the 2014 presidential election in Ukraine, a prelude to their far more sophisticated attack on American politics that began the following year. Gaining confidence, they moved on to disrupt the French elections and the German and Turkish parliaments. They had a simple goal: to destroy trust. Such a modern concept, almost like eliminating friendship, she thought. Could it be possible? In fact, it was surprisingly easy. All the virtues—loyalty, patriotism, courage, honesty, faith, compassion, you name it—are just social constructs, patches to cover the naked barbarism that is at our core. In the meantime, Sandworm turned its attention to destroying the Ukrainian infrastructure, attacking the networks that served the government, the railroads, the media, hospitals, banks, and the electrical power companies. In 2017, Sandworm planted a piece of malware called NotPetya on the computers of a small Ukrainian company, the Linkos Group, which managed the country’s most popular tax accounting software. NotPetya was created in part on malware that had been stolen from America’s own National Security Agency. The NotPetya launch would prove to be the most devastating cyberattack in history, quickly spreading around the world and causing an estimated $10 billion in losses.
Oh, yes, Tildy hated them. And it tore at her heart that Fancy Bear was so good at it. They were having such fun, ruining the world. Fancy Bear broke into the Clinton campaign emails and snatched the entire archive of John Podesta, the campaign chairman, and then gave Podesta’s emails to Wikileaks and let the trolls on Reddit and 4chan pick them apart. It was a sport to conjure up the most absurd idea and see if people could be persuaded to believe it. Someone nominated “cheese pizza” as a code word for child pornography. John Podesta was a regular customer of Comet Ping Pong. It all followed from there. Even Trump’s national security adviser tweeted that John Podesta was drinking human blood in satanic rituals and Hillary Clinton was engaging in sex with children. All this in the basement of Comet Ping Pong.
Poor Edgar Welch. He was such a modern victim. Tildy imagined Edgar coming through the door right now, walking past the booths with children’s birthday parties and the girls’ volleyball team from GWU and men at the bar watching the Clippers play the Cavaliers. What would they be thinking when Edgar passed by, a small bearded man wearing jeans and a T-shirt, waving his AR-15, the school-shooting weapon of choice, and a .38 revolver in his belt?
Edgar fired three times. No one was hurt. One shot took off the lock of a cabinet door, which he thought would lead to a secret chamber in the basement. He was searching for the truth. The truth was that there was no secret chamber, no basement. The truth was that he was a fool. Poor man. Threw his life away in an effort to become a hero. Nobody had told him that the age of heroes was long gone. Quickly arrested, locked away. Now his daughters had no father, and Edgar the would-be savior sat in prison.
As Tildy might do. Such a fool I am as well.
It was not Edgar Welch coming through the door, it was Tony Garcia of the Post. A slight smile on his face, as if he were about to have a bit of sport. Early forties, she guessed, younger than she would have thought. Blue sport coat, gray wool slacks, old school. His reporter pad would be in his breast pocket. She would have to ask him for his phone.
Garcia looked around at the unfamiliar faces in the booths. Tildy raised her gardening book. He quickly slipped into the opposite bench and introduced himself.
“Do you know who I am?” Tildy asked.
“I could say no if you like,” Garcia responded. He had her pegged. Lifetime bureaucrat, probable cat lady, frowzy but intellectually vain, seeks to kvetch about her stupid boss.
All true, except for the cat.
“You cannot say anything about me. Not my name, my job, my age. Not male or female.”
Garcia agreed. He would renegotiate if the information was juicy enough. “I brought my wife here on a date before we were married,” he said, a nice bit of opening chitchat, neutral but confiding. Also containing a question: Why here?
Tildy let this pass. “You were in Russia,” she said flatly. It sounded like an accusation.
“Four years, Moscow bureau chief.”
“Now you cover culture, movies, books, pop things.”
“You make it sound like a comedown.”
“They kicked you off the career ladder, didn’t they?” Tildy said