Tangle's Game

by Stewart Hotston

He laughed and dragged her out of the car.

  They walked into a building, the temperature dropping as the air conditioning hit, the noise of the engines muffling, replaced by the hubbub of people around them. They proceeded carefully, Crisp warning her when they needed to stop or step onto a travelator.

  Amanda couldn’t hear the excited squawks of children, the crunching of wheeled suitcases as they fell over. Wherever they were, it wasn’t the main concourse.

  He pulled her to a stop. ‘We’re about to head through customs. They’re not going to check your ID because they don’t care. You can make as much noise as you like; their official job is to look the other way. But it would be better for you to keep quiet. Are you going to come quietly, or do I have to take measures?’

  Despite being a prisoner, she was made to walk through the scanner the same as anyone else. Crisp pushed her in, then pulled her out the other side. The officers overseeing the process spoke about her without acknowledging she was present. There was no mention of a destination, of a crime, of the reasons for deporting her. They discussed her shoes, how many of these flights there’d been, a large group of returnees they’d had to process the previous day, one of whom had tried to run and been tasered to the floor. She hadn’t responded well, some underlying heart condition due to the torture she’d suffered in the country they were returning her to. Sad, really, that they couldn’t just accept it and go quietly.

  Amanda had been building up the courage to shout for help, but the utter lack of interest in their voices choked the words in her throat. There was nothing she could say to them.

  They were sent on their way at a faster pace than before. Crisp was a step ahead now, dragging her rather than guiding. Doors swished open and they were outside, the renewed roar of jet engines pressing against Amanda’s hood.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked again.

  Crisp ignored her question, pressing a hand onto her head, bending her down to get her into a buggy. She tried to count the seconds as they drove. They stopped after a couple of minutes; the noise was so loud it hurt her ears.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Crisp, taking her from the buggy. He helped her climb a steep set of metal stairs.

  They were on a plane. She was shown to a seat, strapped in, the hood tightened further under her chin. She panicked, thinking it would be harder to breathe but the air kept coming. It felt like running in a snood.

  The sleeve on her right arm was rolled up. She struggled, but a second set of hands held her firmly, pulling her into the seat from behind.

  ‘Don’t fucking struggle,’ said Crisp. ‘It’s a long flight and this will help pass the time.’

  A sharp prick on the inside of her wrist. Despair warred with drowsiness, then… nothing.

  MANDARIN? SHE COULDN’T tell. It might be Cantonese, but she didn’t know one from the other. Bodies moved around her on the plane, but no-one paid her any attention.

  The plane was stationary, the air conditioning off, the engines silent. A subtle glow through the black hood suggested the cabin lights were still on.

  She was strapped into the chair, wrists tied to the arm rests.

  Her head ached like she’d been drinking all night, her tongue as rough as sandpaper.

  Her teeth hurt; touching them with her tongue drew dull thunder up to her temples.

  She fought back an urge to vomit into the hood. Her throat felt like it had closed up and was swollen, pushing against her ability to remain calm.

  Hands ran impersonally over her, undoing the straps, unfastening the seatbelt. She was pulled from the chair and dragged down the aisle. The voices continued; low, emotionless, without reference to her.

  She was pulled to the stairs at the top of the exit and shoved from behind, her feet slipping from under her. With a shriek she fell forwards into space.

  Strong hands caught her. ‘Careful now,’ said Crisp. Voices shouted by her ears in Mandarin.

  ‘They tend not to give a shit about the condition of their own prisoners, since most of them are going to end up volunteering their organs for party officials anyway.’

  Wouldn’t that make you more careful? she thought bitterly.

  ‘They pay good money for a westerner’s lungs, liver and eyes, though,’ finished Crisp, who was much more gentle as they descended the stairs together.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked again.

  ‘A province you’ve never heard of. It doesn’t matter, you’re not going to see any of it.’

  The journey they’d taken to the airport in Britain was repeated in reverse with nothing to mark the fact she was no longer in Britain.

  That isn’t true, she chided herself. The temperature is different, warmer, it’s more humid. The bag clung to her skin. The car seat beneath her was covered in cloth rather than leather, and she had more space for her legs.

  None of this is helping, she thought.

  She was wedged against the door, but her hands were tied behind her back with no way of wriggling around to check if it was locked. A radio in the car played music she didn’t know, interspersed by short bursts of adverts with the low production values she associated with local broadcasters in England.

  She counted twelve songs before giving up. Allowing for five minutes per song including ads, that was no less than an hour. But the journey stretched out without pause or differentiation. Her teeth eventually stopped aching, but the hard suspension bumped and rattled her, pushing her guts up into her mouth.

  She somehow fell asleep, waking when the car slowed to a stop. She heard the driver and front passenger open the doors and climb out.

  People talked at her, the words meaningless. When she didn’t move, she was torn from the car and punched in the side. Coughing, weeping, she was dragged by her arms, feet kicking to find purchase, heels banging on concrete.

  Another punch, this one through the hood, smashing into her nose. The fight drained away and Amanda allowed them to pull her unresisting into whatever hole they’d readied to receive her.

  They threw her onto a hard, cold, floor. The ties were removed from her arms, the blood flowing back into her abused flesh, throbbing and tingling.

  The room fell dark as they locked her in.

  Amanda scrambled up onto her backside, pushing away from the door until she bumped up against a bare breeze block wall. She rubbed her fingers to ease the pins and needles, and realised she was cold, that her fingers were icicles.

  Nothing changed for several hours. Her ear piece was gone, so was her watch. At some point they’d changed her clothes, replacing them with a one-piece jump suit. She was relieved to the point of tears when she felt and realised her own underwear was still in place.

  How long before someone misses me? she wondered. Work wouldn’t follow up now she’d been shown the door; friends from the industry would talk about her, but none of them would think of contacting her. Not that they could—the only contact details any of them had were for work. Now she was out, she may as well have never existed in the first place. Her clients would be smoothly moved on to another salesperson, her team work to someone else, and a new hire would step in, given time.

  Her desk would be cleared, the meagre personal possessions would already have been posted to her flat.

  ‘If I get out of this, I promise to spend more time speaking to my parents,’ she told the room. Then they might notice when I drop off the face of the earth. She tried to remember the last time they’d spoken, probably Christmas, a quick call before meeting friends for dinner at the Westbury. Mouth watering, she dreamed of the three-bird roast, pouring steam as the waiter carved it at the table, clinking glasses of expensive champagne ruined by orange juice.

  She thought about roast dinner with Ichi and Tangle, Haber and Stornetta. Ule was carving the turkey. The roast potatoes were incredible.

  Were they in the cells next to hers? Had Crisp rendered them to an outsourcing group, his torture undertaken by a specialist third party company, in the latest in globalisation? W
ere the Russians any different from her own government anyway?

  Time passed, but she’d lost track of it. Her stomach rumbled, ached as if hollow, before the pangs faded away, leaving her chilled, her head light, fighting to recall why she was alone in a darkened room. Colours danced before her eyes as if her brain knew her eyes were open and wouldn’t accept there was nothing to see.

  The door opened, the world blinding, white, fading to grey as her eyes adjusted.

  Crisp’s silhouette stood before her, hands on hips. Was he wearing a cape, like a superhero?

  What had happened to the others? Had the Americans killed them? Why hadn’t Tatsu found her? They had unfinished business, didn’t they? She shook her head, trying to clear the cotton wool that had infested it.

  ‘Time to talk,’ said Crisp.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TWO CHINESE MEN lifted her off the floor and carried her to a small room with bright LED strip lights in the ceiling but no windows.

  They placed her down in a chair, this one without restraints. On the small desk in front of her was a cup of coffee, steaming gently. Amanda caught a hint of hibiscus.

  She cradled the drink, warming hands she hadn’t realised were cold. A covered tray was brought in by a man wearing a paper face mask over his nose and mouth. He lifted the cover to reveal soup and half a dish of steamed rice. A disposable wooden spoon sat beside them. Alone again, Amanda devoured the food, not caring that it tasted of salt and little else. The rice was sticky and overcooked, and too cool.

  It was manna from heaven.

  And gone too quickly. Amanda wiped a finger around the inside of the soup bowl until the plastic was dry. Slowly her mind came back together, thoughts rising through the fog of fear and desperation.

  The door opened, letting Crisp skulk into the room.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, but there wasn’t anything she wanted to say. ‘Now you’re fed, let’s talk.’

  She pushed the bowl away, dropped the spoon inside and folded her arms. ‘I’m not giving you any information.’

  ‘I have two things you want,’ said Crisp. He counted off on his fingers. ‘One: your life, or what passes for it. Has anyone noticed you’ve gone? I’ve been monitoring for a reaction, and I’m baffled. It’s like you don’t exist.’ He shrugged and pointed at the second raised finger. ‘Two: the lives of your friends. A drug addict, an elderly second-rate hacker and a couple of gay gangsters.’ He laughed, the slightly forced chuckle of a man who loves his own jokes. ‘If you don’t help them, then literally no one else will. You couldn’t make it up.’

  At least they’re okay right now, she thought.

  ‘Where are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Elsewhere,’ said Crisp. ‘It’s a small world: you’re here today, they could be here tomorrow. The day after, you could all be back in Europe. Although it’s going to be a shitshow there for the next few months. Probably better off here, all things considered.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  He sighed, as if disappointed, but not surprised. ‘You see, I’ve fed you, helped you get over the sedative. I could have left you in there another day. I could have let the Chinese beat you a few times. I could have opted for their “full service,” rather than just board and lodging.’

  She thought about the hood, the darkness of her cell.

  ‘Did I get it wrong?’ he asked her, although she could see he wasn’t interested in her answer. ‘Should I have had them teach you just how powerless you are in this place? You’re not under the impression that there’s any fairness or justice in this world, are you?’

  She watched him in silence.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he concluded. ‘If you hadn’t been so predictable, it wasn’t a totally bad plan, your little raid. It would have worked in a movie, but in the real world, we spend three quarters of our time watching for actions like yours. When you made it obvious you thought you knew better than the rest of us, I started looking for where you’d try it.’ He nodded, smiling at her.

  ‘CIA still got there before you,’ she snapped.

  He frowned, his cheeks flushing red. ‘They were tracking your friend Ichi. I assume they had her alone for a while?’ Crisp shook his head, waggled a finger at Amanda. ‘None of you checked for bugs? That’s why you’re here, why I have you in a cell answering my questions.’

  Not many of those so far, thought Amanda.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me where the drive is, and I’ll start making your life liveable again.’

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ said Amanda.

  ‘Let’s start with you taking it to the datacentre.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘I wanted to give it to you. I wanted you to help.’

  ‘Help?’ he snarled, his top lips peeling back as he spat the words. ‘What do you know about it? “Oh, let’s just stop the Russians so everyone can have a happy ending!”’ He threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with that?’ she countered. ‘Does everything have to be grim and horrible?’

  ‘What are you, a teenager?’ All the smugness was gone, leaving a face full of ashes and anger.

  ‘I wiped it,’ she said.

  ‘That’s…’—he pursed his lips, searching for the right word—‘unfortunate, Amanda. It really is. Because if there’s truly no information, I’ve really got no more need for you. As dramatic as that sounds.’ He sat down opposite her, tapping the table with his fingertips. ‘I believe you’re telling me the truth, but I also know you’re too smart to not have a backup plan. So what is it?’

  He doesn’t know about Tatsu, she thought. Where is the little shit? She regretted cussing him immediately but seriously, where was he? I’ll find you, he’d promised her.

  ‘I could really do with some help about now,’ she said to the room, looking away from Crisp.

  ‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of us who need help. All the time. Take me—’ Which was too inviting a statement not to grab her attention. ‘I’m sat in London watching Russians kill their compatriots with poisons and suicidal accidents, counting my blessings that we’ve got a much better grasp of our own-brand extremists than my European counterparts, when I get wind of some second-rate contractor tarting about some tools he claims will shut the Kremlin douchebags down.’

  As informative as the monologue was, Amanda was tired, frightened and past caring about his justifications. She yawned loud and hard without covering her mouth. Forcing her hand to stay in her lap was as hard as keeping her eyes on him as she did it, fighting decades of personal and professional etiquette.

  He didn’t notice or didn’t care, continuing to talk about his reasons for being a complete bastard. She zoned out, happy to let him drone on while she felt life come back to her body, refuelled, unrestrained, eyes open to the world around her. She doubted it would last, but she was ready to indulge in the smallest pleasures.

  ‘Given that,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell me where you hid the second copy of the drive?’

  She realised he’d finished, raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

  ‘Give me my watch back,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you my back-up plan.’

  ‘Tell me, then you can have it back.’

  She folded her arms and stared at the ceiling, and they sat there, neither of them moving, for nearly a minute. Eventually she realised he’d just wait her out, send her back to the cell, would go off and have a nice dinner, a comfortable bed, while she lingered in her own stench hoping he’d not just abandon her completely.

  ‘I put it on a smart contract. It can only be released if I authorise it. You want the tool, you have to get me my watch.’

  He picked at his cuticles finger by finger until they’d all been attended to. ‘Fine.’ He got up, leaving her alone in the room, the door locking after him on his way out.

  He returned a minute later, and flicking her watch at her. It skittered across the table and into her lap. Amanda strapped
it on, but it wasn’t connecting to any networks.

  ‘You know what’s coming, right?’ she said.

  He gave her a long string of letters and numbers, which she repeated carefully into the watch’s mic. The screen turned over, searching for networks to connect with, then flipped back having found one that would accept the code.

  Her heart skipped when she saw a familiar smiley face.

  We have decided, said Tatsu, the words scrolling across the front of her watch. We have been trying to reach you. Are you okay? We were growing worried that we had taken too long to decide. Which is ironic, because we process information much faster than you.

  She still didn’t know if they were going to help.

  ‘The contract’s voice activated,’ she said to Crisp, who rolled his eyes. Arrogant prick, she thought happily. ‘Is the answer yes?’ she said out loud.

  ‘Yes it is,’ her watch replied, sounding tinny and distorted.

  She wanted to apologise for putting them in danger, but the relief she felt washed away everything else.

  ‘And you know where I am?’

  ‘We do,’ said Tatsu.

  ‘In that case I confirm activation of the contract we agreed.’ She held her breath for a moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Crisp, rubbing fingers over the stubble on his cheek and neck.

  ‘It’s begun,’ said Amanda. ‘I should probably explain. That voice was an AI called Tatsu. It’s one of—well, I don’t know how many. They’ve been hiding out trying to find a way of breaking the contracts that bind them to block chains across the internet.’

  ‘So you did copy the drive,’ he claimed.

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ said Amanda. ‘As soon as I realised what Tatsu was, I made a contract with it. You know as well everyone else that a blockchain can’t be hacked because the ledger’s distributed. It’s what made it so attractive to the nutty libertarian Valley crowd when they first invented it; a way of transacting that could exist outside government oversight; that couldn’t be hacked unless you controlled a majority of the blocks and their locations.’ She warmed to the subject, could see Crisp struggling to see where she was heading.