Hack:Moscow (8 page)

In Yaroslavsky railway station, a dusty, ragged crowd mills under the beige vaulted-ceilings, waiting for their train. My nerves had been x-rayed into calm at the checkpoint scanner. I’m past that. A backpacker walks towards the exit leading to the yard outside, his ponderous backpack swinging like an elephant’s rear. I wait by a pillar, trying to see if anyone was looking for me.
You are here
, a map on the pillar informs me.

Every time someone comes close, I lower my cap. I gaze up at the train schedule in slow-flickering blocky red letters on the wall, then look down at the map again. X marks the spot. I am X, an unknown variable, a catalyst. I study the layout of the station, then take a deep breath.

Time to do this.

I join the queue for a ticket. As I do so, a group of slant-eyed Mongolian traders with colorful canvas bags swarm the middle of the station. Across them, a soldier turns, his hand patting his submachine gun like he’s bringing a dog to heel. His flinty eyes look through me. X is one-dimensional, almost invisible. He elbows his partner, and I see him grin. I don’t like the look.

“Hey,” he calls out, “you.”

My heart does a somersault.

“Papers,” the soldier calls out to the traders, who began buzzing like frenzied bees, their many hands reaching into this waist pouch or that bag for the required paper, maybe a bribe.

When I reach the counter, I see the attendant chewing gum in a slack-jawed way. “Ticket for one?” Her chewing slows when I lay out the cash. She blows a bubble, then pops it deliberately, as if she’s trying not to be impressed. “You never heard of a credit card? Where to?”

I want to go home, but I’ve no home now.

Earlier, in my apartment, I didn’t waste time. I had thrown clothes into my bag. My passport. I shoved half the money Luka gave me under Old Nelya’s door, along with a note, then ran down the stairwell. That was when I saw Anna sweeping the stairwell. When she saw my bag, she knew. “Where are you going? You’re leaving.” Her eyes suddenly became hopeful.

“I’m…” the lie began, and stopped. She’s the only one who’d never deceived me.

She grabbed my wrist. A strong grip, the callused finger tips of a pianist. “Wait for me.” She turned and headed back into her apartment.

I can’t even take care of myself,
I wanted to cry while eyeing the stairs desperately. My plans wavered. It was safer for me to go alone. It’s best for her.

Then, I made up my mind.

At the ticket counter, I finger my destination on the printed train schedule.

“That’s a long ride.” The attendant eyes me, proffering an unusual look of concern. When I say nothing, her bureaucrat mask slips back on. “One ticket?”

“Two,” I answer, holding Anna’s hand in mine.

On the train, a middle-aged couple in matching t-shirts slowly set up their bags on the other side of the cabin. Anna’s head rests on my shoulder. The excitement has sapped both of us.

“Don’t worry, I’m strong,” she tells me, then her tone wavers. “Are you sure this is ok?” She presses my hand again, as if to ask whether we have permission to escape.

I squeeze her hand back. We don’t need permission for anything. Not anymore.

The woman who shares our cabin eyes us. She clears her throat as if about to try something. “We’ve always wanted to be here.” Her tone is halting, her accent all wrong. Their chunky camera announces they are tourists. “We are happy to visit. It is a nice city. A beautiful place.”

The man, her husband judging from their wedding bands, points at Anna. “Girlfriend?”

I shake my head.

He frowns, snaps his fingers while fumbling for another word. “Sister?”

I pretend not to understand. The two retreat to their translation book. Finally, the woman pulls out a large box of biscuits. She mimes an eating action. I take one for Anna and they relax, assured we’re harmless locals.

Outside, the afternoon wanes and the attendants at attention start harrying passengers to board. A flurry of hugs, waves, goodbyes. A woman is kissing a man as if she would never let go. A bearded man struggles with his luggage.

Suddenly, a wild-eyed man peers into our cabin from outside the porthole window. He looks at me, then the others, then at me again. I tense. Is he one of Boris’ men? Is he looking for me? I don’t know. I do know what he sees: four people sharing cream biscuits, my fake and happy family.

“Who do you think he was looking for?” Anna asked me after the man darts away.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The whistle blows twice and the train kicks to a start. It curves on its tracks as it pulls out. As we slide beneath a bridge, gaining speed, the couple heads off with their camera to capture the last sights of Moscow. I take a deep breath and relax. Soon, we’ll be out of the city and done with it.

But not yet. I pull out my laptop and put the finishing touches on my last project.

Anna presses against me, and I feel the heat of her thigh against mine. Cozy. “Do you remember that promise we had long ago?”

“I do. We’ll find a place like that. I have money to get us there. We’ll do it.”

There’s doubt in her eyes, as if she doesn’t quite believe what’s happening. “We can celebrate your birthday there. It’s tomorrow isn’t it?” A slight pause. “You still haven’t told me why you’re—”

“Later,” I interrupt her. “Later, we tell each other everything.”

She rests her head against the window just as a pair of crows swoop low, then soar away. That’s the way to go, fast and far. “Do you think anyone will look for us?” Our lives and its troubles ran parallel to each other now, like the paired rails of the train track. “We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?” There’s a naivety in her doubt, and it feels precious, a fragile flower to be protected from the gale.

“It’s this place that’s messed up. That’s why we’re leaving it. We’re doing the right thing.”

I know because I grew up. Once, I thought I’d change the world, but Moscow remade me.

Anton and Luka used to tease me, calling me Andrei 1.0. I’m not that anymore. Anton, Luka, look at me! I’m a different version now, a 2.0!

But that joke died with them.

I open my laptop and begin programming a simple timer. Outside, the train clashes and screeches against the tracks. I set the timer forward, to the next scheduled stop outside Moscow. As I put the package together, I think back to the first time I met Luka, the childish prank I played then.

Knock knock, who’s there?

Hello, Moscow, it’s me again. Last time, I offered you music, I wanted everything to sing. Now, I have something else for you, a delivery on behalf of Luka. It’s not music this time. This will shut you up and shut you down.

“What if…” Anna begins again.

“Don’t worry. No one will follow us.” I try to smile at her, to reassure her. “I’m sure of it,” I repeat, my finger stroking the keyboard, I’m waiting for a sign.

Then, I see it.

In the distance, on the roof of a dinghy mid-rise, the emblem of Moscow Telecom gleams, a metallic array of panels angled towards the skies like heads turned up in prayer. The train barrels towards it, as if nothing can stop its momentum. My finger is poised, waiting for the building to come, closer and closer.

Send.

Note from author

The book would not have been possible without the support of many. I am deeply grateful to the following for their help and support: Patrick McGrath, who gave me invaluable advice about writing; Susan Shapiro, who taught me perseverance; to those who spoke to me about the dark arts and allowed me glimpses into their community; and my many test readers (especially Maron Anrow.)

Above all, I am grateful to my readers and would love to hear from you. I value your feedback, and any online reviews would be much appreciated.

About the author

W. Len
received a Masters in Fine Arts from the New School, and did his undergraduate studies at Brown University. There, he studied computer science, spent a long time dwelling in a computer lab, then switched courses after suffering from acute Vitamin D deficiency.

His works have appeared in Financial Times publications, New York Press, The Brooklyn Rail, and foreign newspapers, such as The Straits Times.

Besides writing, at various points of his life, he has worked on Wall Street; taught at Parsons, School of Design; served in the Navy; and sold candy on the streets.

He is currently working on a novel about misbehaving financiers.