro each.”

  He waves his cigarette at the packaging down the hall in the bedroom.

  “We buy from Amazon. The TVs, computers. Phones. This address for delivery. We are here, we will be gone. Who cares.”

  Jae won’t open any of the black market credit card exchanges on her own machine, but she starts popping them up on the protesters’ laptops. Ghostmarket.net, security-shell.ws, silverspam.net. More. Those coming from the first hits on her Google search. More than half are defunct or dead ends. The others, very inviting, Welcome, new users. She wishes she had on rubber gloves. She can all but feel the malware pouring out of these sites and into the poor virginal hardware the protesters have been using to irritate the power elite. The sites give off a mixed bag of hardened criminality and tutorials in hacking and the finding of lulz.

  Romania.

  Montana.

  Ghostmarket.

  KGB.

  Sex trade.

  Shiva.

  Alpha Bank Romania S.A.

  Naxalite.

  Cat’s Paw.

  Bitcoins.

  Contraction.

  Wire transfer.

  Dwolla.

  Ex-KGB.

  How did that cycle back around? Ex-KGB.

  It’s out of its room, Frankenstein monster in her head, lurching into the West-Tebrum configuration, tangled in the Romanian threads. The aging Russian cold warrior working with the young idealists. Shouldn’t he be running a gang in St. Petersburg? She looks over her shoulder. The Russian is as before, arms folded, eyes on floor, leaning. Skinner has placed himself in a position that puts him an equal distance from everyone in the room, but the Russian may be a sliver closer to the striking range of Skinner’s stick.

  Sudden flicker at the corner of her eye. More like an itch. Bug bite.

  What the fuck?

  Eyes back to the TV screens. Nothing there to scratch the sudden itch. The water cannon is at work. Someone is clinging to a tree, then not, washed on a tide of mud that used to be the lawn in front of the Riksdag.

  More French erupts from Blue Jacket. Jae gets merde, repeated often, and little else.

  She digs a knuckle into the corner of her eye, rubs, looks again.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Her hand clicks, clicks, clicks, closing windows, pushing them around.

  CNN still has that helicopter shot that shows nothing but smoke, the other images are increasingly jostled as the camera operators have moved toward the thick of things. The inexplicable journalistic instinct to get closer to where shit is at its most fucked up.

  She looks at Skinner.

  “Anything else?”

  “Leaving would be good.”

  Leaving. Itch. Itchy itch itch. Damn.

  It will come to her later and she’ll wish she had the resources of the protesters’ control room at her disposal. Access to this kind of media environment doesn’t just fall in your lap. She should really figure out what that itch is.

  Stupid fucking brain.

  Enough. Time to go.

  She rises, lifts her chin at Blue Jacket.

  “You should go, too. Someone will be coming.”

  He drops another cigarette butt, not lighting a replacement this time, pocketing the packet and lighter.

  “Someone to do worse than you have?”

  He bats the air with the back of his hand, turns from her, sits in his folding chair, and starts clicking out of her searches, updating one of the Google Maps, planting a crop of red pins on the site of the Riksdag riot, a deterrent to protesters still at liberty elsewhere in the city. Red Shirt looks at him, looks at Jae, takes his own chair, opens Twitter and starts typing, sending out the word to stay the hell away from the Riksdag. Mohawk eases out from under the table, stretching his back as he rises, points at the phones. Skinner steps back from the table, and he starts waking them up. Twig-Beard crawls to the bathroom door and knocks.

  “Lili. Ist es okay. Sie können kommen. Öffnen Sie die Tür, ich muss pissen.”

  The Russian doesn’t move.

  Jae looks at Skinner. He nods at the door. She unplugs the USB, drops in it a zip pocket in her jacket. Hot in here, she should have taken it off. Sweaty. Pack the Toughbook now.

  Itch, itch, scratch.

  Itch disappearing as she sees the postage stamp windows streaming video from the spider cameras. Two angles, one looking down from a steep rooftop, and one at eye level in the alley, both showing a scene taken from innumerable
action movies. Men in fitted black jumpsuits and body armor, Kevlar-soled boots, urban-combat assault rifles, matching helmets, belts adangle with pouches and fittings, clasps. These stock characters featuring gold insignia on arms and chests, too small to read in the current view.

  Her fingers hit two keys, windows expand.

  “Säpo.”

  The Russian, no longer looking at the floor, looking at her computer, the men outside. He says it again.

  “Säpo.”

  Mohawk has a phone in each hand, both starting to ring.

  “Sakerhetspolisen.”

  The Russian, nodding, the diagnosis is correct.

  “Security Police. Yes.”

  And the wheeze of laughter.

  Blue Jacket rises, looks at Jae’s screen, looks at the door, sits back down and starts tweeting, talking in a mixture of French and Spanish directed at Red Shirt. Twitter and Facebook open, letting the people in the streets know that broadcasts are about to cease for good. He looks at Mohawk.

  “Gern?”

  Mohawk looks at the door, the phones in his hands, and answers one of them, talking in Swedish.

  Twig-Beard had managed to talk Lili into opening the bathroom door, but now it slams shut and he starts yelling at her, German again, maybe something about getting the fuck out now before it’s too late. But it’s already too late.

  On the Toughbook screen, officers of Säpo are entering the building.

  Skinner reaches past Jae, slaps her computer shut, shoves it in her pack, zips.

  “This will happen very fast now.”

  She nods, slips into the straps, cinches them tight.

  Blue Jacket and Red Shirt are done updating; grabbing papers now, stuffing them into a large steel wastebasket with an IKEA sticker on the side. Mohawk has gone under the phone table again, rising with a small sledgehammer. He brings it down on one of the phones. Twig-Beard has given up on Lili in the bathroom, runs into the bedroom and comes back with a duffel sack. He opens it and starts pulling out military surplus, gas masks, bright blue cylinders with pull rings on top, riot batons.

  He looks at Skinner.

  “Ficken sie, asshole.”

  Red Shirt is spraying lighter fluid on the papers in the wastebasket. Mohawk is smashing phones two at a time. Blue Jacket is putting on a mask, taking one of the smoke bombs from Twig-Beard, a baton tucked through his belt.

  Jae pulls on Skinner’s arm.

  “Can we get the fuck out now?”

  Skinner yanks her out of the way as Blue Jacket and Twig-Beard go to the door, a practiced drill, prepared anarchists. Blue Jacket counts off three on his fingers, nods, Twig-Beard opens the door, and they pull the tabs and throw smoke grenades down the stairs at the Säpo officers who have yet to come into view. Pops. Loud enough to echo. Hissing. Now Red Shirt and Mohawk are at the door, count three, pull and throw. Smoke is visible at the top of the banister. Someone falls on the stairs. Yelling from below. Smoke thickening. Blue Jacket is back at the door, one of the flatscreen TVs in his hand, awkward load, cables dragging, no countdown this time, he rushes to the banister, tips the TV over, and darts back to the open door.

  Crashes from below. More yelling. Squawk of a megaphone being tested.

  Red Shirt ready with another TV, out and to the banister, heaving, a pop, the TV is falling down the stairwell, Red Shirt is falling backward, flecks of blood are dotting everything, he’s on the floor kicking at the banister, sliding himself on his back, a snail smear of blood following him, left hand grabbing at his right shoulder, right hand dragging at the end of a dead arm. Blue Jacket and Mohawk duck out to grab him, handfuls of his shirt, same color as before but wet now, pulling him toward the door as Skinner puts a hand in Jae’s lower back and pushes. Someone steps in front of them. The Russian. Holding Mohawk’s sledgehammer. He faces them, Skinner’s stick is already up, angled. The Russian turns, waving for them to follow to the closed and locked bathroom door. The Russian lifts the sledgehammer, one blow and the door breaks open. Young girl, short, multicolored hair, in the tub crying, screaming now.

  The Russian points up.

  Over the toilet, a cutout in the ceiling. No hinges, square of painted wood resting on a lip. Skinner stands on the toilet, pushes it up and out of the way. Off the toilet, he takes Jae’s pack from her shoulders, makes a stirrup of his hands, she steps into it and is hoisted up, hands grabbing the inside of the trapdoor, splinters, pulls herself up and in, squirms around, dim light from a filthy windowpane, reaches through the trap and grabs her pack as Skinner holds it up, scooting back and out of the way. Skinner’s hands, his head, a smooth pull and he’s next to her. The Russian forces his upper body into view, teeters, and Skinner drags him the rest of the way up. Skinner is moving toward the window, but the Russian is on his belly, looking down into the bathroom.

  “Lili. Now. Now.”

  More crying from below. The Russian claps his hands.

  “My hand.”

  Crying.

  He says something in Russian, a curse, worms away from the trap, finds the square of wood and drops it back into place. Rising to a crouch, moving toward Skinner at the window, a little smile for Jae, bitter but genuine.

  “The art of survival. All but a dead thing.”

  The hammer still in his hand.

  Skinner is looking out the window, face well away from the glass, not satisfied with what he’s seeing. He points at Jae’s pack.

  “Spiders.”

  She already has the pack off and unzipped, opens the Toughbook and wakes the screen, a moment for the processor to catch up with the video coming from the spiders. Skinner and the Russian kneeling, crowded together behind her and looking over her shoulder at the two views of the alley, packed now with Säpo.

  Skinner taps the screen with his fingertip, the roof spider’s POV.

  “What’s up there?”

  Jae moves the cursor to an icon of a circle with a series of four arrow points stationed around its circumference, clicks, and the camera view from the spider on the roof starts to rotate, a little jerky, its legs not designed for smooth panning shots. The roof pitches steeply, a ramp for snow to fall from during the long winter, shelving in a few places where window boxes thrust out from the roofline. No Säpo.

  Muffled screams from below, angry, sound of heavy things falling. Blue Jacket, Mohawk, and Twig-Beard coming into direct contact with the security police. The trapdoor, a thin trail of smoke starting to drift up through the crack.

  The Russian grunts, rises into a crouch, all the attic space will allow his frame, and begins walking across the joists, crossing to the east-facing wall.

  “Self preservation. A force of nature.”

  Skinner takes Jae’s pack, zips, hooks her arm, and follows the Russian, towing her.

  The Russian is at the east wall, he clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “There are reasons people choose a property to do secret things.”

  There is a small door in the wall, dwarf-scale, a hasp and a padlock.

  “In Petersburg, when the apartments of the bourgeoisie were divided for the workers, sometimes a door was left. Was a time the wet nurse’s room and the nursery. Now for three, four, five families. A door in an old wall. If you had such a door, into your neighbor’s apartment, you kept it a secret. A bookcase in front of it. Yes. A way to get out. When they come for you. The kind of thing you look for in a new home. Amenities.”

  He taps the door with his forefinger.

  “Someone bought this building for secret things. Police might take an interest. He looked for ways out. I came here. I looked for ways out. This door. So.”

  He lifts the hammer, smashes the lock, the hasp dangling, and tears it off with his thick-fingered hand. Standing back, looking at Skinner.

  “This life. Long. And exciting. What is on the other side?”

  He squats, gathers himself, puts his weathered body against the wood, and falls through into darkness as it flies open before him.


  Jae unzips the long ballast pocket at the small of her back, takes out a Maglite LED flashlight, and hands it to Skinner. He twists it on, shines it through the door, down. Pinned in the beam on the floor, a two-meter drop, the Russian rising to his hands and knees, winded and wheezing, he looks up at them, a caul of thick cobweb covers his face, an aspect of something risen from dark places.

  Shrill scream from below the trap. The Säpo have found Lili in the bathroom. Shrieking. A voice yelling commands in Swedish. Gunfire. Four or five pops, rapid but erratically spaced, a hole appears, punched through the ceiling from below, an arrow of light, and more smoke, and a half-dozen professionally distributed shots fired, much louder than the pops. NATO 5.56mm rounds, and no more screaming.

  Skinner picks Jae up and swings her through the door, hands in her armpits, and drops her, then slides through headfirst, a slither of odd coordination, muscles she’s not sure she has, hands catching his weight, elbows flexed, tuck and roll, with the pack still on. The Russian is up, jumps, slaps the bottom of the door, forcing it into place, and lands heavy, loud, even in his New Balance walking shoes. They squat, light from the Mag in Skinner’s hand. Sound from the protesters’ apartment limited to an occasional barked order, a small dog in the house next door. Three bleats, louder, the test button on a megaphone. Some kind of general readjustment, footfalls, en masse, and then quiet.

  The Russian is peeling cobweb from his face, rubbing it from his hand onto the thick ribs of blue corduroy covering his thigh.

  “Lili had a gun. Little crazy girl.”

  Jae looks up at the tiny door.

  “The one crying in the bathroom?”

  The Russian taps his chest.

  “Great heart. Passion for the cause.”

  He taps the side of his head.

  “Weak mind. A suicide bomb waiting for a detonator.”