‘You deny New Machine Corporation is making weapons?’ shouted Stone, as The Man turned.
‘I deny nothing, Mr Stone,’ said Semyonov, and he walked off with the tuxedo’d security man.
Stone said nothing for a second. That was a reaction he hadn’t expected. You’re doing great work. I congratulate you. Was Stone supposed to buy that? And then there was, I deny nothing. Questions raced through Stone’s mind. Stone was an intelligent guy, but Semyonov had just confounded him.
Virginia moved up next to Stone again in the crowd. Spotlights were on Semyonov as he walked up to a stage at the front and took his place alongside some frowning Chinese dignitaries. The music stopped, the noise level was dropping. The entertainers and the waitresses had disappeared
Everyone’s eyes were on Semyonov. ‘What’s he doing?’ Stone asked. The three Chinese dignitaries were dressed in the plain, button-fronted suits of the Chinese Communist Party. This meant it was a serious occasion. Semyonov and the three Chinese were on large TV screens positioned throughout the Crabflower Club.
‘You don’t know?’ smiled Virginia.
‘I crashed the party. Remember?’
The TV screens were showing an ornate document, one copy placed in front of each person on the dais. It was written in English on one half and Chinese characters on the other. A contract document in both languages. The screen showed the title.
Investment Joint Venture — New Machine Research Corporation, Jiangsu Province, People’s Republic of China
The dignitaries, seated on either side of Semyonov, signed their names at the bottom of the deed and used their formal Chinese ink stamps to make it official. There was polite applause. Now it was Semyonov’s turn to sign. The room was packed with witnesses. Cameras were on him from five angles. An awed silence descended.
‘He’s actually going to do it, Stone,’ whispered Virginia. Even as a hardened reporter, she was staggered.
‘He doesn’t even know what he’s investing in!’ whispered a voice next to them.
‘That’s not right,’ came another. ‘He knows everything, remember?’ Joking, but with a grain of truth.
‘I guess he works in mysterious ways, huh?’
‘This is not a stunt, Stone,’ said Virginia solemnly, staring at the screen. ‘He said he’d do it. He’s giving them the whole lot. He’s going to sign it all away. Twenty-five billion dollars!’
Stone half-expected trumpets, some kind of fanfare. What they got was even better. On the screen, Semyonov picked up a gold fountain pen in his right hand, and a silver fountain pen in his left. There was another gasp as he proceeded to sign both halves of the document, English and Chinese, simultaneously, one pen in each hand. With the left hand he wrote his American signature, at the same time as he was signing with his right in elegant Chinese script.
‘I heard he could do that,’ whispered Virginia. She’d flushed red.
‘Have the Chinese brainwashed him, or what?’ asked a loud Australian voice behind them. Fair question. The camera panned over onto the Communist Party official next to Semyonov. His flat, unreadable face showed only indifference.
The Australian voice was there again. ‘Writing with two hands at once? It’s not a normal thing, right?’
No, not a normal thing. Definitely not normal.
‘I’ve seen him do that before,’ said another voice, ‘Semyonov can totally do that.’
‘Forget the writing,’ said Virginia. ‘Signing away your whole fortune to the Chinese state is not a normal thing.’
There followed not so much an excited buzz — more of an uproar, a chaotic scene, confusion. There was shouting, cheering, hooting and surges through the crowd like it was a rock concert. Stone began to push his way through the shell-shocked crowd in the Crabflower Club towards the table where, of all things, Semyonov was signing autographs. With both hands. Showing he could actually do it and it wasn’t a trick. A different witty message with each hand. It’s not a normal thing, right?
Stone caught sight of one. “and the barman says, this is some kinda joke, right?” was written with the left hand, while the right hand wrote, “A Californian, a blonde and a rabbi walk into a bar,”. An old one. And Stone was not in the mood for jokes.
Stone was three metres away. The bodyguard spoke in Semyonov’s ear again. The Man looked up to catch Stone’s eye. It looked like Semyonov was going to speak to him, but then the Chinese Party dignitaries stood up to leave. Stone was still eyeballing him, and it must have looked really intense.
Whatever the reason, Semyonov’s large white head and red eyes turned again toward Stone, and he made a tired gesture with his hand for Stone to approach.
‘Why did you do it?’ said Stone. It was the only relevant question, the only thing he could think of, because nothing here made any sense. But Semyonov was still impassive. He scribbled again with both hands, and handed the two slips of paper to Stone. The words weren’t even in English.
‘You didn’t get the Crabflower Club thing did you?’ said Semyonov, looking suddenly tired. Must he explain everything to these pitiable fools? ‘The Crabflower Club. Remember? It was the name of the poetry club in “The Story of the Stone”. The classic Chinese novel. I wrote you some verse, Stone. Thought it was appropriate.’
There was a shout to Stone’s left. ‘He can’t be leaving. Semyonov’s the party dude, he’s gotta stay!’
But Semyonov was indeed leaving. The Chinese VIPs made their way out through a rear door with the bodyguards. Semyonov turned his huge head and neck away from Stone, impassive again, like a great white bull, and was ushered away behind the Chinese. The SCC meatheads took him through the crowd at speed. Stone tried to follow, but it was a few seconds before he got free of the crowd. He gave one of the Crabflower staff an authoritative nod as he followed Semyonov’s party through the fire door. It worked. He sped up. Suddenly he was outside in the darkness of the loading bay behind the Zhonghua. There was a smell of fish and the harbour, the air sticky and hot again after the aircon inside. But no sign of Semyonov.
Stone looked around amongst the cars and trucks. Semyonov could be anywhere. He could have been whisked off already. Stone felt stunned. The two-handed writing, those intense red eyes, those mystical comments — Semyonov had completely outmaneuvered him. If he was a killer, he was a cold, heartless bastard.
Stone became aware someone had followed him out. A door closed behind him. Stone’s ears pricked up for danger, but he was still scanning the yard for Semyonov. There were footsteps. The Communist Party men were being helped into a black Mercedes, surrounded by Chinese paramilitaries in olive dress uniforms, shiny black webbing and boots. Soldiers of the Public Security again — the Gong An. All unusually tall and even more unusually, holding European-made HK sub-machineguns.
Stone stood in the shadow — still no sign of Semyonov’s huge, white head. Stone kept an eye on those tall guards. Some kind of elite Chinese unit sent to guard Semyonov. What the hell was that guy up to?
A sleek, white sports car flashed in front. The soft whine of an electric motor, no other sound. Semyonov. It had to be, driving his electric sports car. Driving himself. There were steps behind him again, but Stone kept his eyes on the car high-tailing it out of the car park. The brake lights flashed bright red in the darkness as the car paused before joining the traffic, then disappeared toward the Harbour Tunnel.
Behind Stone, the footsteps sped up. There was a shout from the black limo in front of him. Two of the paramilitaries pointing their weapons his way. The footsteps were right behind him now. He spun, arm raised, ready to lean his weight into an elbow to the temple. But then stopped himself as the assailant grabbed his sleeve and pulled him.