A Long Visit to Sunny, Scenic Tel Aviv by Tony Noland
“A Long Visit to Sunny, Scenic Tel Aviv”
By Tony Noland
"You know, I actually don't like working under pressure."
"You know, I actually don't give a shit. You have seventeen minutes."
Throughout this exchange, Nicky never stopped typing and Raj never stopped pacing and checking his watch. By now, Raj was used to his partner's strange, random speech patterns when he was deep in a coding fugue. He might start reciting nursery rhymes or song lyrics. He might dwell on one of his favorite hobby horses, like the designated hitter rule or the gold standard. He might start describing his sexual fantasies, which Raj woul
d have found entertaining if a) Nicky's fantasies weren't so pedestrian and b) his descriptions weren't so detailed they could have been taken from an OB/GYN medical reference textbook.
When he was coding, Nicky talked the way normal people drummed their fingers. He didn't know he was doing it, often couldn't remember having said anything at all.
Nicky was weird. Good weird, amazing weird... but weird.
Raj was far from weird. That they were both machine men was where their similarities ended. Raj's code was all over the place. He'd given a lot of it away as open source, but once the training wheels came off, that had come to an end. Raj was good, and he knew it. In fact, he was very, very good, good enough to know that Nicky was better. Much better.
When Raj first started selling what he referred to as his more "baroque" code, he thought the buyers were really Canadians. His foolish, dangerous naiveté was one of those shames you never stop carrying. After he found out they were Russians, he spent an evening alone in his Montreal hotel room, considering his situation. Once you've been running this kind of work, you can't just stop doing business with people like that. It doesn't work that way. As dawn pinked the sky, he came to a decision about how he would continue and how, eventually, he would get out.
In that hotel room, with a safety pin and a blue ball point pen, Raj tattooed a mark on the inside of his left pinky finger, as a reminder to himself never to trust anyone ever again.
He did business. First it was more work for the Russians. Then it was the Chinese. Then it was the Brazilians, the Kenyans, the Indians. Everybody had things they wanted done that they couldn't do themselves. Raj used people to make these things happen, including Nicky, his latest protégé. Nicky was weird, almost non-functional as a person, but he was the best machine man around.
Raj's consulting business thrived. He'd made lots of money, been lots of places, had lots of women. Life had been good.
And it all came apart when the Iranians wanted help finding and stopping the subtle disruptor worm the Israelis planted. The whole thing had been delicious, since he'd written both the original control codes for the Iranians' illegal nuclear reprocessing centrifuges and the worm for the Israelis. God, how he'd laughed!
Now, as he paced the room, he checked his watch and rubbed the blurry, indistinct mark on his left pinky finger. The ink from the pen bled under his skin almost immediately, and continued to bleed during the months following his self-administered markup. Rather than being angry, he'd taken it as a sign. He'd planned it as a delta, a living mark to remind him that change was constant, that nothing was certain. What could be more prophetic than to have his plans derailed, beginning with the tattoo? What better way to underscore the need to be careful, to keep on his toes, to not get complacent and sloppy?
So much for the power of talismans.
"Twelve minutes, Nicky. They'll trace the intrusion in twelve minutes. How's it coming?" Raj instantly hated himself for asking, for bothering Nicky at the most important moment in either of their lives. Nicky was in the zone and working at maximum capacity - he wouldn't hear or respond anyway. Raj closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Either Nicky would get in and out cleanly, clear the traces and set up the false trails that would lead the Israelis and Iranians away, or he would get caught, in which case he and Raj would be captured. Very bad things would happen to them if they were captured. Very, very bad things.
Raj's nerves were dangerously close to breaking. Pacing and checking his watch was bad; he had to do something.
Before he was able to continue the thought, the door quietly opened and four men came in fast, guns drawn. In stupid surprise, Raj stared down the blue barrel of an enormous Glock. Nicky stopped typing.
"How did you find us?" It was a stupid thing to say, but Raj wasn't thinking clearly.
Nicky turned from the keyboard.
"Actually, Raj, they didn't find US. They found YOU. You didn't really think I was going to help you screw our clients and then run away, did you?"
By Tony Noland
"You know, I actually don't like working under pressure."
"You know, I actually don't give a shit. You have seventeen minutes."
Throughout this exchange, Nicky never stopped typing and Raj never stopped pacing and checking his watch. By now, Raj was used to his partner's strange, random speech patterns when he was deep in a coding fugue. He might start reciting nursery rhymes or song lyrics. He might dwell on one of his favorite hobby horses, like the designated hitter rule or the gold standard. He might start describing his sexual fantasies, which Raj woul
d have found entertaining if a) Nicky's fantasies weren't so pedestrian and b) his descriptions weren't so detailed they could have been taken from an OB/GYN medical reference textbook.When he was coding, Nicky talked the way normal people drummed their fingers. He didn't know he was doing it, often couldn't remember having said anything at all.
Nicky was weird. Good weird, amazing weird... but weird.
Raj was far from weird. That they were both machine men was where their similarities ended. Raj's code was all over the place. He'd given a lot of it away as open source, but once the training wheels came off, that had come to an end. Raj was good, and he knew it. In fact, he was very, very good, good enough to know that Nicky was better. Much better.
When Raj first started selling what he referred to as his more "baroque" code, he thought the buyers were really Canadians. His foolish, dangerous naiveté was one of those shames you never stop carrying. After he found out they were Russians, he spent an evening alone in his Montreal hotel room, considering his situation. Once you've been running this kind of work, you can't just stop doing business with people like that. It doesn't work that way. As dawn pinked the sky, he came to a decision about how he would continue and how, eventually, he would get out.
In that hotel room, with a safety pin and a blue ball point pen, Raj tattooed a mark on the inside of his left pinky finger, as a reminder to himself never to trust anyone ever again.
He did business. First it was more work for the Russians. Then it was the Chinese. Then it was the Brazilians, the Kenyans, the Indians. Everybody had things they wanted done that they couldn't do themselves. Raj used people to make these things happen, including Nicky, his latest protégé. Nicky was weird, almost non-functional as a person, but he was the best machine man around.
Raj's consulting business thrived. He'd made lots of money, been lots of places, had lots of women. Life had been good.
And it all came apart when the Iranians wanted help finding and stopping the subtle disruptor worm the Israelis planted. The whole thing had been delicious, since he'd written both the original control codes for the Iranians' illegal nuclear reprocessing centrifuges and the worm for the Israelis. God, how he'd laughed!
Now, as he paced the room, he checked his watch and rubbed the blurry, indistinct mark on his left pinky finger. The ink from the pen bled under his skin almost immediately, and continued to bleed during the months following his self-administered markup. Rather than being angry, he'd taken it as a sign. He'd planned it as a delta, a living mark to remind him that change was constant, that nothing was certain. What could be more prophetic than to have his plans derailed, beginning with the tattoo? What better way to underscore the need to be careful, to keep on his toes, to not get complacent and sloppy?
So much for the power of talismans.
"Twelve minutes, Nicky. They'll trace the intrusion in twelve minutes. How's it coming?" Raj instantly hated himself for asking, for bothering Nicky at the most important moment in either of their lives. Nicky was in the zone and working at maximum capacity - he wouldn't hear or respond anyway. Raj closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Either Nicky would get in and out cleanly, clear the traces and set up the false trails that would lead the Israelis and Iranians away, or he would get caught, in which case he and Raj would be captured. Very bad things would happen to them if they were captured. Very, very bad things.
Raj's nerves were dangerously close to breaking. Pacing and checking his watch was bad; he had to do something.
Before he was able to continue the thought, the door quietly opened and four men came in fast, guns drawn. In stupid surprise, Raj stared down the blue barrel of an enormous Glock. Nicky stopped typing.
"How did you find us?" It was a stupid thing to say, but Raj wasn't thinking clearly.
Nicky turned from the keyboard.
"Actually, Raj, they didn't find US. They found YOU. You didn't really think I was going to help you screw our clients and then run away, did you?"
