Keiran stands with his hands up as the Indian men approach, trying to process the situation, think of a way out, an elegant hack. But there is no solution and no escape. If he runs he will never make it into darkness, not if they are willing to shoot, and they have shown that willingness already. If he could somehow knock out the lights – but he can't do anything without being knocked out or shot himself. He is furious at himself for not insisting they turn around the moment he noticed they were going in the wrong direction. If he dies here, it will be his own fault.

The leader of Kishkinda's men, they must be Kishkinda's, is taller, thicker, and better dressed than the others, and carries a gleaming automatic pistol instead of a revolver. And he knows Danielle. This must be the man who captured her before, who Laurent thinks is Vijay from the Mumbai office. That's something. A chance, however small, for some social engineering.

"Vijay," Keiran says. "Good work."

The man's expression flickers, confirming his name, and he stops.

"Who are you?"

"I'm your only hope of surviving the next seven days."

Keiran isn't sure exactly where he's going with this, but at least he has Vijay's undivided attention. "Who are you and what the devil do you mean?" Vijay demands.

"You've been betrayed. Kishkinda sold you out. After you do this job they're cutting you loose. I have proof."

Vijay relaxes. Something Keiran said gave the bluff away.

"If he says another word," Vijay directs one of his men, "shoot him dead."

Then he says something in Hindi, and two of his men start around the car, presumably to fetch Laurent. Vijay digs into his shoulder bag and unearths a large, clanking pair of handcuffs that look like they belong in the Middle Ages.

There is a clunking sound from the other side of the car, and a gasp of pain. Keiran grimly figures it is Laurent, wounded, being forced to his feet. But then it is followed by a single gasped word in Hindi, and another clunking noise.

Keiran looks over to the shot-up taxi. The headlights and flashlights illuminate this side clearly. The heads of the two Indians who went to collect Laurent are no longer visible above the car. As if both of them have disappeared into the patch of shadow, on the other side of the vehicle, where Laurent fell.

Vijay barks two sharp Hindi words, turns, aims his gun at the taxi. He repeats his order. There is no reply. Keiran's heart fills with hope. Maybe Laurent was not wounded after all. Maybe his stumble and groan were only a ruse.

His suspicion is confirmed when Laurent's face appears above the edge of the taxi, behind a revolver held two-handed, and fires four times before any of Kishkinda's men react.

The Jeep's headlights wink out. Showers of sparks tumble like fireworks from the shattered fluorescent lights. Then darkness covers them all like a thick blanket, and everyone is blind.

Keiran doesn't hesitate. They don't have much time, Kishkinda's men may have flashlights. He already picked out his escape route. He reaches blindly for Danielle, grabs her arm, and pulls her along with him, towards the jungle. Instead of running, he walks on the gravel as silently as he can. She resists at first, scuffing the gravel, but then catches on. There are several gunshots behind them, each of which cause Keiran to twitch with panic, despite reminding himself that you never hear the bullet that hits you.

It is only fifty paces to the end of the parking lot, but the walk feels like it takes hours. Then he feels vegetation beneath his feet. He leads Danielle into the jungle, still walking, they dare not run until they are out of earshot, heedless of the leaves and branches that slash at his face and arms, the muddy inconsistent footing, the fetid mosquito-filled air. Better malaria than murder.

** *

"These fucking mosquitos," Danielle whispers.

"Don't slap them," Keiran says back, his voice low. "They might hear you. Just accept it. And don't whisper, whispers carry further than a quiet voice."

"How long have we been out here?"

Keiran checks his watch. "About thirty minutes."

"Jesus. That's all? It feels like it should be the day after tomorrow already."

Keiran nods. The last time crawled past so slowly was that night in the car park, the night Angus saved his life. He hopes Angus and Estelle got away as well. And Laurent.

"We're just going to sit here all night?" Danielle asks.

"We don't have much choice. We don't dare start shouting for help, and we're not likely to find our way back in this dark. I've never been anywhere this dark. You can practically drink it."

After a moment Danielle says, "I didn't hear any shouts. Of people being, you know, hurt. Did you?"

"No."

"Maybe everyone got away."

"Maybe."

"I'm sure Laurent got away," she says, trying to convince herself. "He wasn't really hurt."

"No," Keiran agrees. "You don't get shot and then knock out two men with guns, not unless you're fucking Superman, not in real life. And I saw him for a moment before he shot out the lights. He looked fine."

"Then he's fine. He must be fine. If we got away, he must have got away."

"It was a smart move. Shooting out the lights is exactly what I would have done."

"High praise," Danielle says.

"I certainly think so."

"Does this mean you don't think he's a jerk anymore?"

"What makes you say that?" Keiran asks, surprised.

"Keiran. How can you be so smart and yet so dumb? It was painfully obvious, and not just to me. You do know you're completely socially transparent."

"No. Actually I didn't know that. But yes, I have new respect for Laurent. He's not a prat after all. Conditional on us all escaping this mess with our lives."

"Mess is the right word. I'm covered with filth." The terrain is not so much jungle as swamp.

"You'd rather be covered with your own blood?"

"Don't be an asshole."

"Sorry," Keiran says.

"Are you seeing anyone right now?"

He blinks. "No. Not for a while."

"It shows. You're more human when you're dating. Sometimes I didn't know if I was your girlfriend or your anthropologist liaison with the outside world."

After a moment Keiran says, stung, "I don't think this is really the right time for this conversation."

"Sorry. I don't know where that came from. Stress."

"Forgiven. But for the record, it's been four years since you really knew me. Do me a favour. Don't assume I'm the same man you used to know. People change."

"Even you?" Danielle asks. "Even me."

"Change why? To what?"

Keiran's reflex is to change the subject, dodge the question, maintain his privacy and mystique. But he feels closer to Danielle than almost anyone else on earth. Which itself, he realizes, is a damning statement; they broke up years ago and since then have spoken only every few months. He has plenty of hacker friends, co-conspirators, but they would never dream about asking about Keiran's inner life.

"I guess I finally accepted I'm a human being," he says, making a half-joke out of it. "We're social animals. No sense denying it."

"You were lonely," Danielle says.

Keiran flinches at the word. "No. I just figured, most of the rest of my species seemed to value a considerably greater depth of social interaction than that in which I was accustomed to participate, and perhaps - Let's just say I decided I need to integrate, instead of partitioning, my intellectual and emotional selves. And my mental versus physical dichotomy while I'm at it. And part of that integration requires further emotional interaction with other people in the social milieu in which I exist. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like you have a lot of work to do," Danielle says, amusement in her voice.

"I'm so glad you find this funny," Keiran says sourly. "You know, I've never talked to anyone about this before. I probably still wouldn't have if I wasn't on E."

"And running for your life," Danielle says. "Fear tends to lower your inhibitions. Trust me. By now I ought to know."

"Is that why you're with Laurent?"

"I'm with Laurent because he's the most truly good man I've ever met. Why are you here? What's a crypto-libertarian like you doing helping out anticorporate activists like Angus and Estelle? Did that change too?"

"No," Keiran says. " I have not lost my mind. Their politics are still idiotic counterproductive bullshit. I'm here because I'm paying back a debt."

"Must be a pretty big one."

"Life size."

"What is it?" Danielle asks.

Keiran hesitates. He suddenly wants to unburden himself, to tell Danielle the whole story of what happened in the car park. "I don't think I can honourably answer that question in Angus's absence. At least not without his explicit blessing."

After a moment Danielle says, "Fair enough."

"Sorry."

"No. I understand. I am glad you're trying to change, Keiran. You're not a bad man. You've got real potential."

"Thank you so much," Keiran mutters. He isn't used to being patronized.

"Assuming, of course, we manage to live through the night."

** *

The night seems to linger an unnaturally long time, as if an eclipse has swallowed the sun, but eventually, shapes begin to slowly define themselves around them, fading into existence as if they have just been created from the primordial darkness itself; leaves silhouetted against the sky, long blades of grass floating on muddy puddles, some kind of airborne insect the size of Keiran's thumb. As dawn begins to stain the eastern sky, Keiran and Danielle move south, where they must inevitably encounter the road. It doesn't take long, though they fled through the thick brambles for what felt like a long time last night. Keiran suspects that in fact they went in circles.

The abandoned road divides the jungle like a river. They look both ways several times, like paranoid children, before stepping out of cover and onto its smooth black surface. Both of them are covered with scratches and mosquito bites. Keiran goes west, which he thinks will take them away from the petrol station, but as they round the bend they see it before them. Clearly they were more disoriented last night than he knew. The station is abandoned, the ruined taxi still next to the pump, as if waiting for a petrol delivery. The Jeep is gone. After a moment's deliberation they approach cautiously. No one else is visible. The site seems to have been abandoned for decades.

Keiran approaches the taxi and opens the passenger door. The clunk as it opens sounds oddly foreboding, as if it might cue an ambush, but nothing happens.

"What are you doing?" Danielle asks.

"Looking for identification. I'd like to know how they found us."

The taxi's interior, like that of virtually every vehicle in India, is decorated by a picture of Krishna and a protective statuette of Ganesh, both garlanded with fresh flowers. Keiran opens the glove compartment, which is overflowing with papers, cassettes, bidis – individual dried tobacco leaves rolled into tight smokable cylinders – and other debris. Much of the papers are written in Devanagari script, but some of them seem to be English.

"I'm sure he was just paid to look for us," Danielle says.

Keiran shakes his head. "No way. He just happens to be waiting for us, and his friends just happen to be ready to follow two minutes behind, at three in the morning? They knew we were at that party. They might have been following us all week."

"How?"

"Maybe you didn't escape from Kishkinda after all. Maybe they let you escape. Maybe you were followed."

"That's crazy."

"Got a better idea?" Keiran asks. And then he sees the piece of paper with five words scribbled on it.

"No way," Danielle says, behind Keiran. He is only dimly aware she is speaking at first, as he processes the repercussions of the fifth word.

"There's no way they let us escape. Trust me. There's no way. We weren't followed."

"No," he says distractedly. "No, you weren't."

"What?"

"You're right. You weren't followed."

Danielle pauses. "It's not usually so easy to change your mind."

Keiran shows her the piece of paper.

"Angus, Danielle, Estelle, Laurent, LoTek," she reads. "So they know our names. No surprise if you're right and they've been following us."

"No. They know your names. They know my handle. Did you ever tell Laurent about LoTek?”

"No."

"You're sure? You're absolutely sure?"

"Believe it or not," she says wryly, "your hacker name four years ago really never came up as a topic of conversation."

A branch snaps. They both freeze, then look up, and see Angus, Estelle, and Laurent emerge from the jungle. All of them are scraped and scratched and filthy, and Estelle, limping on a twisted ankle, leans on Angus. Danielle sprints to Laurent and he lifts her off her feet with a hug.

"Look at this," Keiran says, brandishing the telltale piece of paper. Angus and Estelle do so; Laurent and Danielle are still too wrapped up in one another.

"In the taxi?" Estelle asks. Keiran nods grimly.

"What do you reckon it means?" Angus asks.

"It means," Keiran says, "disaster."

** *

They wait in the gravel near the edge of the jungle, half-shielded by the corner of the incomplete petrol station, hoping for a friendly vehicle to appear but ready to escape back into the forest if necessary.

"I didn't tell anyone," Angus says for the second time. "Not even Estelle. Not that I wouldn't have, but it just never came up, I always just used your name."

Estelle nods her corroboration.

"Yes, you did. You told someone. You had to."

Keiran knows this is true because no other explanation makes sense. "Wait."

Angus winces. "The foundation."

"The foundation? And who the fuck are they when they're at home?" Keiran demands.

"Our funders. I told them in an email that I'd brought the notorious hacker LoTek onside. And that, my friend, is all you will ever know about them."

"Guess again. Someone in your foundation told Kishkinda."

"No. That's ridiculous," Angus says, shaking his head. "Kishkinda is their archenemy. They're no more likely to pass on information than me."

"Then there's a spy in their midst."

"Impossible. Only one person would have read that email, and if he was secretly on their side, believe me, there is no way we would ever have gotten this far."

"They knew my handle. Nobody knew I was working with you, and knew my handle, except for you, Danielle, and your foundation man. You didn't tell anyone. Dani didn't tell anyone. It's him, or –" Keiran pauses, as a new, maybe even worse, possibility occurs to him.

"It wasn't him," Angus says, in a tone that brooks no dispute.

"Then you've been hacked."

A moment's silence. Then Estelle says, "What?"

"Of course," Keiran says, a note of wonder in his voice as all the pieces slot into place. "That's how they ambushed Jayalitha. That's why that roadblock was waiting for Dani. They've been reading every email you send and receive. That's why it's taking me so long to crack their system. Their security's top-notch because they've got a pet hacker to harden it." It is terrible news, but he smiles, pleased to have solved the puzzle.

"How can you be sure?" Laurent asks.

"Because it's the only answer that makes any sense."

"Car!" Danielle warns.

It takes another second before Keiran can hear it. They all tense, ready to flee into the bush. Keiran wonders how fast Estelle can run on her twisted ankle. But the vehicle that comes into view is not a Jeep filled with Kishkinda's men, but a very welcome bus, and one relatively unoccupied by Indian standards; Estelle even gets to sit. It takes them twenty minutes to get back into Calangute's dust, heat and noise. Keiran's opinion of the place hasn't changed, he still feels it should be nuked at the first available opportunity, but he has to admit he is glad to be back.

** *

"You haven't just been hacked," Keiran says scathingly as he descends to the kitchen, where the others are eating a full English breakfast. "You've been owned. Your machine was a zombie. There was a keylogger and a packet sniffer storing everything you typed, every message that went in and out, FTPing them nightly to an anonymous server."

After a moment Angus says, "I take it that's bad?"

"Very. I've cleaned it up. Wasn't easy. This P2 is a slippery bastard. Writes brilliant code, too. Elegant. Whoever he is, he's very, very good."

"P2?" Estelle asks.

"The hacker on the other side."

"How do you know his name?"

"His handle," Keiran says, "and I know it because he went and bloody well signed his code, didn't he? Talk about chutzpah."

Laurent looks quizzical. "Handle?"

"Online name. A hacker tradition. And sensible precaution, against identification by the authorities, and identity theft by your fellow hackers. It's like the old myths. These days, people who know your true name really do have power over you. Whether they know it or not."

Angus and Estelle give Keiran you've-gone-slightly-mad looks, but Laurent nods thoughtfully.

"You didn't send or receive the address of this house via email, did you?" Keiran asks Angus.

The Scotsman shakes his head. "Booked it over the phone. Friend of a friend."

"But you have checked email from here. That's a risk."

Estelle looks at him, worried. "They could track us down just from that? Just from checking email from inside this house?"

"It's unlikely. But it is possible. Just. They'd have to hack the uplink, though, and the people who run satellite ISPs are not newbies, we're probably safe."

"Probably," Danielle says. "That's so comforting."

"The universe doesn't do 'safe'. Especially for us here and now. Angus, you need to cancel that 'secondary base of operations' plan. Sooner we all get back to Europe the better." He smiles. "I'd stay and be a tourist, but I can't take the gunplay." Nobody else gets the reference. Keiran sighs and says, "Can you bring me some breakfast? I've got work to do." He turns around.

Estelle blinks. "What kind of work?"

"Teaching this P2," Keiran says, "that LoTek is not to be fucked with."

He climbs the stairs, enters his room, closes the door, sits down in front of his laptop, and opens the door to another world.

** *

Keiran first used a computer in 1981. He was five. Four years later his parents gave in to his incessant whining and bought him a modem to accompany his Commodore computer. He unwrapped the modem, connected it, and dialed into a BBS for the first time on Christmas Day 1986, ten days before his father left his mother for the last time.

At age thirteen, the year his sister was first arrested, Keiran's teachers began to realize that he was more than merely very bright, that he was a once-in-a-lifetime student. A maths teacher took him to a university computer laboratory, where he connected to the Internet for the first time. It was in 1992, at age sixteen, shortly after his mother's death, that he first used the World Wide Web, which at the time was an engineering curiosity that consisted of a few thousand sites, almost all of them universities, connected to a de facto hub in Switzerland.