The Gomorrah Gambit

by Tom Chatfield

  Fifty-one

  They are coming for her. And, frustratingly, there appears to be little she can do about it, beyond the systematic destruction in which she is currently engaging. Wisps of dust and ash emerge from the largest of her suitcases as the devices within are incinerated. She has perhaps ten minutes. She will be ready.

  Then, unexpectedly, the last of her phones rings. It’s the only one yet to be destroyed. She answers. Contingencies are in place. Nothing at this stage can be changed.

  “Erasmus.”

  “My dear.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I am sorry.”

  His voice is delicate, compassionate. “It cannot be helped. You are ready?”

  “Of course. It all points to me. Gomorrah is gone. I am looking forward to your public performance.”

  “It will be hard. But it is necessary.”

  “Yes.”

  “We have a moment.” He hesitates, sounding almost wistful. “Do you remember what I told you, when we first met?”

  There is no need to answer. She remembers. He asked to meet her in person. A hotel in Paris, dripping with splendor. She expected one of those men who had groped and ogled their way through her adolescence: pride, libido and chemical-assisted potency in an Armani suit. Instead a slender man walked towards her and, without raising his voice or breaking her gaze, spoke about their place in history. What he said changed her life.

  History isn’t written by the victors. It is written by the survivors. Look at the Jews. Five thousand years of loss and exile. Yet they endured. The only judge is time, and it only knows one judgment: stay or cease. All that matters is for a species to go on carrying itself through eternity. The rest is detail.

  There’s a silence on both ends of the line. Not awkwardness but acknowledgment. Finally, Erasmus speaks.

  “You will need to endure. They will try to break you.”

  “I know.”

  “We will not speak for a long time. But I will come for you. Remember that.”

  She believes him. “I will.”

  “Now. There is something I wish you to hear. You are dear to me. Consider it a gift.”

  Her microphone mutes, then she hears a phone ringing: a European tone. It rings for perhaps a minute until, eventually, a loud, deep voice sounds from the other end.

  “Hallo?”

  Erasmus replies in a voice she has not heard before. He sounds unsure, compliant.

  “Hallo, Tomi? It is your friend, from across the water.”

  “Gut. Zwei Minuten. You may speak.”

  “I am checking in. To confirm that you are well.”

  There’s a mighty cough. “You know that I am. This was not as we discussed.”

  “I am sorry. Unforeseen complications arose.”

  “No matter. It will be well. Enough blood to baptize me a hero. Enough fear to win me a nation.”

  “I am proud to have been of service. And of course—”

  “Yes?”

  “This is only the beginning. Those facilities I can put at your disposal: have you reached a decision?”

  “I will let you know what I decide. When I decide.”

  “Of course, Herr Christian. I am at your service.”

  Suddenly, the man speaking to Erasmus sounds self-conscious, as if there’s something he needs to explain. “This was necessary, you understand. If there had been another way…Every drop of German blood spilled pains me, as if it were my own.”

  “I understand perfectly. Die Deutschen immer vor dem Ausländer.”

  “Und den Juden! Not to mention the fucking Arabs. Yes. I must go now.”

  “Your good health, Chancellor.”

  A last, preening pause. “Not yet. Soon.”

  The phone clicks. Amira’s microphone unmutes.

  “Five minutes until they are with you. Goodbye, my dear. Endure.”

  She hangs up, deposits the phone in the case, commits her final act of destruction. Nothing remains. Erasmus is untouchable. Glancing in the full-length mirror, she adjusts the hem of her dress, slips on her chosen pair of shoes, then pours a glass of wine.

  Azi Bello is alive. This is a problem. Moreover, it’s personal—the only problem she has ever failed to resolve.

  Taking a sip of wine, Amira Dewan salutes her beautiful reflection. Even now, it all comes down to the story you tell; the mobilization of facts in a cause.

  Every ending is also a beginning.

  Fifty-two

  Within a few minutes, after a sequence of events that may become clear at a later point in his life, Azi finds himself seated in a reassuringly anonymous and windowless office facing Anna across an IKEA desk. There is a cup of coffee in front of him. He doesn’t precisely remember how he got here, or at what point Odi left them. But he does know that two things, above all, demand answers—and that this woman is firmly back in the role of Someone Who Knows More Than Him.

  “So…Ad.”

  “Alive. He should be fine. Eventually.”

  “Munira…Amira, I mean.”

  “I am told we’ll have her within minutes. The Four Seasons, Silicon Valley.”

  Azi pauses. The next question is more complicated.

  “The rally. Görlitz. What happened? How many dead?”

  “You saved thousands of lives.”

  “Right. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “It’s what I’m telling you, because I’m not in a position to answer your other question.”

  “Was it tens? Or hundreds? Or…”

  Anna gives him a hard look across the table. Then, to his surprise, she looks away.

  “Maybe a hundred, slightly more. Ballpark. It’s…You wouldn’t believe it. I have never seen, not since…”

  She shrugs, pauses, then meets his eyes again.

  “You need to rest, Azi. There are things you shouldn’t think about until you have rested.”

  Now it’s his turn to shrug. For the first time since Anna stepped into his shed, the beat of peril has dulled. It’s a strange feeling. Like a hangover that hasn’t been preceded by anything remotely entertaining. The future lies ahead, imponderable. There are horrors out there, with greater horrors lurking behind them. Yet, for this moment at least, they can wait.

  “So, Anna. What happens now?”

  She looks at him evenly. “I could ask what you want to happen. But that would be dishonest. You’re not going back to your old life.”

  Azi knew this already, which is why he’s surprised to find the information catching in his throat. “Sure.”

  “What interests me,” Anna continues, choosing to ignore his emotion, “are people’s motives. Most of the people in our trade—Homeland, NSA, black bag, special ops—care a great deal about what people do. They are obsessed with what is happening. But they’re not so interested in the why. That’s my department.”

  “Right.” Azi has no idea where this is going, but that’s hardly new.

  “Why is a dangerous word. It picks things apart, ruins the best conspiracies. Given what you know, and where we’d have to lock you up to ensure you didn’t repeat it, perhaps you would be interested in an extension of our current contractual relationship. Assuming our hosts release us into daylight at some point.”

  This was not what Azi expected. “You’re offering me a job.”

  “I’m quite specifically not doing that. I’m offering not to put you in prison and throw away the key.”

  “With pay?”

  Anna smiles. “Think of it as a very, very exclusive freelance gig. We’ve recently contracted a Greek doctor on a similar basis. I’d say you’ll like her, but I think she plans to rip off your head next time you meet.”

  “Jesus. Eleni? Are you being serious?”

  “We are open to talent. And I am extremely persuasive.”

  “I can believe that. One question. Does this mean you can tell me who I’ll be not-working for—what your operation is actually called?”

  “We have a dull designation. Global Opera
tions. It could be anything. Deliberately so.”

  “I see. Well, that’s pretty rubbish. If we’re going to be working together, I’ll need to make up something cooler.”

  Anna reaches out and offers Azi a handshake that lasts just long enough for him to flinch at the coiled force in her grasp.

  “To be clear, Azi. I reserve the right to destroy you if you ever, ever betray my trust. Or start giving my organization nicknames.”

  Azi raises an eyebrow.

  “Oh, I’d expect nothing less.”

  Acknowledgments

  In the popular imagination, writing a novel often looks like this: an author locks themself away with only inspiration for company; months or years pass until, eventually, they emerge clutching the finished object, ready to meet the world. Some novels may get written this way—but mine didn’t. From the beginning, I have owed an extraordinary amount to the acuity of my agent, Jon Elek, and to the expertise and passion of my editor, Melissa Cox. This book could never have happened without them, or become anything like the text in front of you. I owe them an immense debt, together with everyone at United Agents and Hachette who has poured expertise into it—not least my U.S. editor, Josh Kendall; UK assistant editor, Lily Cooper; my copyeditor, Susan Opie; and my proofreader, Charlotte Webb. Thank you. It has been a privilege and an astonishment.

  This novel was also written from within the maelstrom of family life, where my wife, Cat, has managed to juggle her career, our two young children and in excess of a dozen readings of the evolving manuscript—in addition to putting up with me. I simply couldn’t have done it without her, or without the collective support and belief of our wider family. They’ve been among my first and most generous readers, together with friends who have helped me keep faith: Anton Irvine, Ziyad Marar, Susha Ireland, Jamie Bartlett.

  Jamie occupies a double place on this list, because his nonfiction books The Dark Net and Radicals are among those that drove me towards this topic—and provided factual fuel for the fiction. The real world is much, much stranger than anything I can come up with, and those who wish to know more should seek out his books, together with the writings of Carl Miller, Evgeny Morozov, Jaron Lanier, Kevin Mitnick, Mikko Hyppönen, Thomas Rid, and countless other researchers grappling with technology’s darker sides.

  I’m not going to provide a bibliography, because this is avowedly a work of fiction—and one I have relished writing slantwise to reality, mixing the plausible and fantastical, the historical and the things that simply amuse me. Unlike reality, fiction has an obligation to make sense. But it’s allowed to do so on its own terms, and I hope these have here included some wit, hope and illumination. God knows we’re in need of all three.

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  About the Author

  Dr. Tom Chatfield is a British writer, broadcaster and tech philosopher who is interested in using digital technology to improve our experiences. His past books, including Netymology, explore digital culture and have appeared in over two dozen countries and languages. He lives near London with his family.