"It has a new name now," Elias said, handing it back. "Just don't go losing this one."

In the world of modern smartphones, this was a task for complex software and encrypted exploits. But the 1616-2 was a relic of a different era. Elias didn't reach for a USB cable; he reached for the keypad. He typed a sequence of digits—

"There," Elias said as the screen flashed. He manually punched in a new string of numbers, derived from an old, broken handset that had been recycled years ago.

—and the original 15-digit string appeared. He shook his head. Then, he entered the service menu. His fingers moved with the muscle memory of a pianist.