"Actually," you say, "I want to ask you a favor. Since you know all about history, what do the cities Kaufbeuren and Rosenheim mean to you?"
"One of the Germans' most important intelligence centers was in Kaufbeuren during World War II. And Rosenheim ... I'm pretty sure that was one of the cities where the Allies held German intelligence service prisoners, including several cryptanalysts. Why?"
Ah, Ruth, who has answers for everything: you will miss her. Bit by bit you are putting Albert's history together.
"Just one more question. Does Wettenhein mean anything to you?"
"Spell it for me.".
You do.
"Erich Huettenhain," she says almost immediately. "With an h and two t's. A lot of Nazi cryptanalysts were given new identities and offered work with the American and British governments. Huettenhain was one of them—one of the most important. He was involved in every single one of the Nazis' cryptanalytic successes. He was taken to the United States in secret and worked for the Americans during the cold war."
A war criminal working for the government ... The Americans certainly were pragmatic. Could it be that...?
"Do you think ... that Albert could be Huettenhain?"
"He's not the right age. Could be his son. Oh, and you could have at least asked me how I am."
Ruth hangs up. You imagine a story. The story of Albert, a young Nazi cryptanalyst who operated out of Kaufbeuren and who, when the Allies arrived, was transferred to a detention center in Rosenheim. A brilliant cryptanalyst who had a mentor named Huettenhain. When Huettenhain was offered freedom in exchange for a new identity and collaboration with the American government, he accepted and asked that young Albert be offered the same deal. Albert was given a new identity; he made a career at the CIA during the cold war and was sent to Bolivia in the seventies. When he met you, he saw the possibility of duplicating the relationship he had had with Huettenhain...
So both rumors were true. Albert was a Nazi, but not a fugitive, and Albert was a CIA agent. Maybe it was no coincidence that when he was delirious, when he assumed the identities of the most important cryptographers and cryptanalysts of the century, he never mentioned anyone who worked between 1945 and 1974, the years that marked his clandestine entry into the United States and his arrival in Bolivia, the years when he worked for the CIA. Perhaps the German Albert, in order to do what he had to for the United States—an enemy country, after all—had to erase his life before 1945. But now that he was delirious and dying, what he obscured was his years of treason against the motherland. The Black Chamber had liberated him from his American fate.
It was possible. You will never know the whole story. But it is enough for you to feel like part of that great cryptanalytic continuum that went from Huettenhain to Albert and from Albert to you.
One of your neighbors pulls up in his Jeep, offering you a ride home. On the way you talk about how the government had failed to solve a trivial conflict in time and let it get out of control.
"I'm not so worried about the blockades," your neighbor says. "We're used to those—we don't even pay attention to them anymore. You know what worries me? The computer viruses, the Web site attacks. That never used to happen here, but now it has and we have to take it seriously. I work at the airport, and we're completely vulnerable to an attack of that nature. A virus would paralyze us just like that, in the blink of an eye."
"There's only a few people in the Resistance," you reply without looking at him. "And we still haven't reached a level of technology where cybercrime will be a problem."
You are minimizing the truth. The Resistance has made life impossible for the Black Chamber. And the attacks have been not only general but also individual. With the messages they sent to your secret e-mail address—because you are sure of it, it was the Resistance—they had achieved something that Ruth had tried in vain for years to do: make you feel guilty.
You are trying hard to rationalise your guilt. At times your thoughts go where you want them to, but deep down they continue on their merry way. You want to program your thoughts, but they program you.
"Still," your neighbor says, "as interconnected as computers are, there only needs to be a few of them. It's going to be a big problem. The government doesn't have the money to do what it should—create a special unit for these kinds of crimes."
Should you tell him about the Black Chamber?
"And the private sector," he continues, "as always, fine, thanks. I think this is just a taste and the serious stuff will come later, in a few years."
"It's not our nature to plan," you say, unwilling to continue this conversation. "We respond to things as they happen, on the fly."
You both drive on in silence.
You search for news on your cell phone. Lana Nova, her cheekbones glowing, announces that police repression has resulted in eleven deaths in Rio Fugitivo, two in La Paz, and one in Chapare. Three police officers have also been killed. The government, besieged on various fronts, has decided to give in to the Coalition's demands and promised to meet soon with the police that are on strike in La Paz, the coca growers in Chapare, the Aymaras in the provinces around Lake Titicaca, and businessmen in Santa Cruz. Montenegro has decided to survive his last few months by simply pushing the problems forward, so that the government that will assume power next August will be left holding the bag. The elections are in seven months; presidential campaigns will start in January, and already people like the leader of the coca growers and the photogenic but stupid ex-mayor of Cochabamba are declaring themselves as candidates. You cannot fathom Montenegro's weakness. If he does not impose his authority—and he knows this better than anyone—chaos and anarchy will reign, and any group of people willing to take its protests to the streets will feel that it has enough power to put the government into checkmate. In fact, they are already doing just that. You don't know much about politics and don't want to get into an analysis of the many sides of the conflict. What you do know is that the country has become what it is, has deteriorated, because of a shocking lack of respect for the principle of authority.
You turn off your Ericsson. Your last thought surprised you with the power of an epiphany. Deep down, if it was your job to decipher the secret codes of those in opposition to the government again, you would try to do it as you always had, efficiently, without regard for the consequences. Cause and effect are inextricably linked, trapping both the innocent and the guilty in their web. Everyone would be paralyzed if they dwelled on the ultimate reverberations of their actions. You could only be the best you could be at whatever you had been brought into this world to do. If Albert had used you, had he laughed at your good faith? That's not your problem; it's Albert's. You did what you had been entrusted to do; it wasn't your responsibility to know whether or not you were being deceived.
Your desire to visit a church was nothing more than a passing weakness. No repentance is possible. How many men, throughout the centuries, had naively worked in the service of despicable governments? Did that mean that their innocence was tarnished? Yes, perhaps, but it wasn't their fault. Otherwise, you would have to believe that history is a game for obedient children. That only those who worked for kind, impartial, and therefore Utopian governments were saved. Murderer, your hands are stained with blood ...Yes, they are, you have to admit it. Just like the hands of most everyone in the country during that decade, accomplices by their acts or omissions. You are sorry for the unjust deaths that resulted from the efficiency of your work. Very sorry. But beyond assuming responsibility for your actions, there is nothing you can do.
The car stops at the entrance to the gated community; one of the guards lifts up the yellow barrier. Your neighbor drops you off at your house.
In the hall you come upon a stranger. He is tall and robust, has spots on his cheeks, and it looks like he got caught in the rain. What is he doing in your house?
"Who ... who are you?"
"I'm Judge Gustavo Cardona. Good evening, Turing."
"Ah, yes. You u
sed to be a minister, right? What are you doing here? Who let you in?"
"Your daughter."
"Is she all right?"
"She's fine."
"Are you waiting for my wife?"
"I'm waiting for you. Just you."
"Is it important?"
"You have no idea how important."
"I'm not in the mood to play games. Tell me right now, before I call the police."
"I am the cousin of a woman who was murdered in 1976. She died thanks to the work that you and your boss, Albert, did."
"You're the one who's been sending those messages."
"I never sent any messages. I decided that someone had to stop the impunity. Other judges have taken care of the paramilitary, those who pulled the trigger. Some other ambitious judge will take care of Montenegro one day. And I will take care of the two of you."
"You're delirious."
"We all are. It's just that some people's delirium is less offensive than others'."
Cardona pulls out his gun and shoots. A blow to the stomach leaves you breathless; blood splatters on your glasses, which fall to the floor and shatter. You grab hold of your stomach and collapse. Lying on the floor, you can just make out a shadow holding on to the handrail on the second floor. The shadow screams. It is your daughter, Flavia. Seconds later other shadows burst in through the door. You hear shots.
A guard kneels beside you, asks how you feel.
"The ambulance will be here soon—you'll be fine."
"Is he ... dead?"
"Yes, he is."
You believe, because you do not know how to do anything but think, because thought only disconnects when you die, that everything makes sense now. Now you understand that your destiny was to attempt to decipher the codes that would lead you to discover the Code. It was not your destiny to decipher it but to search for how to decipher it. Your small victories were nothing compared with the opacity of the universe. But in that opacity you think you can detect the patient work of a higher being, someone who is beyond all the codes and can explain them. It even explains you, who are also code, as is the man who just shot you, and little Flavia, and Ruth, and Albert. You are all united in loss, codes in search of other codes in the labyrinth you inhabited for a few melancholy years.
Your last thought is that you have ceased to think, that in reality you never thought, you were always delirious, that the stranger was right, we're all delirious, you are a delirium, thought is a form of delirium, it's just that some deliriums are less offensive than others.
You wish that your delirium had been inoffensive. You know that it was not, and accept that. You are at peace, and close your eyes.
Epilogue
THERE IS A KNOCK at the door. Kandinsky does not know whether to open it. He has not been out of his apartment for several days. The police wouldn't knock so politely, he tells himself, and he asks who it is.
"Baez."
The response surprises him. Is this some kind of a trick?
"I don't know anyone by that name."
"You know who I am. Trust me. I've got nothing to do with the police."
Kandinsky timidly opens the door to discover a young man with a nervous gaze wearing a brown shirt hanging over the top of his jeans. He lets him in. Baez stops in the middle of the empty room.
"So you're..."
"So you're..."
They embrace cautiously. Despite the fact that they are the only survivors of the Resistance, Kandinsky finds the physical contact strange. It's new—he is used to talking with Baez's avatar in chatrooms or Playground. He doesn't know what to say, nor does he understand what is happening. He waits for Baez to speak.
"I didn't picture your apartment like this. I don't know. Just not so empty, so minimalist. Messier. The walls covered in posters."
"Of hackers I admire? There are none."
"Revolutionary emblems, something along those lines."
"The walls covered in graffiti? I don't need any of that here."
Baez walks over to the corner where the computer is. He touches the keyboard.
"I can't believe I'm in the presence of the great Kandinsky."
"How did you find me?"
"Easy. Anyone can, and someone else soon will. I knew the name of your avatar as head of the Restoration in Playground. Remember, I used to work for the company in charge of Playground before I went to the Black Chamber. I was responsible for the private files that contain the real identities of all the players. We were under strict orders not to reveal them, not even to our families. If we did, we'd be fired."
Kandinsky feels stabs of pain and clasps his hands.
"Do they hurt? You'd better take care of yourself—we need you. As I was saying, sometimes I would pass names to a friend of mine who's a Rat. I discovered a flaw in the system, a way that I could gain access from the outside without anyone's suspecting me. When I quit, I would still hack into the system to get a name or two and earn a few pesos when the Rat sold them. I went in to find out who was behind BoVe a long time ago. I found out where you lived but decided to keep it a mystery. I would come see you only when I had to. It was easy for me because I knew what I was looking for, but I guess someone in the police will think of it and put two and two together at some point."
Kandinsky gives a hint of a smile. He had been right to see Baez's potential as a meticulous hacker. The corporation in charge of Playground, a favorite target of hackers, has a nearly impenetrable security system that has managed to stop the majority of those who try to get past it.
"So why did you want to talk to me, if I might ask?"
"Because Ramírez-Graham, my boss at the Black Chamber, is after the Resistance, and he's getting closer and closer to finding you. He's being helped by that girl from AllHacker."
"She's just a stupid little girl. We shouldn't be afraid of her."
"I have a lot of respect for her. She knows all about us. And she's lethally efficient. Thanks to her, hackers have fallen in the past. Well-known hackers."
"You're talking about a woman."
"Indeed. They say there are no good women hackers. But there are exceptions to the rule, and she's one of them."
"Was it thanks to her that your boss had the other members of the Resistance killed?"
"No. I took care of that."
Kandinsky waits for some indication from Baez that he is joking, but is surprised by his seriousness.
"My boss ... Ramírez-Graham was going to get to them sooner or later," Baez says. "He has excellent people around him. And they, under pressure, would have wound up talking. So I hired someone through my friend the Rat to take care of them. The last one, Rafael Corso, was eliminated just minutes after he met with Flavia. I don't know if he told her everything or not—I have no idea how much she knows. But extreme situations require extreme measures on our part. They had to be sacrificed for the greater good. And I'm willing to sacrifice myself for the cause—ours, the Restoration's, the Resistance's."
There is a fanaticism in Baez's voice that Kandinsky never expected to hear. Yes, he knew that Baez was one of the most dedicated activists, dating back to the anarchist neighborhood in Playground; he had been right to include him in the Resistance. But something about Baez scares him: his decision, perhaps, to see people as expendable cogs in the wheel. Baez said he was responsible for the deaths of three fellow hackers. There was no remorse; it was as if he were just another of those disturbed kids who spend hours in front of a monitor, so absorbed in Playground that in the end they can't distinguish between virtual deaths inside and real deaths outside it. That had never happened to Kandinsky; he was very clear about the separation between the two worlds. That one was more absurd and mundane than the other was another matter. With all of its defects and injustices, the real world was the objective of Kandinsky's struggle.
"You had them killed? Our comrades? Just like that?"
"It wasn't an easy decision to make. But I have a plan, and once you hear it, you'll agree that it was t
he best way to save the group. Are you OK?"
Kandinsky lets his arms fall limply by his sides. He can no longer feel his hands; it is as if they are asleep. Just his left hand used to be affected, so he had started typing only with his right. Now it is also in pain.
"Go on, go on. Don't worry about me."
"I was no one before I met you. I wasted my days going to and from work, with no direction. Working for the company in charge of Playground was a revelation. There I felt like I was using my talent for the enemy. I realized that a good job wasn't enough—I had to find a cause I could believe in passionately, one I could live for. And die for."
Baez paces as he talks, waving his arms, looking at Kandinsky with fervor in his eyes. Kandinsky is used to dominating situations and does not know how to take back the initiative.
"Then I found you and I found direction," Baez continues. "It all made sense all of a sudden. You taught me so much. With so many followers, you chose me. Even now, I can't believe I'm standing in front of you. You chose me, and I want to pay you back for what you did for me. I want you to let me be Kandinsky."
"You want to be me?"
"I'll assume your identity in Playground in order to confuse Flavia. My boss ... Ramírez-Graham will set his people on my trail. They'll find me and believe they've found Kandinsky. They'll send me to jail, congratulate one another on their victory, and think they've solved the problem. Kandinsky will remain a hero, an icon of the rebellion against neoliberalism and globalization. You'll disappear for a few months and then reappear on the Net under another identity. Maybe you'll be a disciple of Kandinsky's, someone willing to continue the struggle. You'll recruit people, and the Resistance will rise up out of the ashes. With me in jail as Kandinsky, we'll keep the myth alive, and with you free, your technological prowess will still be at the service of the great cause..."
Baez pauses and clears his throat.
"You're looking at me as if I'm crazy. I'm not. Do you think I'm confusing the real world with the virtual world? Not at all. That's why I want to sacrifice myself. That's why I want you to stay alive."
Turing's Delirium Page 28