“Look there,” Ismet said.
Dagmar braked and saw a red rooster tail crossing the desert, moving fast in their direction.
“That would be our friends from the airport,” Ismet said. “I don’t think Babur was able to hold them for very long.”
“They’ve got a lot faster car than we do,” Dagmar said. She looked at him. “What do we do now? We’re stuck on this hill.”
“Go up to the top,” Ismet said. “We can’t turn around here.”
The Niva jounced to the top of the road. The tower and the receiver dishes were surrounded by chain link and razor wire. But beyond the tower, to Dagmar’s surprise, she saw a yurt, the round felt-walled dwelling that had been a home to the steppe peoples for millennia. Ismet’s nomad relatives still lived in similar tents, at least part of the year.
Next to the yurt sat a Volkswagen Rabbit that seemed about the same vintage as the armored vehicle she’d seen in the oasis.
“I’ll drive,” Ismet said. He jumped out of the passenger door, then paused to look down as the strange car entered the village. “Take your gun.”
Heart pounding, Dagmar reached for the gun and its holster and jammed the holster into the back of her jeans.
“What are you doing?”
He turned to look at her. Bruises bled down his face.
“I’m going to lead them off into the desert,” he said. “Once we’re away, you get Slash into his car”-jerking his head toward the Rabbit-“and then you get him to Zarafshan.”
Ismet jumped into the Niva, and there was a shriek of gears as he put it in reverse. As he backed, then turned and began rocking down the bluff, Dagmar was aware that a young man had come out of the yurt and was watching her.
He was small boned and pale skinned, and he huddled in a sheepskin overcoat. He had a unibrow over large brown eyes, and he watched them with a little frown on his face.
She was surprised to see that he was propped up on metal forearm crutches. None of the online material she’d seen about him indicated that he had trouble walking.
Dagmar approached him.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Briana. I talked to you on the phone.”
Comprehension dawned on the young man’s face, though he still seemed wary.
“I’m Nimet Uruisamoglu,” he said.
“Otherwise known as Slash Berzerker.”
He flushed slightly. “I started using that name,” he said, “when I was fourteen.”
Dagmar stepped close.
“You used that name a few months ago,” she said. “When you did some work for the Turkish government.”
His unibrow darkened, and he looked suspicious.
“What does that matter?” he said.
“Because the government figured out that you put in a back door when you compiled that program and now they’ve sent people to kill you.” She pointed over the edge of the bluff, toward the village.
“They’re in Chechak now. As soon as they work out where you are, they’re coming up here. Of course maybe they already know that you’re here.”
Slash scowled, deep lines forming in his forehead. The scowl was too old an expression for his young face. His hands clenched on the handgrips of his crutches.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Dagmar was very aware of the pistol pressing against her spine. She took another step toward Uruisamoglu, hands rubbing her sore forearms.
“They let you compile the program yourself, using your own algorithms. That wasn’t a smart thing to do, but then they’re not very bright about computers, are they?”
His dark eyes studied her. His upper lip gave a twitch.
“They said it was a weapon,” he said. “They said it was something they’d found in a government router, probably planted by a Chinese botnet.”
“It is a weapon,” Briana said. “And the generals are using it now. They shut down New York the other day, and now they’ve shut down all of Turkey and all of Uzbekistan.”
Uruisamoglu’s lips parted in surprise.
“That’s what’s happening here?” he said.
“Oh yes.”
“I thought our stupid subcontractors in Tashkent had accidentally switched us off. I tried to text them about it, but wireless was down, too.”
“They shut down Uzbekistan because they didn’t want you to get a warning that you were about to be killed.”
His unibrow knit again. “And who are you, exactly?”
“I work for Ian Attila Gordon.” She couldn’t help but laugh as she said it.
“The rock star?” Uruisamoglu was deeply surprised. “The man who’s trying to overthrow the government?”
“The man who’s trying to overthrow the government that’s trying to kill you. Yes, that man.”
Dagmar could hear the sounds of a car grinding at the base of the bluff. She gave Uruisamoglu a warning look, then crouched down to creep carefully to the edge of the bluff.
A dark sedan was winding along the road. It looked not so much as if it had driven across the desert as physically attacked it: the car was covered in red dust, and there were several fresh dings on the paintwork.
“What-?” Uruisamoglu’s voice.
She realized that he had followed her and he was now silhouetted on the skyline.
“Get down!”
She grabbed his sheepskin coat and pulled him off his crutches. He gave a cry and fell heavily onto the ground. She was afraid he’d cry out and she put a hand over his mouth. His eyes were very large.
The sedan ground on, kicking up alkaline dust. She could see Ismet and the Niva pulled off the road, behind a large block of stone that had at some point in the past tumbled down the bluffs. Ismet was standing by the car, his right arm by his side.
The sedan came closer. Then Ismet stepped out from cover, his right arm pointing at the car.
The sound of rapid fire echoed up the bluffs. The sedan slammed to a halt, then went into reverse. Ismet kept firing. The sedan slewed off the road, and its doors opened. Four men in suits tumbled out of the car and sought cover.
Ismet jumped into the Niva and gunned the vehicle onto the road.
Now it was the others who fired-three of them, Dagmar saw, had pistols. Dagmar felt her nerves leap with every shot. She heard a few bangs as rounds struck the Niva, but the Russian jeep pulled away in a swirl of dust.
The Turkish gunmen ran back to their car. The engine raced. The fourth man-the gunmen had dark suits; he wore something sand colored-was late in getting to the car, and she heard impatient commands. Then doors slammed, and the sedan was racing away.
“Okay,” Dagmar said. “Now we get in your car and we run like hell.”
Uruisamoglu looked at her.
“We can’t,” he said. “The car’s broken down. They were going to bring me a new one in a day or two.”
Dagmar watched the Niva and its pursuer racing away along the bluffs.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got to get down to the village and get a ride.”
He spread his hands, indicating his crumpled body, the metal crutches.
“How?” he said.
Dagmar was having a hard time believing how quickly it had all gone wrong.
“Let me help you up.” She tugged on the sheepskin and helped him rise. He hobbled toward the yurt, and she followed.
She could go down to the village, she thought. Get a car, bring it back up the bluffs. But that would leave Uruisamoglu unguarded. The assassins could return and kill him.
“All right,” she said. “You’ve got a back door into the program. So use it.”
Spear Point Flies to Hooters
The yurt was cozy, build on a wooden stage above the ground, with Oriental rugs on the floor and a pellet wood stove. It had a wooden door, a bed on a platform, a large desktop computer, equipment for making tea and warming food. A wood-lattice framework supported the felt walls. There were maps and photos of the Kyzyl Kum, with marks where Uruisamoglu was weaving together his IT infrastructure. He lowered himself carefully onto a large pillow and pulled out his laptop.