Stone wasn’t having it. ‘Very good Virginia, but you’ll have to save all that for the camera.’
‘Stone,’ she said seriously. ‘This is not about stealing your story, or stealing Junko Terashima’s story. Junko thinks she has something huge, and so do you. We checked her email.’
This was meant to be the business end of the conversation. Virginia Carlisle was laying on the serious look, like she was interviewing a politician. A good look too. The sexy librarian on speed.
‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Stone, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘You fired Terashima, but you’re still hacking her email. That’s like the jealous wife who thinks her ex-husband’s still doing the secretary. It indicates an unnecessary level of interest on your part, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked coolly back into her eyes. ‘Like I said. You fired her, but now you wish you had her story. So you’re going to steal it.’
‘Junko’s in over her head,’ she said, disconcerted. ‘She’s in danger. She should have told me. Tell me what she told you.’
Terashima hadn’t told Stone much of anything. ‘You mean the Semyonov thing?’ he asked, fishing to get something out of her.
‘You really don’t know, do you?’ she said. ‘Junko disappeared in Hong Kong two days ago. And, yes, we’ve got to assume she’s looking for Semyonov. He travelled to Hong Kong, straight after his bombshell announcement in San Jose. He’s planning on some even bigger announcement at a party here in Hong Kong, apparently. Today, at the Zhonghua Hotel. It’s huge. If Junko’s got anything, I need it before that party.’
‘Too bad you fired her in that case,’ said Stone. ‘Maybe you should find her and ask her nicely.’
‘Look,’ said Carlisle. She looked a little desperate for a second, then tried another tack. Sanctimonious concern. Hilarious. ‘She’s a young reporter and she’s gone AWOL in Hong Kong, Stone,’ said Carlisle. She checked into her hotel, but since then — nothing.’ Virginia Carlisle, the caring employer. Love it. ‘Tell me what you know, Stone. For Junko’s sake.’
Carlisle’s “concern” would make a strong man vomit. But sometimes you have to choke it back and focus on what’s important. What Carlisle was doing really didn’t add up. GNN had fired Junko Terashima just days ago. Yet now Virginia Carlisle — star reporter of GNN — is chasing around Hong Kong after her.
No. Junko hadn’t disappeared at all. She’d gone into hiding, and Carlisle, or GNN, wanted her badly. Which meant they realized after they fired her that Junko really did have that big story.
Whatever, this wasn’t just about Junko anymore. Stone could make use of this glamorous reporter. It made sense to keep her onside. But he too needed to find Junko, and he couldn’t do that with Virginia Carlisle around. Stone called for the driver to stop the car.
‘OK, Virginia,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll try to help you. Write down your cell phone number for me.’
‘I don’t give out my…’
‘Just write it down,’ he said. She looked surprised, but took out a card and scribbled her cell phone number, amazed at her own obedience. It was a trick which worked surprisingly often. Order them to give the information.
They were downtown already, on the Kowloon side of the harbour. The Mercedes pulled over to the teeming sidewalk of Nathan Road. Stone opened the door. In came the broiling, humid air of Mong Kok. He stepped out. Skyscrapers towered above dilapidated mid-rise blocks, crusted with layer upon layer of neon signs.
‘Here’s the deal, Virginia,’ he said, shouting through the window. She craned forward to hear him over the traffic noise. ‘You get on the phone to your Hong Kong news office. Tell them to get us into Semyonov’s party tonight. Both of us. Then we can talk, at the Zhonghua hotel.’
‘What about Junko?’ she said angrily. ‘Where are you going?’ Virginia didn’t like surprises.
‘I’ll call you,’ said Stone, and then strolled off into the mid-morning heat of Hong Kong.
Chapter 8–8:30pm 28 March — Special Circumstances Training Facility, Southern California
Johan Ekstrom looked in the mirror in his office. He liked mirrors. Ekstrom was a tall, slim man with the body of a natural athlete, and ten days on from his “research contract” in Afghanistan, he was back in his normal job. His hair and skin were back in shape. He wore his blond hair short, but not military short. Rugged good looks, was the expression he would use to describe himself. But not too rugged.
Ekstrom was a well-paid man by most people’s standards, but he often reflected that he should be paid more, for he regarded his qualities as unique. He was a killer, and assassin — but he was an artist, and a very skilled artist at that. Few soldiers enjoy killing at close quarters — they have to be drilled to do it, and they suffer trauma as a result. Perhaps five per cent of soldiers realise they can kill easily, and what’s more they enjoy it. Homicidal thugs, living the dream.
Ekstrom was different. He was in a very small percentage of his chosen profession. He thought perhaps he was unique — for he enjoyed killing as an intellectual exercise, not just for the deed itself, the power thing, the visceral rush it gave him. He got off on the planning of an operation — the preparation and (it was a pun he was fond of using) the execution. True, his fast-twitch reflexes and fitness were outstanding, honed by training in yoga and martial arts. True, he derived enjoyment from killing — that deep enjoyment in the pit of the belly that only devout killers ever know. But Ekstrom was no thug. He was a skilled professional, a seasoned practitioner. He was also creative. He got as much of a kick out of directing a team of field operatives as he did from pulling the trigger alone. He loved everything about it.
Ekstrom left the mirror and sat down once more at his desk. Though he thought he deserved more money at Special Circumstances, he would never complain. This job, well… he was living the dream. Anyone can be a hitman for a few grand a time, but the creative planning of assassinations was Ekstrom’s thing, and this job gave him chance to indulge that impulse. He sometimes got to make the hit himself, but mostly he was planning and scheduling things for his team of “assets”, his professional assassins placed strategically around the world. What other job would give him this kind of opportunity?
His employer, Special Circumstances Corporation, was a private military contractor — and employer of mercenaries. SCC was involved in all manner of work from protecting oil workers in Nigeria and Iraq, forming bodyguards for G20 summits or for African despots, and fighting as mercenaries in minor conflicts. Ekstrom’s own unit was known as I amp; T — “Interdiction and Termination”. I amp; T was described in the literature as “a professional, entirely anonymous, fixed-price service for dealing with troublesome individuals and groups”. Corporate Contract Killers might have been a better name. Ekstrom could never understand why marketing people used one name for something, when another name was more correct.
A job request had just landed on Ekstrom’s desk. The usual details: the name of the target individual, photographs, a brief biography and suspected location. As leader of the I amp; T Unit, Ekstrom also had the name of the client, the people paying for the hit — although this information was never passed on to the “asset” who performed the job. In case the asset loused up and was captured, or simply decided to make a double-turn on the job by selling the information. This latest job looked rather dull and unchallenging to Ekstrom — a journalist, female. The client name was interesting, though. SearchIgnition Corporation. Tut tut…
Dealing with a lone female like this was child’s play, but Ekstrom had thought of a way to make the contract more interesting. He was going to indulge his taste for the extraordinary. He checked the detailed instructions he’d written for a third time. It was unusual, but it still shouldn’t present too much of a challenge to the operative. And because his scheme was so exotic, Ekstrom had a mind to see the killing for himself.