There was more silence.

“Tell me,” he said, “I haven’t invented a time machine.”

“Not invented, as such. More described how it might be done. It’s the difference between Einstein and the Manhattan Project.” She even giggled.

“Pif, I can’t wait forty years. And this isn’t even why I phoned. Someone is trying to blindside me, presumably before coming after me with a pushka. Promise you’ll stay safe.”

She gave in. The whole tone of her voice changed. “Why, Sam? Why are they doing this to you?”

“Because I’m a bad man. You don’t need to know any more than that. There is one last thing you can do for me, though. Is the university network up or down? It’s isolated itself from the shit-storm that’s being kicked up my side of the node.”

“Up, last time I looked.”

“If I give you my password, can you copy some files to my supervisor?”

“You know I’m not supposed to do that, right?”

“Yeah. Pif: I’m going to be technically dead in a few hours. Violating my terms and conditions of usage isn’t going to bother me.”

“Hang on.” She dropped the phone to the desk and opened several drawers, trying to find her handheld computer. Petrovitch heard it chime as it was turned on, then the phone was scraped up again. “Okay.”

“Log on screen?”

“I’m there.”

“s-a-m-u-i-l-dot-p-e-t-r-o-v-i-c-h.”

“Done.”

“d-four-d-five-c-four-d-x-c-four.”

“I’m in.”

“See the folder called Simulations? Click that and tell me what you see.”

“You’ve got mail, by the way,” said Pif. “Two thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven messages. Since when were you so popular?”

“I’ve been mail-bombed. Everywhere. I don’t know who’s doing it.”

“I’ll take a look.”

“Don’t open the reader! Everything will be loaded with viruses, worms, the works.”

“I opened the reader, Sam.”

“Close it! Close it!”

“It’s all marked up as spam, except the first two. Know anyone called Sonja? She sent you a couple of seriously fat files.”

Petrovitch’s fists were white with frustration. “Yobany stos, Pif! Close the reader down.”

“I’ve opened the first file. Video. She’s quite pretty, isn’t she?”

He screeched in frustration, imagining the havoc being unleashed on his precious work. “Close. It. Down.”

“You’ll want to listen to this,” said Pif, and held the earpiece close to the loudspeaker on her computer.

“I don’t want to listen to anything. I want you to stop it.” It was too late. Pif couldn’t hear him anymore. What he got instead was:

“… don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know anyone who can help me. Except you. You have to save me, Sam, because there’s no one else.”

In the quiet that followed, there was nothing but static on the line.

“Pif?”

“Sam?”

“Play it again.”

“I thought you said…”

“Just play it. And get the phone in position before you do.”

A series of clunks, followed by a click. A prelude to: “I hope this is you, Sam. I really hope it’s you. They’ve killed my father. They dragged him away and they shot him. I heard it even though I wasn’t supposed to. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know where to go, I don’t know anyone who can help me. Except you. You have to save me, Sam, because there’s no one else.”

“Sic sukam sim. Pif, is this for real?”

“I can check the header for the xref and routing, but she looks scared, Sam. Who is she?”

He peeled his glasses off his face and rubbed his hand across his forehead. He was thirsty, hungry, and getting a headache. “Remember that yakuza kid I mentioned? That’s her.”

“Why does she think you can help her?”

“Because, by night, I dress up in skin-tight spandex and fight crime as the Slavic Avenger.” Petrovitch squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger. “It’s because she’s desperate.”

“Do you want me to play the second message?”

“Only if it says something like ‘Oops, my mistake, everything’s fine and my very-much-alive father’s not coming to kill you.’ ” He stopped abruptly, almost choking on his words. “Raspizdyai! How stupid can I get? Play the other one. Do it, Pif. Play it.”

He could hear a rhythmic, hollow banging. He knew what that was: someone trying to beat down a door. Over the top of the cacophony was “Get me out of here, I’m begging you, get me out” followed by a series of gunshots and a shriek that was so loud it made the phone howl with feedback.

“And that’s it,” said Pif. “Someone pulls her to the ground, out of camera, and the last thing you see is a guy with a gun, pointing it straight at the screen.”

Petrovitch wriggled his finger in his ear. “Can you do something for me? Save those two files onto a card and put it somewhere safe. Wipe the rest of the incoming mail. Then sit tight.”

“Is it going to be okay?”

“No. No, it’s not. But what that means is anyone’s guess. I’ll call you.”

He hung up, then dialed the Oshicora Tower.

“Moshi moshi,” said the operator.

“Good morning,” said Petrovitch, “my name’s Samuil Petrovitch; you might remember me from such incidents as ‘hunted like a dog through the streets’ and ‘kissed by the boss’s daughter.’ I’d very much like to speak to Oshicora-san—he assured me that he’d take my call if I had an emergency, and if this isn’t one, I don’t know what is.”

He could feel the fear like a cold wind. It was true. His heart gave a little trip, and he shuddered.

“I am afraid,” said the female voice, “Mister Oshicora is unavailable at the moment.”

“I am afraid,” countered Petrovitch, “that you’re lying through your teeth. Find me someone in authority. Now, please, or I’ll cut the connection.”

Seamlessly, another voice spoke up. They were listening already. They were waiting for him.

“Moshi moshi, Petrovitch-san.”

“Hijo-san? Is that you?” Petrovitch put his finger over the cancel key. Press it too early and he wouldn’t learn what he needed. Too late and they might work out where he was.

“Hai, Petrovitch-san. What service can I do for you?”

“You can tell me if you’ve murdered Oshicora, shot your way into Sonja’s room, and crudely attempted to keep me off the net, and like that was ever going to work. A simple yes or no will do.”

Hijo laughed. It started as a chuckle and ended in a full-throated roar.

Petrovitch’s finger rested lightly on the keyboard. “Listen to me,” he said, “I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of all this nonsense, of the whole shot-at, stabbed, bugged, threatened, hacked business. I don’t particularly care what you do in your peesku-shaped tower. It doesn’t bother me which psychopath is in control of whose private army. I’m not even—though it shames me to say so—going to lose much sleep over what happens to Sonja Oshicora. I’ve already decided to disappear: I won’t trouble you again. You need to call off your cyber attacks, though. You’re actually hurting people who aren’t me.”

“Sumimasen, Petrovitch-san,” said Hijo. “You are a loose thread. We have to be tidy.”

Petrovitch put his glasses back on his face and pushed them up with an extended finger. “Yeah. I’m offering you an honorable draw; you do your thing, I’ll do mine. No tidying required.”

“I must speak plainly,” said Hijo. “It has been decided you must die. It is regretful, but necessary.”

The injustice of it flushed his cheeks and filled his belly with fire. He was full to the brim with fury. Something snapped inside, and he suddenly found himself saying: “I am the one who decides when I’m going to die, you little shit. You want this done the hard way? Fine. I will take you down. I will cause you so much grief and pain that you’ll wish you’d never been born. And you can tell Sonja this: I’m coming. One way or another, I’ll save her. Have you got that?”

Hijo started to laugh again. “You? You?” He couldn’t manage anything else, he’d become so incapable of speech.