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had been born inland from the small port town of Anaklia, on the Black Sea, and the cluster of farmers’ homes was close to the Enguri river. It was mountainous country, cut by deep gorges and the kids growing up there were hardened. There was a culture of masculine strength and feminine beauty, and his family worked a smallholding, growing enough maize, vegetables and soft fruit for them to survive. Natan had hated fighting, sport, the sunlight and the beach, and had lived his early years with neither purpose nor ambition until a teacher had opened a door for him. The talent the teacher of Russian origin had identified was an understanding of computers. Where every other pupil in his class regarded them as dominant tyrants, Natan – the name given him by his tutor – recognised keyboards as the gateways to routes that took him far beyond the reach of thugs and bullies. He had no girlfriend and did no work on the farm, but he had a power unmatched by any other child at the school. The teacher had given him an old laptop for his fourteenth birthday.
    He was on the pavement and began to stride towards the fluttering flag.
    Natan could hack. He believed he had an intuition that led him through password blocks into areas that were supposedly impenetrable. He could out-think security devices and break down codes protecting against illicit entry. To his teacher, he showed the accounts of the new hotel complex in town, than delved into the mayor’s personal bank accounts. He rapped the keys, clicked his mouse, and was inside the military headquarters of the Russians in the occupied territory of Akhazia to the north. The teacher had gone white with shock, and the fear of having such material on the screen of the clapped-out laptop. A university place had been arranged for Natan in Kaliningrad, on the dank coast of the eastern Baltic, and the teacher must have prayed he would never again hear of a young man with the power to have him arrested by the security police in Akhazia and charged with treason.
    In Kaliningrad, Natan had had no attributes that appealed to his fellow students, who specialised in marine matters. He had no girl to usher him into a pretence of social life. He had no time for skiing, sledging, skating or drinking himself insensible. He had no friends in the remote city other than the images he found on his computer. He could have completed a degree in naval engineering or naval architecture, but he had no interest in either, and his course floundered. After eight months of his first year he had been thrown out. He had cleared his room, packed his clothes, his laptop and its accessories. After two nights of sleeping rough, he had walked into a computer-repair business and asked for work.
    There was a shopping arcade off the pavement. He broke his stride and looked for a green cross. He slipped inside, collected a packet of painkillers from a shelf and took them to the counter. A woman stared at him with distaste as he paid, and he saw himself in the mirror: dishevelled, dirty, torn clothing. He took the bag, went back on to the pavement and strode towards the flag.
    By the end of that year, in Kaliningrad, he had been well known in a community that respected him. They were – in American slang – nerds and geeks . He was installed in a squat near to the principal fish market, required a couple of fast-food fixes a day, endless cigarettes and limitless coffee, and did a little porno on his screen. Otherwise he fixed computer problems. He was well-enough known to be called out by the city’s vibrant Mafiya clans for special work. Then men came for him in big cars, their jackets bulging. He was driven to darkened locations, told what was required, and would hack. He was paid handsomely. Those who called him out must have paid their police contacts well because the militia never came to the squat or the repair outlet. Two years and four months before, his life had changed. He had been at his bench – a July