Turing's Delirium (36 page)

You clean out your desk, putting all of your personal effects and papers into a cardboard box. You erase files from the computer, organize your e-mail. You walk through the aisles of the archives to say goodbye. On which shelf will they put your file? Or will they get rid of this entire floor, and all that you were, all that you did, will become nothing more than a few bits in the memory of some computer? It is your fate: code you were and code you will become.

You urinate a few drops in a corner of the room, no longer wanting to use the cup with Road Runner on it. Will they be filming you? It doesn't matter anymore.

You hand your resignation to Ramírez-Graham and think you can detect emotion in his voice. Perhaps he's not such a bad person after all. Perhaps his only problem is that Albert's job is too big for him.

The police do not allow you to leave. The captain tells you that all personnel have been ordered to stay in the building until further notice. The situation, which the military seemed to have under control on Thursday night, has worsened again. There are riots in the main plaza.

The news doesn't bother you. It is raining out and better to stay indoors until it passes. You trust that the authorities will impose order. Meanwhile, you have more time to say goodbye.

Your procession through the building, going to each room, saying goodbye to those walls that had witnessed so many historic moments and to those who worked there, took time. You knew that you were not leaving entirely. Something of your spirit would remain here.

 

The puddles in the streets are lit up by faint, intermittent sodium light bulbs. When you left the chamber, there was no light in the neighboring streets. You left your car where it was parked and walked for ten blocks before there was any electricity. You count the bulbs as you go, trying to see if their intervals might result in a coherent message in Morse code; you must always pay attention. The world speaks without ceasing, and it is your duty to listen and try to understand it. Now and then it even makes sense. Much more often the world vomits up delirious signals, phrases that lead nowhere, images without context.

Your cell phone rings. It is a video message from Santana announcing an emergency at the Black Chamber. He asks everyone in the building not to resist the SIN agents, to cooperate and convene in the Vigenère Room. You have no idea what could be happening—you left the building only forty-five minutes ago. You try to forget about it, reminding yourself that you no longer work there.

You discover a message from Ruth that you haven't noticed before: she needs to speak to you, it's urgent. There had been an emergency; she had spent last night and all day today in jail. They had let her out a while ago; she was wandering through the city and would be home late. You think,
Flavia spent the whole night alone.
You hope nothing has happened to her.

You call Ruth. Poor thing, she will be so surprised when you tell her that you are leaving. When you tell her you want to separate, even ask for a divorce. You promised Carla that you would ask for a divorce. But perhaps it would be best to separate for a few months, see how things go with Carla, and only then think about something as definitive as divorce. You have to admit that so many things tie you to Ruth. The years add up.

As soon as you hear her voice, you realize that certain things need to be said in person. You tell her that you are sorry about what happened to her and that you will be home soon. She tells you she is not there yet. You tell her that you resigned from the Black Chamber. Surprised, she asks you for details. Later, later.

"Actually," you say, "I want to ask you a favor. Since you know all about history, what do the cities Kaufbeuren and Rosenheim mean to you?"

"One of the Germans' most important intelligence centers was in Kaufbeuren during World War II. And Rosenheim ... I'm pretty sure that was one of the cities where the Allies held German intelligence service prisoners, including several cryptanalysts. Why?"

Ah, Ruth, who has answers for everything: you will miss her. Bit by bit you are putting Albert's history together.

"Just one more question. Does Wettenhein mean anything to you?"

"Spell it for me.".

You do.

"Erich Huettenhain," she says almost immediately. "With an
h
and two
t's.
A lot of Nazi cryptanalysts were given new identities and offered work with the American and British governments. Huettenhain was one of them—one of the most important. He was involved in every single one of the Nazis' cryptanalytic successes. He was taken to the United States in secret and worked for the Americans during the cold war."

A war criminal working for the government ... The Americans certainly were pragmatic. Could it be that...?

"Do you think ... that Albert could be Huettenhain?"

"He's not the right age. Could be his son. Oh, and you could have at least asked me how I am."

Ruth hangs up. You imagine a story. The story of Albert, a young Nazi cryptanalyst who operated out of Kaufbeuren and who, when the Allies arrived, was transferred to a detention center in Rosenheim. A brilliant cryptanalyst who had a mentor named Huettenhain. When Huettenhain was offered freedom in exchange for a new identity and collaboration with the American government, he accepted and asked that young Albert be offered the same deal. Albert was given a new identity; he made a career at the CIA during the cold war and was sent to Bolivia in the seventies. When he met you, he saw the possibility of duplicating the relationship he had had with Huettenhain...

So both rumors were true. Albert was a Nazi, but not a fugitive, and Albert was a CIA agent. Maybe it was no coincidence that when he was delirious, when he assumed the identities of the most important cryptographers and cryptanalysts of the century, he never mentioned anyone who worked between 1945 and 1974, the years that marked his clandestine entry into the United States and his arrival in Bolivia, the years when he worked for the CIA. Perhaps the German Albert, in order to do what he had to for the United States—an enemy country, after all—had to erase his life before 1945. But now that he was delirious and dying, what he obscured was his years of treason against the motherland. The Black Chamber had liberated him from his American fate.

It was possible. You will never know the whole story. But it is enough for you to feel like part of that great cryptanalytic continuum that went from Huettenhain to Albert and from Albert to you.

One of your neighbors pulls up in his Jeep, offering you a ride home. On the way you talk about how the government had failed to solve a trivial conflict in time and let it get out of control.

"I'm not so worried about the blockades," your neighbor says. "We're used to those—we don't even pay attention to them anymore. You know what worries me? The computer viruses, the Web site attacks. That never used to happen here, but now it has and we have to take it seriously. I work at the airport, and we're completely vulnerable to an attack of that nature. A virus would paralyze us just like that, in the blink of an eye."

"There's only a few people in the Resistance," you reply without looking at him. "And we still haven't reached a level of technology where cybercrime will be a problem."

You are minimizing the truth. The Resistance has made life impossible for the Black Chamber. And the attacks have been not only general but also individual. With the messages they sent to your secret e-mail address—because you are sure of it, it was the Resistance—they had achieved something that Ruth had tried in vain for years to do: make you feel guilty.

You are trying hard to rationalise your guilt. At times your thoughts go where you want them to, but deep down they continue on their merry way. You want to program your thoughts, but they program you.

"Still," your neighbor says, "as interconnected as computers are, there only needs to be a few of them. It's going to be a big problem. The government doesn't have the money to do what it should—create a special unit for these kinds of crimes."

Should you tell him about the Black Chamber?

"And the private sector," he continues, "as always, fine, thanks. I think this is just a taste and the serious stuff will come later, in a few years."

"It's not our nature to plan," you say, unwilling to continue this conversation. "We respond to things as they happen, on the fly."

You both drive on in silence.

You search for news on your cell phone. Lana Nova, her cheekbones glowing, announces that police repression has resulted in eleven deaths in Rio Fugitivo, two in La Paz, and one in Chapare. Three police officers have also been killed. The government, besieged on various fronts, has decided to give in to the Coalition's demands and promised to meet soon with the police that are on strike in La Paz, the coca growers in Chapare, the Aymaras in the provinces around Lake Titicaca, and businessmen in Santa Cruz. Montenegro has decided to survive his last few months by simply pushing the problems forward, so that the government that will assume power next August will be left holding the bag. The elections are in seven months; presidential campaigns will start in January, and already people like the leader of the coca growers and the photogenic but stupid ex-mayor of Cochabamba are declaring themselves as candidates. You cannot fathom Montenegro's weakness. If he does not impose his authority—and he knows this better than anyone—chaos and anarchy will reign, and any group of people willing to take its protests to the streets will feel that it has enough power to put the government into checkmate. In fact, they are already doing just that. You don't know much about politics and don't want to get into an analysis of the many sides of the conflict. What you do know is that the country has become what it is, has deteriorated, because of a shocking lack of respect for the principle of authority.

You turn off your Ericsson. Your last thought surprised you with the power of an epiphany. Deep down, if it was your job to decipher the secret codes of those in opposition to the government again, you would try to do it as you always had, efficiently, without regard for the consequences. Cause and effect are inextricably linked, trapping both the innocent and the guilty in their web. Everyone would be paralyzed if they dwelled on the ultimate reverberations of their actions. You could only be the best you could be at whatever you had been brought into this world to do. If Albert had used you, had he laughed at your good faith? That's not your problem; it's Albert's. You did what you had been entrusted to do; it wasn't your responsibility to know whether or not you were being deceived.

Your desire to visit a church was nothing more than a passing weakness. No repentance is possible. How many men, throughout the centuries, had naively worked in the service of despicable governments? Did that mean that their innocence was tarnished? Yes, perhaps, but it wasn't their fault. Otherwise, you would have to believe that history is a game for obedient children. That only those who worked for kind, impartial, and therefore Utopian governments were saved.
Murderer, your hands are stained with blood
...Yes, they are, you have to admit it. Just like the hands of most everyone in the country during that decade, accomplices by their acts or omissions. You are sorry for the unjust deaths that resulted from the efficiency of your work. Very sorry. But beyond assuming responsibility for your actions, there is nothing you can do.

The car stops at the entrance to the gated community; one of the guards lifts up the yellow barrier. Your neighbor drops you off at your house.

In the hall you come upon a stranger. He is tall and robust, has spots on his cheeks, and it looks like he got caught in the rain. What is he doing in your house?

"Who ... who are you?"

"I'm Judge Gustavo Cardona. Good evening, Turing."

"Ah, yes. You used to be a minister, right? What are you doing here? Who let you in?"

"Your daughter."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine."

"Are you waiting for my wife?"

"I'm waiting for you. Just you."

"Is it important?"

"You have no idea how important."

"I'm not in the mood to play games. Tell me right now, before I call the police."

"I am the cousin of a woman who was murdered in 1976. She died thanks to the work that you and your boss, Albert, did."

"You're the one who's been sending those messages."

"I never sent any messages. I decided that someone had to stop the impunity. Other judges have taken care of the paramilitary, those who pulled the trigger. Some other ambitious judge will take care of Montenegro one day. And I will take care of the two of you."

"You're delirious."

"We all are. It's just that some people's delirium is less offensive than others'."

Cardona pulls out his gun and shoots. A blow to the stomach leaves you breathless; blood splatters on your glasses, which fall to the floor and shatter. You grab hold of your stomach and collapse. Lying on the floor, you can just make out a shadow holding on to the handrail on the second floor. The shadow screams. It is your daughter, Flavia. Seconds later other shadows burst in through the door. You hear shots.

A guard kneels beside you, asks how you feel.

"The ambulance will be here soon—you'll be fine."

"Is he ... dead?"

"Yes, he is."

You believe, because you do not know how to do anything but think, because thought only disconnects when you die, that everything makes sense now. Now you understand that your destiny was to attempt to decipher the codes that would lead you to discover the Code. It was not your destiny to decipher it but to search for how to decipher it. Your small victories were nothing compared with the opacity of the universe. But in that opacity you think you can detect the patient work of a higher being, someone who is beyond all the codes and can explain them. It even explains you, who are also code, as is the man who just shot you, and little Flavia, and Ruth, and Albert. You are all united in loss, codes in search of other codes in the labyrinth you inhabited for a few melancholy years.