She stood up, and Stone put an arm round her. She was taking deep breaths to calm herself. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do for him. He needs to go to hospital — but where can he go?’ She looked exhausted. She’d been keeping up such a front for so long. ‘You and Carslake will have to stay here,’ she said. ‘There’s an empty room in back. You can sleep in there.’
She walked off inside the villa, wiping a tear from her eye. One hundred percent genuine for once.
Carslake watched her go. ‘So that was Semyonov?’ he said, looking around as if unimpressed. ‘Do you think one of these guards has a cigarette?’
Stone sat with Carslake on the deck in front of Semyonov’s luxury villa. It was an idyllic setting — warm air, tropical plants, a Spanish-style fountain playing a few metres away and a cicada singing at a distance. Then there was an overpowering smell of citronella, lest any insect inflict any more suffering on Semyonov’s skin. Stone noticed that the guards were all still there, armed with AK 47s, at a discreet distance. At this stage they appeared to be taking orders from Virginia Carlisle. It was control-freak Virginia who had made Stone and Carslake prisoners on the tiny island, for no other reason than to control the news.
Chapter 59–11:57pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
Stone and Carslake were told to “get some sleep” in a bedroom at the back of the building. Virginia Carlisle was taking no chances. She was locking them up for the night. The gunmen were still on them, there were no windows and the door was locked from the outside. Virginia may be upset but she was in deadly earnest about protecting Semyonov and his story.
Who could blame her? Carslake’s blog had made Semyonov out to be a lunatic, and alien, an evil genius and whatever else seemed a good idea at the time.
‘I could use a cigarette,’ said Carslake, as the door shut behind them. Evidently he wasn’t keen on confined spaces. Neither was Stone, though he kept the fact to himself. He’d tried to block it from his mind.
Stone slept for a while. Difficult to say how long in that windowless room. He came to with the sound of helicopter rotors thok-thokking above the house. His semi-conscious mind slid back to his former life in the army.
Narrow cellars, low ceilings, now this “cell”. Claustrophobia. Kalai Kumza, Afghanistan, 2002. Not a happy memory. At least this time he didn’t have a B52 about to drop thirty tons of ordnance right above his head. And this cell was about one thousand times more luxurious.
A loud yelling, panicked shouting in Chinese and English outside the door. Woke him from his half-sleeping state. Screams from Virginia, bellows of pain and rage from Semyonov. What the hell was going on?
‘They shot him,’ said Carslake. ‘Listen! They fucking shot him, dragged him down here, now they’re taking him away.’ Despite jumping to conclusions, Carslake didn’t look worried. He looked like he’d expected it. ‘Hear that? That’s not a human sound he’s making, Stone. The Chinese have had enough. They came in that helicopter, shot him or hit him or something and now they’re taking him some place. How the hell did we get stuck in here? God I could use a cigarette.’
Carslake had a point. Semyonov screamed like an animal about every thirty seconds. Stone could hear Virginia was weeping too, and retching. Carslake really didn’t like it in that little room. His face was green and sweating.
‘Take it easy,’ said Stone. ‘We’re all still alive. If they wanted to kill us they had about fifteen opportunities. We’re cool.’
The screaming redoubled. Carslake gave Stone a snake-like glance through the corner of his eye. ‘Still think we’re going back to Sichuan? More like a fucking interrogation centre in Mongolia.’
OK. Take it easy hadn’t been the right choice of words just then. No wonder Carslake was freaking out The noise went on, on a loop. Semyonov, or someone, or something, was screaming like wild-eyed bullock in the abattoir. Like someone who knows what’s coming but is powerless to stop it.
— oO0Oo-
The screaming and panic outside Stone’s room had finally abated. About seven hours it had been on Stone’s watch since the screaming started. It felt like double. It was seven in the morning and a second helicopter could be heard overhead. Was Semyonov dead or had they sedated him? The helicopter sound receded after about another ten minutes.
Virginia had talked about going to recover “it” — the Machine. It seemed like a bad joke now.
By this stage Carslake was tired with worrying — worrying whether Semyonov had been shot, worrying that the room could be bugged, or worrying that the room would stink if he used the toilet. He was lying on his back, looking at the lightbulb and refusing to speak. Stone thought through what was happening again.
So what had happened to Semyonov and Virginia? Something had gone horribly wrong. It hadn’t sounded like they were captives or had been taken away, but Stone could be wrong. The helicopter had arrived at three in the morning — the prime time for taking prisoners. The “shock of capture” — it was an elementary discipline in the questioning of captives. Get them while they’re still disoriented. Hungry and confused. Was that what had happened?
It was hours later when Stone managed to get Carslake’s attention again. Worn down by either boredom or exhaustion, Carslake began to speak this time.
‘Tell me, Carslake, about Semyonov,’ said Stone, looking at the American’s downcast face across the room. ‘You’ve spent so long researching the guy.’
‘He got ill,’ said Carslake. ‘Then he met some Chinese guy in prison, ten years ago. Maybe that’s where all this stuff started.’
Carslake wearily started to speak, and Stone asked him question after question. In the next hour, using what Carslake knew, and what Semyonov and Virginia had already told him, Stone pieced together the story of Steven Starkfield, aka Semyonov.
Chapter 60 — 9:15am 13 April — Balong Polo and Country Club Resort, Zhejiang Province, China
Unusually for him, Ekstrom was happy to use the phone in the hotel room. It was a better bet than his cell phone at any rate, which in China would be intercepted and recorded. There was probably an office in Beijing where a red light flashed every time he used it.
Ekstrom sat on the bed and glanced at himself in the mirror as he unscrewed the telephone handset to check inside. He had on the snug white jeans and a blue polo shirt tight around his wiry biceps. He’d kept on the leather leg guards, which came up above the knee. An overtly sexual look for a man. He smiled to himself in the mirror as he took the back off the phone handset. He’d earlier seduced the wife of a German reinsurance executive wearing that very outfit. He could see why she’d gone for him. Ekstrom often found himself attractive. It wasn’t a gay thing — just objective fact.
The tiresome unscrewing of hotel phones was now the norm for Special Circumstances — since the Israeli secret service, Mossad, had perfected the “telephone hit”. A Mossad agent would enter the room posing as a maid or maintenance staff. A tiny charge would be inserted into the ear-speaker, set to explode four seconds after the phone was answered. The explosion was tiny, but since it was held against the ear of the target, it was almost always fatal.
Ekstrom had even used the technique himself once, in Abu Dhabi. It was ideal anywhere in the Arab world, since Mossad was always blamed for the hit.
With the phone reassembled, Ekstrom dialed the number. No one spoke as the phone was picked up, but Ekstrom spoke in English.
‘Half the job was done,’ Ekstrom said. ‘The Englishman is slippery. He seems to know what’s coming.’