Pattern Recognition

"Who was that for?" she asks.

"Boone," says Bigend. "But he's getting a lift back to Moscow with Volkov instead. Asked me to tell you he's sorry."

Cayce looks from Bigend to Parkaboy, then back to the sixth chair, and says nothing.

"ANDREI Volkov," says Marchwinska-Wyrwal, with no preface, as the plates from the soup course are being removed, "is now the wealthiest man in Russia. That this is not more common knowledge is a remarkable reflection on the man himself."

They're dining by candlelight, the curved strip lighting overhead dimmed to a faint amber glow.

"His empire, if you will, has necessarily been assembled piecemeal, owing to the recent, extraordinary, and very chaotic history of his country. A remarkable strategist, but until recently unable to devote much time or energy to the shaping of that which he's acquired. Corporations and properties of all sorts have simply stacked up, if you will, awaiting the creation of a more systematic structure. This is now being done, and I am happy to say that I am a part of that, and you should know that you have had a part in it as well."

"I don't see how."

"No," he says, "it certainly wouldn't have been obvious, least of all to you." He watches as one of the waiters pours more white wine into his glass. Cayce notices the black tips of a tattoo of some kind, showing above the collar of the waiter's white jacket, and thinks of Damien. "He loved his brother deeply, of course," the Polish security chief continues, "and after the assassination made certain that his nieces would receive constant protection, as well as whatever they might require in order to be as comfortable as possible. Nora's plight particularly moves him, as indeed it must any of us, and it was at his suggestion that an editing room was assembled for her in the clinic in Switzerland. As that aspect of the efforts toward her recovery evolved, so evolved a certain division in methodologies—"

"It was inevitable," interjects Sergei Magomedov, who perhaps has been drinking a little too quickly, "as the system created to assure the security of the Volkovas was about a rigid secrecy, and the mechanism created to make the work public was not. The anonymity, the encryption, the strategies, as they evolved—"

"Take credit, Sergei," says Marchwinska-Wyrwal, lightly but, Cayce thinks, meaningfully. "You yourself invented much of that."

"—involved an inherent risk of exposure," Sergei finishes. "The work would not be viewed unless it were somehow able to attract the attention of an audience, and it was Stella Volkova's heartfelt wish that that audience be global in scope. To that end, we devised the method you are familiar with, and we ourselves 'found' the first few segments."

"You did?" Cayce and Parkaboy exchange glances.

"Yes. We sometimes, also, were able to point people in the right direction. But the result, almost from the beginning, far exceeded anything any of us had anticipated."

"You watched a subculture being born," says Bigend. "Evolving exponentially. "

"We hadn't anticipated the numbers," Sergei agrees, "but neither had we anticipated the level of obsession engendered in the audience, or the depth of the desire to solve the mystery."

"When did you come into this, Sergei?" Parkaboy asks.

"In mid-2000, shortly after the Volkovas' return to Moscow."

"Where from?"

"Berkeley. A private scholarship." He smiles.

"Andrei Volkov has been particularly farseeing, in his recognition of the importance of computing," Marchwinska-Wyrwal says.

"And what did you do, exactly, Sergei?" asks Cayce.

"Sergei was instrumental in the creation of this production facility," says Marchwinska-Wyrwal, "as well as arranging the watermarking operation with Sigil. We are particularly interested in learning how you were able to obtain the address you used to contact Stella. Did that come through Sigil?"

"I can't tell you," Cayce says.

"Would that be because it came through some connection of your father's? Or perhaps from your father himself?"

"My father is dead."

"Wiktor," says Bigend, who Cayce suddenly realizes has just been silent for far longer than she's ever known him to be, "Cayce has had a very long, very trying day. Perhaps this isn't a good time."

Cayce lets her fork drop, ringing on the white china. "Why did you say that, about my father?" she asks, looking at Marchwinska-Wyrwal.

Who starts to reply, but is cut off by Bigend. "To dispense with being so charmingly old world about it, Wiktor and Sergei represent the two malcoordinated tips of the pincers of Volkov's security operation. Wiktor in particular seems to have forgotten that he's here to apologize to you for the clumsiness of its grasp."

"I don't understand," Cayce says, picking up her fork. "But you're right: I'm very tired."

"I think I can explain," says Sergei, "if Wiktor will allow me."

"Please do," says the Pole, his tone now lethally amiable.