Start at the Prologue and First Chapter here

Dimitri Federovich Ustinov, Superintendent of Blockchain Activities for the Department of Information Technology in the Sphere of Budgeting and State and Local Finance Management – a name that barely fit on his business card – was feeling both self-congratulatory and insecure. The former, because the Deputy Director of the Ministry had recently commended him in writing on the success of the Russ blockchain. And insecure, because he knew how little credit he deserved; surely that would become apparent with time. Worse, he had only a general idea how that success was achieved, or to whom the real credit was due.

Today, he hoped to reduce that insecurity by forcing the issue with Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov, the Managing Director of RussCoin. Until today, they had communicated exclusively by telephone and email. Now Ustinov would meet Filitov face to face.

The flight from St. Petersburg had been smooth, and the rental car had even been waiting for him at the airport. Now he was approaching 52 Savushkina Street, which proved to be a four-story building with blinds slatted shut behind every window. The street address sounded vaguely familiar, but he could not say why.

The mystery resolved itself when Ustinov recognized a building across the street and two doors down. He had seen enough pictures of it in the news. Both the building and the address were purposely unremarkable. Or had been, until they were exposed as the home of the troll factory that had so successfully disrupted the 2016 U.S. presidential election. Perhaps he should not be surprised to find the RussCoin offices in the same neighborhood.

He walked up to a glass door under a portico and found it locked. There was no guard in the lobby behind the glass, and no directory with helpful intercom buttons. It seemed pointless to bang on the door; no one was likely to hear him. He dialed Filitov’s number and with relief heard his voice after two rings.

“Mikhail Semyonovich, I am standing outside. Will you please let me in?”

“Ah. Yes. One moment.”

It was cold, and the portico was open on both sides, funneling a bitter wind past the door. What was keeping Filitov?

At last, the elevator inside opened, releasing a short man whose ample beard rested on a plaid shirt spanning an even more ample stomach. He took his time trundling across the lobby to open the door.

“Ah, Dimitri Federovich, so good to meet you in person at last.”

“And the same to you. May I come in?”

“Of course, of course. You look cold. I have tea on in my office.”

Ustinov followed him into the elevator. He was surprised when it descended to a bare hallway giving access to several metal doors, one of which Filitov opened.

“Welcome to RussCoin’s world headquarters,” Filitov said with a wry smile, ushering Ustinov into a small room.

There was nothing to be seen inside but a cheap conference table surrounded by six chairs; an open laptop sat in front of one of them. And, in a corner, a small table with a random assemblage of objects, one of which was a hot plate upon which a steaming kettle was simmering.

“Sit, Sit!” Filitov said. “I will make tea.”

Ustinov did so, resolving that his trip to St. Petersburg had been a grave mistake. He would not later be able to deny what he was now seeing with his own eyes.

Filitov turned and set a steaming pot of tea in front of Ustinov, together with a small pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl. “Now,” he said, “we shall get down to business, yes?”

Ustinov cleared his throat. “Yes indeed. Mikhail Semyonovich, I hope you will forgive me if I observe that you had given me the impression that RussCoin was a more substantial enterprise.”

“But it is!” Filitov protested. “You should not judge a software project by its office. And after all, have we not exceeded your expectations?”

It was true. And more importantly, the Deputy Minister’s expectations as well.

“Fair enough, my friend” Ustinov said. “But you must acknowledge that should someone less familiar with such enterprises ask to visit RussCoin, this room would create a most unfavorable impression. It is for this reason in general that I have come to visit with you today. RussCoin has risen above the dozens of other clandestine projects in progress to the extent that it has attracted notice at the highest levels of government. For this reason I must ask you to provide explicit information regarding all aspects of its staffing, internal governance, operational locations, and so on. The Deputy Minister expects me to present a full report on these topics by next Wednesday.”

Filitov stroked his beard “Yes, I see. It is quite understandable.” He took a sip of his tea and then revived his laptop. “Come, then. Sit next to me, and I will show you.”

Ustinov did as he was told as Filitov opened several pages on his laptop and began to explain them, toggling from one to the next.

“Here we see the developer list. You can see each name, and after it, a letter or letters. C stands for contributor. That is anyone who suggests bug fixes or submits any other input to the Russ project, but can do no more. CT stands for Committer – a developer that has the authority to add code to the Russ blockchain code base. A Contributor may be invited to become a Committer when he or she is recognized as being sufficiently skilled and dedicated to be trusted with the ability to commit code. And M stands for Maintainer. That is someone responsible for one of the significant sets of functionalities making up the code base. Any developer can rise through the ranks as his or her abilities are recognized by consensus among the Contributors and Maintainers.”

Ustinov squinted at the names. “These do not look like proper names.”

“Indeed,” Filitov said. “Most of us identify ourselves by on-line aliases.”

Ustinov sat up abruptly. “But surely, Filitov, you know their real names and nationalities.”

Filitov smiled and sipped his tea. “But in fact, no, my friend. Is this a problem?”

Of course, it was a problem, Ustinov thought. And Filitov could scarcely be ignorant of that fact. Now that the Russ blockchain was becoming essential to the welfare of Russia the Federal Security Service – successor agency to the KGB of the Soviet era – would want to open dossiers on the key developers.  And RussCoin was an independent company. Ustinov would be held accountable for any disasters, but Filitov would not.

“Yes indeed,” Ustinov said. “We will need to return to this. For now, please go on.”

“Very well,” Filitov said, turning to another web page. “Here you see the log of all additions to the Russ codebase – commits, as we call them. And here, the Wiki where the developers can discuss any issues. And now here, history of each release of the Russ software.”

Filitov continued his virtual tour of the Russ software project. Ustinov was a bureaucrat, not a technologist, but Filitov was patient. For the first time, Ustinov felt that he truly understood that these databases, as well as the blockchain code itself, were all there was to the Russ enterprise. The lack of developer names aside, perhaps that was neither more nor less than there should be. But he was still troubled.

“Very good, Mikhail Semyonovich. I appreciate your very clear review of the state of the Russ technology. I have a few more questions. First, is technology secure?”

“Both yes and no. No, in that, like any other software, it is difficult to ensure its complete security. Anything connected to the Internet, as a blockchain necessarily is, can be penetrated given sufficient time, skill and resources. But yes, in that the Russ technology, and the Russ blockchain recording all Russ transactions, is duplicated on no fewer than one thousand, seven hundred separate servers spread out across Russia and its trading partners. Currently 34 countries in all.

“However, the software has been created in such a way that exchanges can only be set up within the borders of Russia. And the central development of the blockchain technology is tightly controlled by the small number of dedicated maintainers, most, but not all of whom are Russian. Most importantly, no update to the software can be released without the approval of the overall project manager.”

“Which is you, I assume?” Ustinov asked.

“Me?” Filitov said, laughing. “You would not want me to approve anything. I am not a programmer. I am simply the business person who manages the funds your ministry so kindly sends our way. No, the final and essential approval, comes from Oleg Borisovich Lupanov.”

“And who is Oleg Borisovich Lupanov?” asked Ustinov.

“He is the founder and leader of the project. Without him, we would be years behind where we are now.”

The Federal Security Service would certainly want to open a dossier on him, Ustinov thought. Thank God there was a full name attached to him, at least. But Ustinov realized he should have provided this information to the FSS months ago.

“Good. We are fortunate to have him, then. I assume that a good deal of the Ministry’s money has found its way to him?” The implication of that question was obvious to Filitov. This was, after all, Russia. If sixty percent of the funding the Kremlin provided to any project actually reached those doing the actual work, the middle men were considered to be exceptionally honest. Ustinov wondered if even that much had made it past Filitov.

“None, in fact,” Filitov said. “Lupanov is a true believer. The dedicated blockchain people, you must understand, are anarchists. Very close in philosophy and goals to the early communists, on the one hand, and in some ways, to the most zealous libertarians in the West, on the other. The hope of developers like Lupanov is that through the blockchain, the central bureaucracies and authorities will be weakened that the state, in effect, will wither away.”

It chilled Ustinov to even hear such words; certainly this information would never make it into his report.

“Such beliefs,” Filitov continued, “are all nonsense, of course. But the blockchain itself is not.” Filitov smiled into his beard and waited for a response.

Very well, Ustinov thought. The idea for the blockchain project had come from the Deputy Minister himself. Ustinov could scarcely be held accountable for following through on his directions.

“I see,” Ustinov said. “But I will need every bit of information you have regarding Lupanov for my report.”

“That is easily done,” Filitov said. “Do you have a business card?”

“Why yes,” Ustinov said, withdrawing one from his wallet. “Why?”

Filitov accepted the card and wrote something on the back. “Here. Now you have his email address. That’s all I have.”

*  *  *

Author’s Notes for This Week:

Once upon a time, an author was free to write an entire book without dialogue, if they could pull it off. That, of course, was before the all-powerful dictum of “Show! Don’t Tell!” locked down the production of fiction. And an excellent way to do that is through dialogue. Clever readers will pick up on the fact that this is still telling, but since it’s the characters doing the talking, it’s at least a mixed approach – more dynamic than pure rendition, and usually more natural than presenting the thoughts of a single character.

Fine – but then another challenge presents itself? What should those characters sound like? And that takes you up against another imperative of post-Hemingway prose, which, of course, is “Death to All Modifiers!” Under this directive, adjectives are to be avoided, and heaven forbid an adverb should sneak in, especially in dialogue. The words should tell the reader all she needs to know about the mood, intent, secret thoughts and biases of the speaker without needing to clue the reader (as in, “he said snidely”). It’s difficult, but generally speaking, it can be done.

And last of all, there is this: every character shouldn’t speak exactly the same as every other character. Why? Not only because that’s not what real people do, but it would be boring – or at least not as interesting as it could be.

Most of the action in this chapter is not only contained in dialogue, but dialogue spoken by two Russians. And why would Russians talk exactly like Americans? Different societies not only use different idioms, metaphors and formalities, but the cadence of their speech will differ as well. I was recently fascinated to learn from a Hungarian client that her people speak from the end to the beginning – and tell stories the same way. They get the conclusion out first, and then add the niceties after that. Now that’s different.

Happily for me, as an author, I think I have a pretty good ear for accents, formalities and cadences. That said, I don’t actually know any Russians. But I have read a lot of books by authors who include dialogue by Russians. I can’t therefore guarantee that this week’s characters actually sound like Russians, but I’m pretty sure that they sound like Russians are supposed to sound. And that’s good enough to keep things interesting and distinct.

Next week: We’ll catch up on what Crypto has been up to. Meanwhile, if you’ve also read my Friends of Frank Rethink piece, maybe, you could help me out by Tweeting or posting to Facebook something like this to your friends:

One of my favorite authors is posting his latest thriller at his blog a chapter at a time. You can check it out here: https://bit.ly/2HxGFBz

If you do, I thank you very much (and so does Frank).

 

Continue to Chapter 12 here