I asked for the name of the company we’d be working for.

“They sent an intermediary. I have no idea who they are,” said Ali.

There was no reason not to believe him.

“They’ll provide us with all the necessary telephone numbers and passwords. Easy as pie. Just go through their system like you were carding wool, leaving no records behind.”

“We could be falling into a trap,” I said. “What if they’re having us crash someone else’s system, not their own?”

“What difference does it make?” Ali objected. “They’re the ones paying us; we’ll do whatever they want. And if it really is someone else’s system we crash, we may have just created a new client. Then we’d fix their system and earn even more.”

“Look, Ali,” I said, “if I do the job right, even I won’t be able to get the system up and running again. It’s easier to destroy than to create.”

“So we’d ask for extra money.”

“Look,” I warned Ali, once again, “I’m not so sure about this. You know I’m not one to go on about principles, but wrecking someone’s system because someone else is paying you for it seems a bit much to me.”

“Princess, you’ve gone all soft on me,” Ali said. “You never had a problem with this before. What’s happened to you?”

“That was the old me.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you remember all the systems we crashed just because the client didn’t agree to meet our price. You do remember?”

I did. It was our favored response to companies that went too far in trying to drive down our fee. Once we’d crashed their systems, they’d come running, and would give us whatever we demanded.

“If we don’t do it, Cihad2000 will. You know that! He’s been undercutting us, snagging all our business. I’ve had to stop communicating over the Internet because of him, and I even have my doubts about using my cell phone. I’ve taken to arranging meetings in person.”

As I sat there, silent, Ali continued for some time to try to persuade me to accept the project.

“All right,” I finally relented. “I’ll do it.”

“They’ll tell us the day and time.”

“How systematic of them.”

Once I’d agreed to do the job, Ali suddenly decided to agree with my reservations.

“Maybe you’re right about this one. It does seem like something funny is going on, but as long as we don’t know what it is, it won’t affect us. We’ll still have clean hands and clear consciences!”

“Give me the numbers and codes,” I said.

“I don’t know them. They’re going to let us know over the phone.”

“You mean I’m supposed to sit here day and night waiting for their call? Forget it!”

“Of course you don’t have to sit here,” he said soothingly. “I’ll get in touch with the intermediary and he’ll stay in touch with the client. We’ve only just agreed to do this in any case, haven’t we?”

Ali went to his office to make the necessary phone call, leaving me alone. I sorted through my mail and scanned the latest magazines.

Figen brought in a cup of Turkish coffee, served with a piece of chocolate.

“I just got engaged,” she announced. “The chocolate’s from the party.”

Hiding my surprise, I congratulated her. So Figen had landed a husband. Miracle of miracles! Ever since I met her she’s been dreaming of finding a man, and considered each one she met, regardless of age and marital status, a potential suitor.

“Oh, by the way, I wonder if I could ask you something?”

“Go on, dear,” I replied. That “dear” was in honor of her engagement.

“I wondered where you picked up your two-piece. I just love it.”

I’d purchased the suit in question at NetWork but would never wear it again on the chance that Figen would now run out and buy the same thing. The very idea of appearing in public in the same costume as Figen sent a shudder down my spine. For one thing, she had a huge rear. Her acquisition of a fiance did not mean she was in my league and could copy my dress sense.

“I bought it overseas,” I lied.

“It’s so cute,” she gushed.

I thanked her once again.

“There’s a photograph of my fiance on my desk; I could show you if you’re curious.”

That’s all I needed.

I continued flipping the pages of the magazine without really looking at them.

“I’m busy right now. Another time maybe,” I said.

She was tactful enough to take a hint, and left the room without comment.

In less than the time it took me to flip through a second magazine, Ali returned.

“They want us to start today,” he said.

“Perfect,” I said. “We won’t have to wait around. I’ll get started immediately and you’ll get your money.”

“Perfect. I agree.”

“Did you know that Ponpon calls you Money-counter?” I said.

“Who’s Ponpon?”

Ali inevitably forgets every face and name who isn’t in some way connected to earning money.

“She remembers you,” I said. “You know, my big sister.”

“Ah, that’s right, that friend of yours,” Ali lied, clearly as clueless as ever. “Anyway, about those numbers and passwords.”

He handed me a sheet of pink paper.

“This evening,” he instructed, “after seven p.m. will be suitable. They suggested between nine and ten as the ideal time.”

“Talk about fussy!” I said.

“They pay; we listen,” said Ali.

“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted.

“And please, whatever you do, don’t leave any tracks. You may even want to go online at a cafe. Working from home or here at the office could be risky.”

He was right. Just as I was sometimes able to trace Cihad2000, he and others like him could do the same when it came to me.

Then I had a stroke of genius: Why not make it look as though Cihad2000 had done it? I could easily access his connections. Yes, I was taking a chance. If he found out, it would be considered a declaration of war. But I had learned all his tricks, and it would be no trouble to imitate his methods. And if I went online at an Internet cafe, it would be impossible to trace me.

I didn’t tell Ali what I was thinking. We agreed on a code I’d use to let him know my work was done.

Chapter 14

An analog phone line would be preferable, even though it would be a slow connection. It’s easier to detect someone-or be detected-on a digital line. The very fact that analog lines are so old and inefficient is a kind of built-in security system.

I took the office laptop away with me. Then I visited a few of the Internet cafes in Besiktas where students hang out. They all have digital lines. But I was certain there were still analog lines in use; Cihad2000 lived in Besiktas and he had both types. The last cafe I entered was nearly full, with groups of teenagers gathered in front of each screen.

The cubicles were tiny, and by massing in front of the screens the students concealed them completely. Their silence, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath, made me doubt whether they were in the cafe to do their homework.

I found an empty computer near the door. There would be a lot of traffic behind me, but it was worth a try. And it wasn’t as though the content on my screen would attract attention. First I tried out the connection on the PC. Analog, just as I’d hoped. I turned on my laptop as well.

I opened a few browsers, so that if someone suddenly appeared behind me, I could switch to an innocent music, travel, or news Web site. The connection was slow, and the PC antique. I connected the PC to the laptop. Identity shield safely in place, I began browsing in security.

The first of the numbers Money-counter Ali had given me worked at the first try. The site was not open to the public. I had been connected to a modem line that had been left open. It would make my job much easier.

Fine. I would cause the entire system to crash and not leave a trace of data behind, but I couldn’t help having a peek at what I was about to obliterate. The connection was strangely primitive, full of redirections and substandard shield programs. It was obviously an outdated example of amateur software. The first image on the screen was a long list. A long list of numbers.

I scanned through the programs in order to get a better understanding of what they could be. The numbers were too long and irregular to be bank accounts. I began looking for alphabetical characters. I was in no hurry; I was just beginning.

One of the young cafe workers suddenly asked me if I’d like anything to drink. I looked nothing like the others at the cafe, and he wasn’t about to leave me in peace and forgo the prospect of a tip.

“What have you got?” I asked.

Stuffing both hands into his jeans pockets, he shrugged slightly.

“Tea… Nescafe… cola…ayran…”

There was no need to cause a stir by asking if they had herbal tea. My outfit and open laptop connected to their PC already had marked me as slightly

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