“Wakey-wakey,” Einstein’s German-accented voice booms. “Eggs and Schnitzel.”
As I struggle to regain my senses, I overhear Nadejda ask, “Does your cousin do anything else besides sleep?”
Joe says nothing, and Gogi chuckles.
“I’m awake,” I mumble and rub my eyes, ignoring the twinge of pain in my ribs. “What did I miss?”
“We’re almost there,” Gogi says and points at a fence in the far distance. The fence looks inspired by the Wall of China.
“Alex calls this his Palace,” says Mitya, his devil appearing almost on my left shoulder. “I call it the Monument to Alex’s Ego.”
I use my phone’s GPS to pinpoint my location. Alex’s house—or mansion or palace or whatever—is located close enough to Moscow proper to be stupendously expensive, but far enough to allow for a plot of land of this outlandish size.
“I can’t see past the gate yet,” I mentally respond. “Have you guys updated the face recognition app?”
“We finished that a while ago,” Ada says, her angel showing up on my opposite shoulder.
“And we had time to sleep too,” Mitya says.
“But not with each other,” Ada clarifies hastily.
Instantly feeling wide awake, I launch the new version of the face recognition app. I’m prompted on whether I want to see Einstein’s holographic image, and I decide against it; two illusory versions of my friends is enough Augmented Reality for now.
The gate we arrive at wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval Russian castle. As we approach, it opens with a metal-on-metal screech.
“Sketchy person alert,” Einstein says as soon as I glimpse the armed guards manning the gate. “Sketchy person alert. Sketchy person alert. Sketchy person alert.”
“Sorry,” Mitya says. “I set up the app so Einstein says that phrase every time he detects a new face that matches the predefined criteria. Those four guards are probably dangerous.”
“I bet Mike could’ve figured that out just by looking at them,” Ada says, her wings twitching nervously. “The AK-47s and the Neanderthal foreheads are dead giveaways.”
“Mitya,” I mentally type. “Does your friend know we’re here?”
“I just texted him,” Mitya replies. “And he’s not my friend.”
“He’s not?” Ada asks as I type the same question.
“He’s an old acquaintance who owes me a bunch of favors,” Mitya explains. “If you knew Alex like I do, you’d know that’s better than being his friend.”
The burly security dudes examine each of us closely and suspiciously check their handhelds, but eventually, they allow us to proceed through the gate.
We slowly drive in and are greeted by a bunch of armed people. All but one raises the “sketchy person” alert. I look at the one man without a red halo and wonder how he ended up here. One manual face recognition scan later, I learn he’s a cop.
“Not always a big difference between goons and cops in Russia,” Mitya says. “The likes of Alex can hire cops just as easily as they can hire goons, and it’s worth having a few on the payroll.”
I shake my head and take in our surroundings. As we crest the big hill, we bear witness to the majesty of Alex’s Palace—a name that might actually be an understatement. This thing is monstrous and dwarfs most mansions I’ve seen. It reminds me of a double-sized Winter Palace in St. Petersburg (the Russian city, never to be confused with the one in Florida), except it has many more gold-plated surfaces. Unlike the tsar’s former residence, though, this place has some embellishments that seem tacky, the worst offender being the colorful peacocks roaming the gardens that are way too tropical for Russia.
We park on a driveway the size of a modest football stadium, and two armed men escort us to the Palace doors. For people carrying machine guns, their manner is very polite.
A girl who looks like she stepped off the cover of Russian Maxim magazine greets us in the vestibule. In passable English, she says, “Hello, Mr. Cohen. I’m Anna. Mr. Voynskiy asked me to take you to the Lounge.”
Nadejda gives Anna her signature Ice Queen stare, while Gogi checks her out appreciatively.
“We’d like to speak with your boss now,” Joe says, and I get the impression he’s itching to grab the girl by the neck to emphasize his point.
“He’ll meet you in the Lounge shortly,” Anna responds, unperturbed. “It’s this way.”
She turns and starts walking. As we follow her deeper into the Palace, I decide that Alex has a fetish for bling. The heavy chandeliers look like they’re made of gold and diamonds, while the paintings and the ancient Russian icons on the walls are set in gold frames—adorned with copious amounts of jewels, of course.
“This sometimes happens when low-class people get money,” Mitya whispers conspiratorially from my left. “It doesn’t make it any less painful to look at.”
“I didn’t realize you came from old money,” Ada says with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “And don’t you own a race horse ranch?”
“Exactly,” Mitya counters. “That just proves I know what I’m talking about.”
I ignore their banter as we finally reach the Lounge. It’s the size of the Bellagio hotel in Vegas—assuming that venerable place decided to turn itself into an opulent restaurant—and has the same feel.
“Please, take a seat.” Anna points at a giant table, and we accept her offer.
On the table is a bottle of Stoli Elit: Himalayan Edition. A mental search reveals this brand of vodka costs three thousand dollars per bottle. The hors d'oeuvres include black caviar blinis, some strange golden fish roe on a tiny plate, little salmon roe sandwiches, and a slew of other high-end Russian culinary delights.
“May I get anyone anything?” Anna asks politely, and I get the eerie impression she included herself on the list of possible items she can deliver.
“Voynskiy,” Joe says firmly.
“Tea if you could,” says Gogi.
“Some plain water,” I add. “And some nuts.”
Nadejda gives me a panicked stare. She probably figured out that the food is meant for Mr. Spock.
“I’ll be right back,” Anna says and backs away. “Meanwhile, please try the gold caviar. It’s Almas, from an albino Iranian Beluga sturgeon.”
“Hello.” A man emerges from behind one of the giant columns. “I’m Alex.”
The man in front of us bears only a vague resemblance to the sharply dressed Alex Voynskiy I’ve seen in Forbes Magazine. In real life, he looks like a hybrid between Steve Jobs and Bill Gates. His clothes, particularly the black turtleneck, remind me of the Apple founder, while his kind face and the shape of his glasses are more reminiscent of Microsoft’s former CEO.
“Except he wishes he was ten percent as brilliant as either man,” Mitya says after I share my thoughts in the chat. “Alex is a poser. He can’t code to save his life. Just another person in the right place at the right time.”
“You mean next to you?” I type.
“Exactly,” Mitya says. “Listening to me was the smartest thing he did, and this being Russia, he was able to monopolize the market.”
A robotic contraption consisting of wheels, a stick, and an iPad on top rolls out from behind the column. I recognize it as one of those telepresence robots.
“That’s me,” Mitya explains. “So I’ll turn off my avatar for now.”
“Hi, everyone,” Mitya says from the iPad on top of the robot. “I’m Mitya.”
“Hi, Mitya. Thanks for letting us use your plane,” I tell the robot, pretending I can’t just mentally talk to my friend via the chat. Turning to our host, I say, “Nice to meet you, Alex.”
After I introduce everyone around the table, Alex says, “Mitya filled me in on the situation, but I want to hear your version if you don’t mind.”
“We don’t,” I say, even though it looks like Joe feels otherwise. Between mouthfuls of multicolored fish eggs, I explain the situation, sticking as close to the truth as I can while omitting all mention of the Brainocyte technology.
Halfway through my story, Anna returns with the requested water and nuts. I combine this with the grapes and salad already on the table and sneak a meal to Mr. Spock.
“Just as I thought,” Alex says when I finish. “We’ll have to get help from Muhomor.”
Nadejda and Gogi look shocked, while my cousin and I exchange blank stares.
“I take it he’s not talking about the regular meaning of the word muhomor?” I type into the chat.
In Russian, muhomor is the name of a poisonous mushroom called Amanita muscaria, sometimes referred to as fly agaric. It’s a toadstool with a bright red cap speckled with white, and I was always told to avoid it as a kid. A nifty mental Google search informs me this mushroom actually has hallucinogenic properties I wasn’t previously aware of. This might explain why the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland was so fond of sitting on it (and maybe why Alice needed to eat so many shrooms).
“No,” Mitya replies from inside the chat. “It’s a person. I didn’t think he was real, let alone someone Alex might know.” From the iPad, out loud, Mitya says, “Alex, stop building the suspense. Why don’t you tell everyone who Muhomor is?”
“I don’t like repeating rumors.” Alex pours a shot of vodka with the air of someone who’s certainly looking forward to sharing this particular rumor. “I’m sure you’ve seen certain articles in Wired, such as the one about Russia hacking into Pentagon emails, or Russia hacking the Democratic National Committee, or the one about the Russian Dark Net marketplaces that allow one to buy illegal drugs, weapons, and stolen credit cards…” He downs the shot and chases it with a pickle. “If those stories have any foundation in reality, it’s Muhomor behind the curtain pulling the invisible binary strings.”
“And you know him how?” Mitya asks as the teleconference robot moves closer to Alex.
“Is it really relevant?” Alex pushes his glasses higher up his nose. “He owes me a few favors, just like I owed you.”
“If this Muhomor helps Mike, we won’t just be even,” Mitya says. “I’ll owe you.”
“I can’t guarantee he’ll help.” Alex sits down and faces the iPad. “I can only try to arrange the meeting.”
“Fine.” Mitya rolls the robot even closer to Alex. “Get in touch with him.”
Alex pulls out his phone and types at a speed a tween would envy.
“Why do you assume Muhomor is a him?” Ada asks in our private chat window. “What if it’s a her?”
“You have much to learn about the Russian language,” Mitya types back. “The word muhomor is a masculine noun. A lady hacker would’ve called herself something like lisichka.”
“I guess,” Ada says. “But those are chanterelle mushrooms, right? They’re way less cool than fly agaric.”
“Ah,” Mitya types back, “but that Russian word is also a diminutive of fox, which makes it kind of foxy, don’t you think?”
“I think muhomor is cooler,” I chime in. “It’s a rare Russian word that can be written with letters that occur in both the Cyrillic and English alphabets.”
Before anyone can comment further on options for hacker aliases, Alex looks up from his phone and says, “Okay, I should hear back from Muhomor shortly. Now, let’s all just relax for a minute.” Holding on to the bottle, he walks over to Nadejda. “May I take care of the lady?” Without waiting for anyone to reply, he pours her a shot of vodka and asks, “Can I get you more chicken liver pâté?”
Nadejda looks at him as though he’s about to harvest a liver from a chicken that’s sprouting from his head. Then, to my utter shock, she smiles as coquettishly as her formidable frown lines allow and says, “Maybe a little.”
“Such chauvinistic behavior,” Ada comments.
“You’re reading way too much into it,” Mitya objects. “It’s a Russian dinner table tradition for the gentleman to—”
I don’t read the rest of the exchange because I notice how my cousin is looking at Alex, who’s blissfully adding morsels of liver pâté to Nadejda’s plate. His stare reminds me of the ice ball special move the character Sub-Zero enjoys throwing in the Mortal Combat games. In a voice as cold as his stare, Joe says, “We didn’t come here to relax.”
Nadejda, who must know Joe well, turns white, but I have to hand it to Alex. He doesn’t flinch and just calmly says, “I understand and respect your position, Joseph Abramovich. The problem is there isn’t much I can do. Muhomor is very eccentric. He’ll take as long as he wants to reply. Also, I might as well warn you that it’ll take even longer to set up a meeting with him.”
“Will it?” I ask as Alex puts the blin—Russian crepe—that Nadejda refused into his own mouth. “Care to explain why?”
“Take it easy,” Ada warns me in the chat. “Your voice shows an unusual amount of irritation.”
“Well,” I mentally type, “Joe is on the verge of either choking or torture-shooting our host to get answers, and that would be a bad move in this well-defended facility, no matter how tempting it might be.”
Alex swallows his food and glances at his phone. Apparently seeing nothing on it, he looks up again and says, “Muhomor likes to include puzzles in his dealings, and that crap usually takes time to crack.”
“So let’s work with someone else,” Gogi says, and I can tell he’s also worried Joe might act out his displeasure.
Alex shakes his head. “He’s the only such person I know,” he explains. “Perhaps there’s something we can do in the meantime? Did you want to change your clothes after your long trip? Or take a bath?” He looks longingly at Nadejda. “Or anything else?”
“We could use some weapons,” Gogi says, and his unibrow does a jig on his forehead.
“That would be nice,” Nadejda agrees and smiles widely, revealing a golden crown on her left canine tooth.
Alex looks like he’s about to refuse, but then Joe stands, fists clenched and eyes set on homicide.
“Okay,” Alex says a bit too quickly. When Joe unclenches his fists, our host smiles weakly, his relief apparent, and looks at Nadejda. “How can I resist, Nadechka?” he says in a smarmy tone. “Come, let me show you my armory.”
To my utter shock, Nadejda lets Alex get away with the diminutive form of her name, and she’s the first one on her feet, following him out of the Lounge. She walks next to him, eagerly chatting him up about something I can’t quite hear. The rest of us follow with less enthusiasm.
“I’ll disconnect now,” my friend says from the telepresence robot behind us. “Don’t worry about me.”
No one shows the slightest hint that they heard Mitya as they continue through the maze of corridors after our host.
“It’s in here,” Alex says as he opens the large door to his left.
Gogi enters first and whistles loudly.
“It’s bad luck to whistle in the house,” Nadejda says, but then she whistles too. Even Joe looks pretty impressed, and with good reason.
The room reminds me of that iconic scene from The Matrix, when Neo is asked what he needs and he says, “Guns. Lots of guns.”
The shelves in the hangar-sized space are overflowing with weapons of varying degrees of destruction. Some of these items look so deadly I suspect even the NRA might not want them in civilian hands. I estimate that about ninety-eight percent of these weapons are illegal in Russia and seventy percent would be illegal in the most gung-ho states in America. To my New Yorker eyes, these guns are obscenely shocking yet fascinating—like a porno scenario you think is sick but can’t stop watching.
I walk through rows of plastic explosives, rifles, shotguns, and rocket launchers. Finally, I stop next to a few rows dedicated mostly to handguns, figuring I might as well pick one up while I’m here.
“I don’t think you should get a gun,” Ada says, appearing as an angel on my shoulder.
“If you’re against him using a gun, why did you help me with the gun app?” Mitya asks, appearing in his devil form. “I think he totally should get a gun, maybe even a few. I recommend one of those 9mm Glocks.” He points at the nearest shelf. “That one right there is something only cops and soldiers can have in the US.”
“I only did the code review for that app.” Ada tugs at her Mohawk. “That’s far from actually helping, and it certainly doesn’t mean I approve of gun use.”
“I’m sorry, Ada,” I type into the chat, “but I have to side with Mitya on this one.” I pick up a gun for the second time in my life—the first time being when I went to a gun range in New Jersey about a decade ago.
“Does this mean the app is done?” I type into the chat. The app in question was the lowest priority on the list I specced out for them before flying out, and with all the other awesome software, I completely forgot about it.
“It’s done,” Mitya says. “I just sent it to your AROS.”
A little 3D gun icon shows up in the air in front of me. The idea behind the app is to assist with aiming, so even a novice like me can actually hit a target. Since I now have access to a gun, I launch the app and grab a Glock to see how it’ll all come together.
“Enter the gun model and make,” a window asks, and I do.
“The app is querying several good gun databases,” Mitya says as though he can see what I’m doing. “If it doesn’t recognize the make and model, choose another gun.”
“No, it has it,” I say as the window spits out the exact data on my gun and disappears.
Faint lines appear and crisscross the gun, slowly zoning in on the rear and front sights. Eventually, a narrow line materializes in my vision. It comes out of the gun’s barrel and goes straight into the floor where I’m currently pointing the weapon.
I wave the gun around, and the line moves with it. The theory is if I want to aim at something, I just need to point the tip of the line where the bullet should end up.
“We can market this to the army one day,” Mitya says. “We’ll call it Augmented Reality Aim Assist, or something.”
“Great,” Ada says sarcastically. “Our work will be used to take lives.”
“Someone will come up with this anyway,” Mitya says. “I think you’re letting your angel avatar go to your head.”
“How is this better than a laser sight?” I type into the chat, partly to stop them from bickering.
“Laser sight isn’t perfect and only works up to a certain distance. This optimizes your accuracy at any distance,” Mitya explains. “Plus, only you can see the AU sights, so it’s stealthier as well.”
Making sure the gun isn’t loaded and that the safety’s on, I aim the Augmented Reality pointer at Alex’s head, who’s about twenty feet away.
The line makes aiming ridiculously easy, and if the bullet really did fly down that path, the app would indeed make a marksman out of me.
“Hey, Alex,” I shout as I close the distance between us. “Do you have a holster I can use?”
“And a couple of duffel bags,” Gogi says.
“And a rucksack,” Nadejda adds.
“I’ll go ask Anna to locate whatever you need,” Alex says, a little too eagerly, and leaves the room.
I take in the others’ weapons. With my one Glock, I almost feel naked. Everyone else looks like they decided to star in an action movie, especially Gogi, who appears ready to singlehandedly start a small war.
Seeing that I’m armed, Gogi approaches me and gives me a few pointers so that I, in his words, “don’t shoot his left nut by accident.”
Alex returns and hands me a shoulder holster, telling the others, “Anna will bring the rest of your items shortly.”
“Don’t go near that,” I whisper to Mr. Spock after I cover the gun with my jacket. “If I reach for it in a hurry, I don’t want to end up grabbing you instead by accident.”
Pink eyes glint from inside my jacket, and I get the feeling that if the rat could speak, he’d say, “Got it, boss. What am I, a Guinea pig?”
In the distance, Alex resumes his conversation with Nadejda. He tells her she’s the quintessential Russian woman, straight from ancient poetry. He goes as far as quoting a verse from Nekrasov that roughly translates to, “A Russian woman can stop a galloping horse and enter a burning hut.”
His flirting is interrupted by his phone’s very nostalgia-inspiring ringtone—a line from the Russian cartoon Nu, pogodi!, the Soviet answer to Tom and Jerry, only with a wolf and a hare.
“It’s Muhomor,” Alex says after a brief glance. He then frowns. “As I feared, he’s sent another one of his dumb hacking puzzles.”