Industrial Espionage

I can no longer delude myself. This isn’t an act of heroism. It’s a money grab with one hand, and a middle finger with the other. That’s no metaphor either. In my left pocket, I have a ten-terabyte drive with our entire LLM on it. In my right is a stamped envelope to the San Francisco Chronicle containing a thumb-drive with a mountain of incriminating Slack messages.

The mailbox on the corner, in coding terms, is my point of no return. I haven’t missed today’s pick-up. With any luck the thumb drive will be on Marissa Lang’s desk at the Chronicle tomorrow. By then I’ll be long gone. I slide the envelope in and double-check that it drops; my stomach drops a notch in solidarity. As I turn onto Harrow Street, a young gay couple pushing a stroller walk toward me. The two dads are both staring at their phones while their chubby toddler pushes the confines of the stroller he should have graduated from a year ago. His little Michelin Man fingers clutch an iPad mini of his own. Congrats, kiddo—I hope your Dads are ok with ADHD and early-onset diabetes. Don’t blame me for judging. I’m an INTJ.

The walk helps me calm my nerves. After what feels like both hours and moments, I’m at the front door of High Tops—the city’s only gay sports bar. It might seem like an odd place to sell corporate secrets, but it was Mike’s choice. Sending a cute twenty-something Chinese kid to chat me up about the 49ers was a real masterstroke. Just when I was starting to think I’d get him into bed, the conversation took a turn. An innocent question about my job and, before I realized it, I was ten minutes into my ‘woe is me’ rant. The startup I joined as a contractor was going public. My lesser talented colleagues stood to make millions, while I toiled away for merely a few hundred thousand. It’s worse than it sounds. Have you seen Bay Area housing prices?

We talked for two hours. His offer, if you can call it that, was framed as a fun hypothetical. The kind of bullshit idea you kick around with friends over drinks. “What’s the price of getting even?” he asked. After another hour of drinks, and a few carefully placed questions, he slipped me a burner. At first, I thought he just saw the obvious resentment. It’s hard to miss. I guess wasting an Ivy League education teaching junior high math to the children of Valley millionaires wasn’t such a good idea. It only took me ten years in my one-bedroom apartment to build enough resentment to sell out. What I know now - they targeted me from the start. I was the perfect mark.

I open the door to a raucous crowd. The Warriors are playing the Lakers. Any other night and I’d be watching myself. The floor is thick with peanut shells and spilled Bud Light. The owners, Paul and David, are real “sports gays.” They chatted me up one night and told me their origin story. They didn’t want a gay bar that showed ice dancing. They wanted a legit sports bar that happened to serve gays and lesbians. WNBA Wednesdays, to their surprise, is their biggest moneymaker. David put Busch Light on special one night. That joke did not land.

I pass the bar without making eye contact. I’m not on the lam (yet) so I’m not worried about being seen. By this time tomorrow I’ll have my toes in the Mediterranean. Mike is seated in the back corner. He looks different. Boyish Mike who thinks LeBron is the GOAT (terrible take) is gone. I’ve got the all-business version now. It occurs to me that’s likely not his name.

“Hi Eric. You’re right on time.” His tone is solemn. Like I’m here to sign the papers on pre-paid burial rights. In a way, maybe I am. Eric dies tonight. I’ve got a fake passport that cost me two months' pay in my backpack. “You ok?” I kick myself internally. He’s a Chinese national from a leading AI company here to buy your (previous) employer's LLM. He’s not going to bed with you. He’s not your friend. He doesn’t give a fuck about you.

“I’m fine. I’m being called home. Sooner than I thought. Do you have the package?”

“I do,” I reply, holding it between my increasingly sweaty thumb and index finger. My grip feels tenuous. The metaphor isn’t lost.

“Any trouble?” His eyebrows raise and I see a glimmer of old Mike back. He’s curious.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. We’re spinning up new data centers so fast our DevOps team got overloaded. I volunteered to help. Once I had root-level access to the farm it was easy to run a copy to a ghost server. We’re so busy scaling that internal security is an afterthought.”

“Well done. As soon as we validate the model I’ll initiate the transfer.”

My stomach takes its second precipitous dive of the evening. It does that. IBS.

“Validation? You never mentioned validation. Can’t you do it now?”

“I thought we’d wrap this up last week, but now we’re running into the first few days of Chinese New Year. My employer takes it seriously.”

I play through a few contingencies in my head. If the Chronicle publishes tomorrow that lights a fire under our in-house security. What we lack in cyber we make up for in the physical—all part of our CEO’s tough guy persona. I don’t want Jack Murdoch, our head of security, anywhere near me. That guy scares the shit out of me. I’ve never seen anyone with pupils like that. He looks and moves like a shark. I bet he holidays in Fallujah.

“That’s not going to work, I need a show of good faith. $10 million now or I walk.”

Mike stares at me. I hold eye contact for what seems like an interminable amount of time. From across the bar we probably look like we’re engaged in a really long cruise. A slight smile tugs at the left corner of his mouth. I bet this is his first seat at the table. It certainly is mine.

“$5 million.”

“$9 million. No less.” I look at my watch like I have some other place to be. I do. It’s SFO. My flight leaves in four hours, but I can’t start my new life properly without my bankroll. And I don’t aim to start that with a promissory note. Where’s the honor among thieves?

“I can’t go higher than $5 without calling my superiors. If you’ll give me a moment.” Mike pulls out his phone from his blazer pocket and gives me an expectant look that says “leave.” I oblige.

The temperature outside feels like it's dropped five degrees. Maybe it’s my fraying nerves, but this feels unseasonably cold. Normally I’d stare at my phone during an idle moment like this, but my old phone is currently on a bus to Boston. I tossed it into a luggage compartment this morning at the Greyhound station. What’s that Kurt Cobain line? “Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.” That guy was a poet.

A conspicuously inconspicuous black Suburban that I hadn’t noticed starts up and quickly pulls away. The blacked out windows look like something the Feds would drive. Or our internal security group. I decide to dismiss it; the irony is too thick. My stomach howls in protest. I return to Mike who is just putting his phone back in his pocket. I catch a glimpse of an orange liner. Hermes. The Chinese do like their luxury brands.

“I’m approved for $7 million and no more. I suggest you take it. The other $13 will be transferred upon verification.”

Something about his comportment tells me this is as good as I’m going to get. They know I don’t have other options at the ready.

“Deal.” I remove the drive from my pocket and slide it across the table the way people do when negotiating, taking care to steer clear of a puddle of what I hope is beer. Mike takes it up in two hands, like he is handling something precious, inspects it. What he’s looking for, I cannot discern. I open my crypto app. We previously negotiated using it for privacy as well as speed.

“I’m curious. What do you have planned? Without sharing any details, of course?” Mike asks while initiating the transfer. He hovers his finger over the final submit button as if the answer will close the transaction.

“You’ll never hear from me again. That’s all you need to know.” I stress “never.”

“Good answer.” Mike taps the button. In less than two seconds my balance updates. Untraceable, unretractable. Even if they screw me on the back end, that’s enough to start a new life.

I step away from the table without saying a word and head for the door. Paul gives me a nod. He’s shaking lemon drops for a couple of bears pouring over their stools. I give a wink knowing I’ll never see him again. Stepping back into the cold, I’m confronted by two conflicting thoughts. The first is that I’m rich. The second is that I’ve got new problems. Biggie was right.

Since Eric Osborne, or at least his phone, should be approaching the Nevada border by now I’m off the grid. I walk down to Market Street toward the cab stand by the Best Western. I get one immediately, my first since the dawn of Uber, and instruct the driver to take me to SFO. He doesn’t say a word as we pull away from the curb. I slide on the plastic seat cover while I fumble for the knotted seat belt. The cab smells vaguely of bleach, vomit, and cherry air freshener. Fresh is not how I would describe it. With the distraction of the negotiation behind me I’m aware my heart is racing. None of my normal tricks are helping me calm down. I can’t take my eyes off the streets.

Just as my heart rate starts to settle, I catch a glimpse of the Suburban jutting out in traffic like a dorsal fin in the high seas. I can’t be sure it’s the same one from earlier, until it hangs an illegal U-turn five cars back. I pull a one hundred-dollar bill from the small bank roll in my pocket. I have $2,000 in cash for emergencies.

“Help me lose that Suburban and there’s an extra $100 in it for you,” I tell the driver. His eyes tell me I’ve lost the negotiation before it started.

“One hundred dollars? What am I supposed to do with that, go to dinner by myself?”

Touché. I cheaped out. Time to go full Valley douchebag and throw money at it.

“How about a thousand?” I’m thrown back in my seat immediately. We’re weaving from lane to lane passing cars on either side. We’ve put some distance between us and the Suburban, but that could be short-lived. I need to lose this guy. We’re two blocks from the BART station.

“Take the next left and then a right. After that, stop to let me out.”

I drop the cash on the passenger seat. He doesn’t hesitate. With two turns we’re out of view for the moment. I have maybe 15 seconds to take cover. The car barely stops when I hit the pavement. I slam the door shut and duck behind a dumpster in front of a Korean BBQ. The smell is horrendous. I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose while I wait. Maybe seven seconds later the Suburban rounds the corner, tires squealing, the driver’s doing some real work avoiding other cars on the narrow streets. Then I see who’s in the passenger seat: Jack Murdoch, head of security. He’s scanning the streets like a Terminator, all pupils and purpose. This is bad. Luckily, the cab kept going and they followed suit. I exhale.

As soon as they are outside my field of view, I’m in a dead sprint for the BART station. I nearly get hit by a Prius (standard issue in the Bay Area) as I break for the entrance. I don’t know if they caught wind of my plans, but if they’re expecting me at SFO for any reason I need a change of venue. I buy a ticket for Oakland International instead.

I slink to the back of the train and pull my hood up over my head, trying my best to cosplay a caricature of an introverted software developer, an easy role for me. The rest of the car isn’t very crowded and entirely focused on their phones. I appear to be safe for the moment. They must have detected the model download somehow. I can’t imagine how they would know of my escape plans, but I need a new one. I spend the next 20 minutes in a spiral of worry. And it’s no longer about prison time. Murdoch will make me disappear.

Oakland airport is busy as usual, scores of tech bros streaming in for Monday-morning meetings. I head to the departures board and look for a long haul. I’d planned on heading to Greece, but Ho Chi Minh City will do. A quick Google confirms there’s no extradition either.

I pull out my phone and fire up Alternative Airlines (the only one that will let me pay with Bitcoin). I breathe a sigh of relief as my passport number clears. That’s a good sign. But the moment of truth is coming. I hop in line. My new identity isn’t TSA precheck, requiring me to stand amongst the great unwashed. The TSA agent waves me over. I draw the middle-aged white guy which normally gives me pause. Nothing says abuse of power like someone in a self-imposed career purgatory. I mean, you had to have some options, right?

With thinning hair, a beard that’s struggling to compensate, he presents as someone who inflates his job at a high school reunion. The way his screen is tilted I cannot read it fully, but I can make out shapes and bold colors. Or at least I realize I can when a red box flashes. My stomach drops what feels like fifty fathoms. The TSA agent looks over his shoulder and waves over his supervisor. He looks at me, doing a quick scan with his watery eyes. I don’t like the look of this (or him).

“I’m sure we’ll get this cleared-up in a second. Just routine.” The supervisor, a tall, striking woman who reminds me of Anjelica Huston, comes over, reads the screen, and steps away for a moment taking my passport with her. I can see her speaking discreetly into the walkie-talkie velcroed to her shoulder.

She approaches me and says I’ve been randomly selected for additional screening, but this feels as far from random as possible. I’m ushered through a side door and down a long corridor illuminated with fluorescent lighting so intense I’m reminded of my annual dermatologist exam. At the end of a long hallway, I’m handed off to another security person, but this one looks like a pro. Clad in boots, black trousers, and what I can only describe as a tactical turtleneck, he’s giving serious mercenary vibes.

My stomach responds in kind, finding another five fathoms. Past the last door we’re in the bowels of the airport now. In the dim light it looks like an M.C. Escher print from hell where one luggage track blends into another. I ask where I’m being taken. The grip on my inner bicep is his response—the answer firm and authoritative.

We reach a door and pause. I consider making a break for it when my mercenary gives two firm raps on the steel door in rapid succession. I cannot help but think “double tap.” My fears are realized when the doors open. Jack Murdoch. He’s shorter than I remember at just shy of six feet, but no less menacing. I’m shoved down into a steel chair and stripped of my backpack. Before I can open my mouth, Jack begins.

“That was cute. With the phone. We stopped the bus in Stockton. You bought yourself a few hours.” I offer nothing in response except a blank stare. I hope it plays as calculated. It’s not.

“From what I read in your employee file, you’re one of the greatest minds in the company. Don’t fuck this up now. I’m not the guy you bring in for paperwork.”

His words find a well-frayed nerve. “Really? I wonder why I’m stuck in a contracting role then. Why not compensate me commensurate with my contributions?” So resentment trumps fear. I wonder what my therapist would say about that.

“I think you know how the boss feels about your lifestyle choices.” Jack offers this with an air of disdain indicating he’s not just in this for the money and the power. He’s a disciple. It only pisses me off more.

“Your boss can go fuck himself. Wait, I forgot.” I snap my fingers in what might be my last gesture of gay pride. “I did that this morning.” Shit. That might have been a tactical error.

“Ah, so we’re down to business then. Tell me where the model is.”

I pause to consider my response. I don’t have a good answer for him. At least one that’s going to let me walk out of here. I don’t think that’s in the cards either way. If he was able to intercede with TSA this quickly he’s both resourceful and connected. “I don’t have it. No one deserves that much power. It’s in better hands now.”

“Better hands? Do you honestly think I believe you gave it over to, who, Greenpeace? We know you sold it. Your resentment over missing out on the IPO is all over your file.”

Is there anyone who doesn’t have a dossier on me? “I never said I was altruistic.” I’m not even aware I’m crying until a tear rolls down my cheek. It feels cool. That’s a first.

“You’ve got five seconds to tell me where the model is.”

Jack delivers this ultimatum with action and words, pulling a gun from a shoulder holster under his black windbreaker. He never breaks eye contact while affixing a silencer. I should run, but I’m paralyzed. My mind is racing when my legs should.

I’m incredulous that I was caught, that my plan failed. I’m going to die in this shitty room with its fluorescent lights and, it occurs to me just now, a black Visqueen floor. Fuck, I’m literally sitting on plastic about to go out like Pesci in Goodfellas. My tears catch up with my heart rate.

“Four…three…”

“I’ll cut you in. I have $20 million!” I’m beyond desperate. Selling a future I don’t have.

“Two…”

I never hear him say “one.”