Mr. Miller

by Charles den Tex

  Please wait while booting host.

  Batte was utterly silent. His eyes seemed to be peering right through the screen and into the wires and digital movement of the information behind it. The Windows desktop appeared on the screen. A lovely blue, almost serene. I shoved the computer towards Batte.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  Hesitantly, his fingers drew near to the keyboard and the touchpad for moving the cursor.

  ‘Is this my computer?’ he asked.

  ‘You know that better than I do.’

  He clicked on Windows Explorer, and no sooner did the overview appear on the screen than he pulled his hands away from the keyboard.

  ‘This can’t be!’ he said. ‘Nobody knows my password! Nobody can get into my computer without my password, and …’

  ‘There wasn’t even a request for your password,’ I said.

  Batte cursed. He gazed at the screen in bewilderment. ‘But how do you get in?’

  I pulled the laptop towards me and closed Windows. The computer switched back to MS-DOS.

  ‘By way of the M-drive,’ I said, and I pointed to the laptop on the table. ‘And you can tell me a hundred times that it’s not there, but what’s that then?’

  Now I pointed to the dark screen of my own computer, showing that one inescapable prompt. M:

  Batte jumped up and stared at the computer with a look of grim determination. Hands on his hips, lips pursed into an outpost of his face. His eyes shifted back and forth between Strila’s computer and the M-prompt on my screen. Slowly he shook his head.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he said. ‘You can’t access a computer that’s been turned off and bypass all the safeguards as if they didn’t exist. I know anything’s possible. A computer that’s connected to the internet has more than sixty-five thousand points of entry. But it has to be turned on. This is impossible! Not with my computer!’

  Suddenly he made a decision. He turned Strila’s computer off, slammed it shut and turned it over. ‘Do you have a screwdriver?’ he asked Kirsten. ‘Phillips?’

  ‘My name’s not Phillip,’ said Kirsten. She was playing with him, and it took Batte a few seconds to catch on. She was playing the dumb broad who doesn’t know anything about tools and other guy things, and was challenging him to be the equally dumb guy. Batte smiled. He was quick on the uptake. He switched effortlessly between his own concentration and the joke she was making.

  ‘If your name was Phillip we’d be talking football. So what do you think?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Kirsten. ‘What does a Phillips do?’

  ‘A Phillips screws, I guess,’ said Batte. ‘May be best to leave this for later.’

  She took a box out of the cabinet and put it on the table. ‘If I have one, it’s in here.’

  He pulled the cables out of the computer, took out the battery, turned a couple of screws in the lower plate, pulled on a panel, clicked away two of the sides and carefully removed the entire lower section. Then he stared at the inner workings with concentration.

  ‘That’s all it is,’ he said. ‘Hard drive, DVD drive, floppy …’ He pointed with the screwdriver to the various parts as he mentioned them. Kirsten looked over his shoulder. ‘Modem,’ said Batte, ‘communication ports, it’s all so simple. I mean, you don’t even look at them anymore. These models are so compact. That’s the beauty of them.’

  ‘And what’s this?’ asked Kirsten. She pointed with one long fingernail to a minuscule connection on the input side of the modem.

  ‘That is …’ Batte tapped the thing with the point of the screwdriver. ‘That is … I have no idea what that is.’

  ‘Looks like a splicer,’ said Kirsten.

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘We Phillipses get around,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. She pointed to the device. ‘Or do you have a better idea?’

  Batte nodded. ‘A much better idea,’ he said, and he turned to me. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do,’ I said. ‘Under one condition. That you do it on the floor so I can see what you’re up to. I’m starting to feel left out.’

  They sat across from each other right in front of my nose with the computer turned upside down between us. Batte used the screwdriver again to point out the various parts, finally tapping on the connection attached to the modem.

  ‘This thingamajig does something we don’t understand,’ said Batte, ‘and when you don’t understand something, you have to do some more looking.’

  ‘First look, then think,’ I said.

  Batte put his hands in the computer and pulled out one component after another. Almost everything was secured by means of a click system. There were no more than three little screws in the whole thing.

  ‘It’s not hard,’ he said. ‘You just have to follow a certain order.’ Finally he got to the hard drive. It was attached to the back of the computer with just one screw. He loosened the screw and slowly prized the hard drive from its contact points. ‘The processor is underneath,’ he said, ‘so you have to be a bit careful.’ At that very moment the thing popped loose. Batte took it out and placed it on the floor next to the computer. The three of us were looking at two identical processors, lying neatly side by side in the computer’s heart.

  ‘What have we got here?’ said Batte. ‘A double processor?’

  ‘For more speed, maybe?’ Kirsten asked.

  Batte shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’re not connected in any way. Here, look, this one operates the computer we just took apart, and this one seems to be linked to something else. But what?’ He tried to follow the connections with the point of his screwdriver. ‘And there’s also this weird steel plate on the bottom.’

  ‘It looks like the thing you just took out,’ I said.

  Batte picked up the last component he had removed and held it up. ‘You mean this? This is the hard drive, this is …’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, and he put the drive back down. Then working at terrific speed he began taking the rest of the computer apart, and five minutes later there were not only two processors but also two hard drives lying side by side on the carpet.

  ‘This isn’t just one computer,’ said Batte. ‘This is two computers in one case. The M-drive isn’t a partition at all. It’s a second hard drive with its own processor and its own link to the modem. Always available, whether the computer is on or not, because you can’t turn this drive off. Look.’ He pointed to the separate power supply connection that bypassed the on-and-off switch. ‘And it wouldn’t surprise me if the software on the M-drive is engineered in such a way that you can go from M: to C: and back again, but never from C: to M: if you started in C: … May I?’

  He picked up my computer, where the M: was still waiting for a command. Batte typed a couple of things, and lists and directories rolled across the screen. He stared with concentration at the cryptic data, his eyes moving in cadence with the information racing past, his fingers ready to stop or move the data stream at any given moment. ‘Here,’ he said suddenly. ‘Here, here, look at this … FUCK!’

  He pulled his hand from the keyboard and stared at the screen.

  ‘What is it?’ Kirsten asked.

  ‘This is a registry of all my work,’ he said. ‘Even the things I haven’t reported. If anyone wants to know how you got into that building yesterday, and where your VIP pass came from, they can trace it to me.’

  No one said a word. My physical state was clear enough.

  ‘And can’t you erase that file?’ asked Kirsten.

  ‘Immediately.’ Batte’s fingers flew across the keys, but the commands he typed had no effect. He kept getting the same message.

  File access denied.

  Feverishly he tried to cancel the security protocol so he could remove the file in its entirety. Finally he came upon the right codes. He typed the command again to erase the file and hit the return. A box appeared in the middle of the screen.

  User please re-identify. Login location does not match current status.r />
  Running server check.

  ‘GET OUT!’ I screamed. ‘GET OUT, GET OUT!’ Fear seized my entire body, my guts began to writhe. The last time I had seen that message was with Gijs, and he had barely survived the consequences. I snatched the computer from Batte, clicked through the menus like a maniac and logged out. Seconds later the screen was solid grey.

  Kirsten and Vince stared at me.

  ‘And now?’ Kirsten asked.

  ‘Now?’ I said. I repeated the question, feverishly searching for an answer, but all I found were more questions. Had Huib’s server been hacked? Had they located him? Had they located us? If they had, Kirsten’s apartment was no longer safe. They must have located Batte’s computer. That was the host and it was part of their own network. That’s what had disabled Batte’s address. Where were we supposed to go? I didn’t dare take a chance and hope that the address on Hondecoeterstraat hadn’t been found. If two or three men were to come in here, we’d be powerless. But what then? I had used up all my options, I was at the end of my family, my network.

  ‘Now I don’t know,’ I said, ‘except that we have to get out of here. As fast as we can.’

  44 No way back

  The end of my family was the beginning of the rest of the world. Kirsten and Vince took over for me. After asking a couple of questions they had enough to go by, and they began making preparations for the joint move of two people who barely knew each other and a semi-invalid. Batte made three phone calls and stood up.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘We have fifteen minutes to do everything we have to do before our ride comes to the door. And I have a place we can go to. Okay?’

  Kirsten nodded. Her facial features had hardened. There was nothing left of the playful woman. She had turned inward and silent. I was still lying on the mattress on the floor.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Batte asked.

  ‘Pack up the computers,’ I said. ‘And all my stuff. Anything that can be traced to me has to go. And anything with your name on it has to go, too,’ I said to Kirsten.

  It only took a couple of minutes to pack. Everything I had was already in stored a backpack and three plastic bags. Kirsten crammed her bank statements and some other papers into a bag. She grabbed the salves and creams she was using to treat me and some clothes for herself, and she was ready. In the meantime I sent e-mails and chat messages to South Africa to warn Huib that his secure serve may no longer be secure. Usually I had an answer within five minutes, but not this time. Huib didn’t respond to any of my messages. Anxious, I shut my laptop and gave it to Vince. He put it in my backpack. Then Kirsten and Vince came over to me, one on either side.

  ‘And now you,’ said Kirsten. The two of them helped me to my feet. That went well, but getting dressed was more difficult. The suit I was wearing had long been consigned to the garbage. Kirsten took some other clothes out of the backpack. Every movement or twist I made was more than my back could bear. Now that I was rested the pain seemed sharper, more intense, no longer masked by fatigue or excitement. My body had stopped producing enough adrenaline to shift the pain threshold. Now all that was left was the pain.

  It took all the remaining time to go down the three flights of stairs to the front door. Every move made the next one more difficult. A car outside beeped its horn. Batte ran on ahead and opened the car door. He waved to someone Kirsten and I couldn’t see and came back upstairs. Then the two of them carried me the rest of the way. Finally they put me down on the sidewalk next to a mid-size camper. The door to the back was open, and while Kirsten went upstairs to get our things Batte helped me up the three small steps.

  The camper had everything. A little kitchen, a toilet with a shower, a sitting area and a dinner table, lights on the walls and ceiling, carpet on the floor and, most important, a couch I could stretch out on. On my stomach. My demands became fewer and fewer. With a sigh of relief I felt the pain subside to a manageable level.

  Kirsten came out laden with bags and my backpack. She put everything in the back of the camper, turned around, walked back to the front door and tore her nameplate away from the bell. Then she got into the camper and closed the door behind her, stuffing the nameplate into the back pocket of her pants. She came over and sat down next to me.

  Vince tried to restore the flirtatious atmosphere between himself and Kirsten, but she cut him short every time. Now that she suddenly didn’t know where she was going to end up, she refused to get involved in anything that didn’t interest her. She informed Vince that she wasn’t interested in anything and certainly not in him. This may have put a damper on things inside the camper, but at least the relationships were clear.

  ‘If everybody’s more or less comfortable, maybe we can take off,’ called a melodious voice from behind the enormous driver’s seat. The thing was so big that it was impossible to tell from the back whether anyone was actually sitting in it. A man with a blond ponytail hanging between his shoulders leaned over to one side. Kirsten and I were seeing him for the first time. He was wearing rings and necklaces and pair of glasses with lenses way too thick for a normal person to see through. Dangling between his fingers was a huge joint.

  ‘This is Bernie,’ said Vince.

  ‘Hi,’ said Bernie.

  ‘Bernie and I have known each other for …’ He thought a minute. ‘How long have we known each other?’ he asked.

  ‘Real long,’ said Bernie. ‘From when my mother was still buying underpants for me.’

  ‘Exactly, and Bernie is the owner of this … uh …’

  ‘Spaceship,’ said Bernie. ‘By which I can reach any solar system I want.’ He raised an index finger and pressed a large button on the dashboard. With a deep snarl, the diesel engine started up. The camper shook a bit and calmed back down as soon as the engine began to idle.

  ‘Hyperdrive,’ said Bernie, holding the joint up invitingly.

  ‘Toke, anyone?’ he asked.

  The joint was passed around, from Batte to Kirsten to me. Everyone took a couple of hits, holding their breath as long as they could and then exhaling the disarmed smoke. The fragrance filled the camper, and it didn’t take long before I began feeling the weed’s effects.

  ‘And where exactly are these distant reaches?’ I asked.

  ‘Amsterdam North,’ said Vince.

  ‘Always wanted to go there,’ I said, and I stuck the joint between my lips, inhaled deeply a couple of times and passed it on to Kirsten. What happened after that I no longer remember. Bernie drove away slowly, very cautiously, at Vince and Kirsten’s express instructions. The languid, rocking movement of the camper and the deep hum of the diesel engine encircled us like a protective shield. The journey into space had begun.

  Bernie stopped the camper on a street corner somewhere on Java Island. He and Vince exchanged a few muttered words, then Bernie got out.

  ‘Cool, be right back,’ he said. He closed the door gently behind him. I raised myself up and looked out through the window. I could see the island’s new canals in the early evening light. Bernie swaggered away.

  ‘This isn’t North, is it?’ I asked.

  Batte shook his head. Kirsten stared at the street we were parked on with strained concentration.

  ‘So where are we?’

  ‘Come to get my thing,’ said Vince.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. My problem was just the opposite of Kirsten’s. My concentration was nowhere. ‘What thing?’ I asked.

  Batte looked around with a glazed expression and rubbed his eyes. ‘You know,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  Bernie stopped halfway down the street and went into a doorway. Slowly it began to dawn on me that we were at Batte’s apartment and that Bernie had gone in to pick something up.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said.

  ‘Cool,’ said Vince.

  Kirsten stared out the window and said nothing. Actually I should have been exploding with rage, I should have been screaming and shouting that they were totally out of their minds to come here, that they h
ad no idea how dangerous it was, and on and on, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was a kind of rolling giggle.

  ‘Wow, scary!’ I said.

  Now Vince started giggling. The weed had wrapped itself around our funny bones and was making them do very unusual things.

  ‘Oh, Bernie’s just going inside,’ said Vince, ‘and … nobody ever asks Bernie to do anything, really. He’s just not the kind of individual that other people ask to do things … which is weird, by the way, because he does whatever you want, but nobody knows that, so actually he’s got the perfect disguise …’ Vince was silent for a moment. ‘Fuck, this is strong weed,’ he said suddenly, and I couldn’t hold it any longer. I lay prostrate on the couch bed, hooting with laughter. Vince was in his seat, laughing so hard that the tears trickled down his cheeks.

  ‘Jesus, what is it with you two?’ said Kirsten. Our laughing fit had disturbed her concentration. She was angry, but her anger had the opposite effect.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘if this goes wrong, we’re all goners.’ My body was shaking with laughter.

  ‘Oh, now that’s really funny,’ said Kirsten.

  Vince howled. He slid off his seat and disappeared under the dashboard. His arms were wrapped around his knees and he lay like a little ball on the floor of the camper. I tried to stuff one of the couch cushions into my mouth to stifle the rapidly spreading internal goofiness.

  ‘I’m trying to see something here,’ said Kirsten peevishly. Vince and I were out of control.

  Bernie rode from the island back to the Piet Hein Tunnel. The big camper hummed peacefully, as if we were in a private room, traveling through an unfamiliar world of concrete, asphalt and artificial lighting. A spaceship with a diesel engine, slowly and imperturbably making our way to a new solar system.

  The laughing fit disappeared as it had struck, bit by bit. By the time we got to the ring road to Amsterdam North we were silent. Kirsten looked out the window as the night glided past. Vince searched through the things Bernie had retrieved for him from his apartment. I was still lying on my stomach, head on a pillow, arms wrapped around it. My body was completely relaxed, thanks to the weed. No pressure on my back, no frenetic attempts to keep my limbs under control, to prevent any unexpected or stupid movements from stirring up the pain again. All I did was lie there.