Cryptonomicon

  “Of course! You are charged with a capital crime! Even though everyone knows it is a joke, proper respect must be shown.”

  “They pulled the planted drugs out of my bag—there are a million witnesses. It was a drug, right?”

  “Malaysian heroin. Very pure,” Attorney Alejandro says admiringly.

  “So there are all of these people who can testify that a sack of heroin was found in my luggage. That would seem to complicate the job of getting me out of jail.”

  “We can probably get it dismissed before an actual trial is launched, by pointing out flaws in the evidence,” Attorney Alejandro says. Something in his tone of voice, and the way he’s staring out the window, suggests this is the first time he’s actually thought about how he’s going to specifically attack this problem. “Perhaps a baggage handler at NAIA will step forward and testify that he saw a shadowy figure planting the drugs in your bag.”

  “A shadowy figure?”

  “Yesss,” says Attorney Alejandro irritably, anticipating sarcasm.

  “Are there a lot of those hanging around backstage at NAIA?”

  “We don’t need a lot.”

  “How much time do you think might pass before this baggage handler’s conscience finally gets the better of him and he decides to step forward?”

  Attorney Alejandro shrugs. “A couple of weeks, perhaps. For it to be done properly. How are your accommodations?”

  “They suck. But you know what? Nothing really bothers me anymore.”

  “There is concern among some of the officials of the prison service that when you get out, you may say harsh things about the conditions.”

  “Since when do they care?”

  “You are a little famous in America. Not very famous. A little. Do you remember the American boy in Singapore, who was caned?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very bad publicity for Singapore. So there are officials of the prison service who would be sympathetic to the idea of putting you in a private cell. Clean. Quiet.”

  Randy cops a questioning look, and holds up one hand and rubs his thumb and fingers together in the “money” gesture.

  “It is done already.”

  “Chester?”

  “No. Someone else.”

  “Avi?”

  Attorney Alejandro shakes his head.

  “The Shaftoes?”

  “I cannot answer your question, Randy, because I do not know. I was not involved in this decision. But whoever did it was also listening to your request for some way to kill the time. You requested books?”

  “Yeah. Do you have some?”

  “No. But they will allow this.” Attorney Alejandro now opens up his briefcase, reaches in with both hands, and pulls out—Randy’s new laptop. It still has a police evidence sticker on it.

  “Give me a fucking break!” Randy says.

  “No! Take it!”

  “Isn’t it like evidence or something?”

  “The police are finished. They have opened it up and looked for drugs inside. Dusted it for fingerprints—you can still see the dust. I hope that it did not damage the delicate machinery.”

  “Yeah, me too. So, are you telling me that I’m free to take this to my new, clean, quiet, private cell?”

  “That is what I am telling you.”

  “And I can use it there? No restrictions?”

  “They will give you an electrical socket. A plug-in,” Attorney Alejandro says, and then adds significantly, “I asked them,” which is clearly a little reminder that any fees eventually paid to him will have been richly earned.

  Randy draws a nice deep breath, thinking, Well, it is just fantastically generous—in fact, a little bit startling—that the powers that want to convict and execute me are willing to go to such lengths to allow me to dick around on my computer while I am awaiting my trial and death. He exhales and says, “Thank god, at least I’ll be able to get some work done.” Attorney Alejandro nods approvingly.

  “Your girlfriend is waiting to see you,” he announces.

  “She’s not really my girlfriend. What does she want?” Randy demands.

  “What do you mean, what does she want? She wants to see you. To give you emotional support. To let you know that you are not all alone.”

  “Shit!” Randy mutters. “I don’t want emotional support. I want to get the fuck out of jail.”

  “That is my department,” Attorney Alejandro says proudly.

  “You know what this is? It’s one of those men-are-from-Mars, women-are-from-Venus things.”

  “I have not heard of this phrase but I understand immediately what you are saying.”

  “It’s one of those American books where once you’ve heard the title you don’t even need to read it,” Randy says.

  “Then I won’t.”

  “You and I see just that someone is trying to fuck me over and that I need to get out of jail. Very simple and clean. But to her, it is much more than that—it is an opportunity to have a conversation!”

  Attorney Alejandro just rolls his eyes and makes the universal “females yammering” gesture: thumb and fingertips closing and opening like a disembodied flapping jaw.

  “To share deep feelings and emotionally bond,” Randy continues, closing his eyes.

  “But this is not so bad,” Attorney Alejandro says, radiating insincerity like a mirrored ball in a disco.

  “I’m doing okay in this jail. Surprisingly okay,” Randy says, “but it’s all about keeping up a kind of emotionless front. Many barriers between me and my surroundings. And so it just makes me crazy that she’s picking this particular moment to implicitly demand that I let my guard down.”

  “She knows you are weak,” Attorney Alejandro says, and winks. “She smells your vulnerability.”

  “That’s not all she’s going to smell. Is this new cell going to have a shower?”

  “Everything. Remember to put something heavy on the drain so that rats do not climb up out of it during the night.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just put my laptop there.” Randy leans back in his chair and wiggles his butt around. There is a problem now with an erection. It has been at least a week for Randy. Three nights in the jail, the night before that at Tom Howard’s house, before that the airplane, before that Avi’s basement floor… actually it has probably been a lot more than a week. Randy needs badly to get into that private cell if for no other reason than it will give him an opportunity to vent that which is bearing down hard on his prostate gland and get his mind back on an even keel. He prays to god that he’s only going to be seeing Amy through a thick glass partition.

  Attorney Alejandro opens the door and says something to the waiting guard, who leads them down a hallway toward another room. This one’s bigger, and has a number of long tables, with little familial clusters of Filipinos scattered about. If these tables were ever intended to serve as barriers against physical contact, it has long been forgotten; it would take something more like the Berlin Wall to prevent Filipinos from showing affection for each other. So Amy is there, already striding around the end of one of the tables as a couple of guards pointedly look the other way (though their eyes dart back to check out her ass after she has blown by them). No dress this time. Randy predicts it will be a few years before he sees Amy in a dress again. Last time he did, his dick got hard, his heart pounded, he literally salivated, and then suddenly armed men were putting handcuffs on him.

  Right now, Amy’s in old jeans ripped out at the knee, a tank-top undershirt, and a black leather jacket, better to accommodate her concealed weapons. Knowing the Shaftoes, they’ve probably gone to some very high Defcon level, the one just short of all-out nuclear exchange. Doug Shaftoe probably showers with a SEAL knife clenched in his teeth now. Amy, who normally goes for a low, one-armed, sidelong type of hug, now throws both arms up as if signaling a touchdown and crooks both elbows behind the nape of Randy’s neck and lets him feel everything. The flesh of his lower belly can count the stitch-marks in Amy’s appende
ctomy scar. So that he has a boner is probably about as obvious to her as that he smells bad. He might as well have one of those long fluorescent orange bicycle flags lashed to the shaft of his phallus and sticking up out of his pants.

  She steps back, looks down at it, then very deliberately looks him in the eye and says, “How do you feel?” which being as it is the obligatory question of females, is hard to read—deadpan/ironic or just sweetly naive?

  “I miss you,” he says, “and I apologize if my limbic system has misinterpreted your gesture of emotional support.”

  She takes this levelly, shrugs, and says, “No need to apologize. It’s all a part of you, Randy. I don’t have to get to know you in pieces, do I?”

  Randy resists the impulse to check his watch, which would be pointless because it has been confiscated anyway. She has undoubtedly set some kind of world speed record here, in the male/female conversation category, for working the subject around to Randy’s own failure to be emotionally available. To do it in this setting displays a certain chutzpah that he cannot help but admire.

  “You’ve talked to Attorney Alejandro,” she says.

  “Yeah. I assume he’s imparted to me whatever he was supposed to impart.”

  “I don’t have much more for you,” she says. Which on a pure tactical level means a lot. If the wreck had been found by the Dentist’s minions, or their salvage work had been somehow interrupted, she’d say something. For her to say nothing means that they are probably hauling gold out of that submarine at this very moment.

  So. She’s busy working on the gold salvage operation, to which her contributions are no doubt vital. She has absolutely no specific information to impart to him about anything. So why has she made the long, alternately dull and dangerous trek to Manila? In order to do what exactly? It is one of these fiendish mind-reading exercises. She has her arms crossed over her bosom and is eyeing him coolly. Someone is trying to send you a message.

  He suddenly gets the feeling that she’s got him right where she wants him. Maybe she’s the one who planted the heroin in his bag. It’s a power thing, that’s all.

  A big slab of memory floats up to the surface of Randy’s mind, like a floe calved off the polar icecap. He and Amy and the Shaftoe boys were in California, right after the earthquake, going through all the old crap in the basement looking for a few key boxes of papers. Randy heard Amy squealing with laughter and found her sitting in the corner on top of some old book boxes, reading a paperback novel by flashlight. She had uncovered a huge cache of paperback romance novels, none of which Randy had ever seen before. Bodice-rippers of the most incredibly cheesy sort. Randy assumed they’d been left behind by the house’s previous owners until he flipped through a couple of them, checking the copyright dates: all from the years when he and Charlene were living together. Charlene must have been reading them at a rate of about one a week.

  “Ooh baby,” Amy said, and read him a passage about a rugged but sensitive but tough but loving but horny but smart hero having his way with a protesting but willing but struggling but yielding tempestuous female. “God!” She frisbeed the book into a puddle on the basement floor.

  “I always got the sense she had furtive reading habits.”

  “Well, now you know what she wanted,” Amy said. “Did you give her what she wanted, Randy?”

  And Randy has been thinking about that ever since. And when he got over his surprise that Charlene was a bodice-ripper addict, he decided it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though in her circle, reading books like that would be tantamount to wearing a tall pointy hat in the streets of Salem Village, Mass. circa 1692. She and Randy had tried, awfully hard, to have an egalitarian relationship. They had spent money on relationship counseling trying to keep the egalitarian relationship alive. But she had become more and more angry, without ever giving him a reason, and he had become more and more confused. Eventually he stopped being confused and just got irritated, and tired of her. After Amy discovered those books in the basement, Randy slowly put a whole new and different story together in his head: that Charlene’s limbic system was simply hooked up in such a way that she liked dominant men. Again, not in a whips and chains sense, just in the sense that in most relationships someone’s got to be active and someone’s got to be passive, and there’s no particular logic to that, but there’s nothing bad about it either. In the end, the passive partner can have just as much power, and just as much freedom.

  Intuition, like a flash of lightning, lasts only for a second. It generally comes when one is tormented by a difficult decipherment and when one reviews in his mind the fruitless experiments already tried. Suddenly the light breaks through and one finds after a few minutes what previous days of labor were unable to reveal.

  Randy has this very strong feeling that Amy doesn’t read bodice-ripper novels. She goes the other way. She can’t tolerate surrendering to anyone. Which makes it hard for her to function in polite society; she could not have been happy sitting at home during her senior year of high school, waiting for a boy to invite her to the prom. This feature of her personality is extremely prone to misinterpretation, so she bailed out. She would rather be lonely, and true to herself, and in control, in an out-of-the-way part of the world, with her music-by-intelligent-female-singer-songwriters to keep her company, than misinterpreted and hassled in America.

  “I love you,” he says. Amy looks away and heaves a big sigh like, At last we’re getting somewhere. Randy continues, “I’ve been infatuated with you ever since we met.”

  Now she’s back to looking at him expectantly.

  “And the reason I’ve been slow to, uh, to actually show it, or do anything about it, is first of all because I wasn’t sure whether or not you were a lesbian.”

  Amy scoffs and rolls her eyes.

  “. . . and later just because of my own reticence. Which is unfortunately part of me too, just like this part.” He glances down just for a microsecond.

  She’s shaking her head at him in amazement.

  “The fact that the scientific investigator works fifty percent of his time by nonrational means is quite insufficiently recognized,” Randy says.

  Amy sits down on his side of the table, jacknifes, spins around neatly on her ass, and comes to light on the other side. “I’ll think about what you said,” she says. “Hang in there, sport.”

  “Smooth sailing, Amy.”

  Amy gives him a little smile over her shoulder, then walks straight to the exit, turning around once in the doorway to make sure he’s still looking at her.

  He is. Which, he feels quite confident, is the right answer.

  GLAMOR

  * * *

  A COUPLE OF SQUADS OF NIPPONESE AIR FORCE soldiers, armed with rifles and Nambus, pursue Bobby Shaftoe and his crew of Huks towards the Manila Bay seawall. If it comes to the point where they must stand and slug it out, they can probably kill a lot of Nips before they are overwhelmed. But they are here to find and assist the Altamiras, not to die heroically, and so they retreat through the neighborhood of Ermita. One of MacArthur’s circling Piper Cubs catches sight of one of those Nip squads as it is clambering over the ruins of a collapsed building, and calls in a strike—artillery rounds spiral in from the north like long passes in a football game. Shaftoe and the Huks try to time the incoming rounds, guessing at how many tubes are firing on them, trying to run from one place of concealment to the next when they think there’s going to be a few seconds’ pause in the shrapnel. Maybe half of the Nips are killed or wounded by this barrage, but they are fighting at such close quarters that two of Shaftoe’s Huks are hit as well. Shaftoe is trying to drag one of them out of danger when he looks down and sees that he is stomping across a mess of shattered white crockery that is marked with the name of a hotel—the same hotel where he slow-danced with Glory on the night that the war started.

  The wounded Huks are still capable of moving and so the retreat continues. Shaftoe’s calming down a bit, thinking about the situation with more clar
ity. The Huks find a good defensive position and stall the attackers for a few minutes while he gets his bearings, works out a plan. Fifteen minutes later, the Huks abandon their position and fall back in panic, or appear to. About half of the Nipponese squad rushes forward in pursuit and finds that they have been lured into a killing ground, a cul-de-sac created by the partial collapse of a building into an alley. One of the Huks opens up with a tommy gun while Shaftoe—who stayed behind, hiding in a burned-out car—heaves grenades at the other half of the squad, pinning them down and preventing them from coming to help their comrades who are being noisily slaughtered.

  But these Nips are relentless. They regroup under a surviving officer and continue their pursuit. Shaftoe, now on his own, ends up being chased around the foundations of another hotel, a luxury place that rises up above the bay, near the American Embassy. He trips over the body of a young woman who apparently leaped, fell, or was thrown from one of the windows. Crouching behind some shrubbery for a breather, he hears a shrill keening drifting out of the hotel’s windows. The place is full of women, he realizes, and all of them are either screaming or sobbing.

  His pursuers seem to have lost track of him. The Huks have lost him, too. Shaftoe stays there for a while, listening to all of those women, wishing he could go inside and do something for them. But the place must be filled with Nip soldiers, or else the women wouldn’t be screaming as they are.

  He listens carefully for a while, trying to ignore the lamentations of the women. A fourteen-year-old girl in a bloody nightgown plummets down from the fifth floor of the hotel, thuds into the ground like a sack of cement, and bounces once. Shaftoe closes his eyes and listens until he is absolutely sure that he does not hear any children.

  The picture’s getting clearer now. The males are marched away and killed. The women are marched off in another direction. Young women without children are brought to this hotel. Women with children must have been taken somewhere else. Where?

  He hears tommy gun fire on the other side of the hotel. It must be his buddies. He creeps around to a corner of the hotel and listens again, trying to figure out where they are—somewhere in Rizal Park, he thinks. But then MacArthur’s artillery opens up hell-for-leather and the world begins to heave beneath him like a rug being shaken, and he can’t hear trench brooms or screaming women or anything. He has a view east and south towards the parts of Ermita and Malate from which they have just come, and he can see big pieces of debris spinning up from the ground over there, and gouts of dust. He has seen enough of war to know what it means: the Americans are advancing from the south now as well, pushing towards Intramuros. Shaftoe and his band of Huks were operating on their own, but it appears that they have inadvertently served as harbingers of a big infantry thrust.