Back in my suite at the Equatorial, I triggered the box's biometric lock. Inside: a single SD card and a slip of paper with a BitTorrent hash. The file name read: .

“A dead backup. If I’m killed, it seeds. Every pirate becomes a witness.”

“Or inviting me,” I said, swirling a pre-meeting vodka martini. Not stirred. Not shaken. Just there.

I traced the swarm. Five seeders. Three in Monaco, one in a decommissioned Soviet radar station in Siberia, and one—curiously—at the bottom of Lake Geneva. A server rack in a waterproofed sarcophagus, powered by a geothermal vent. The Swiss don't do irony, but they do redundancy.

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