by Aston, Tom
The tall, blond man gave the boy’s body a casual kick, like it was a sick animal he’d found in the courtyard. The mercs cuffed Hooper’s hands behind him, as the tall officer with the short blond hair, still with that satisfied smile, addressed his captive.
‘My men wanted to kill you,’ he said affecting a bored tone and inspecting Hooper’s MP5 in his hands. ‘But I was curious. Who comes spying on the world’s best–paid soldiers? You got some nice pictures, I hope, to show your friends?’ he said, smiling finally at Hooper. He was enjoying this. ‘I wagered five dollars with my captain that we could take you alive.’
‘Five dollars? To keep it interesting?’ said Hooper, holding back his anger. ‘I guess you were bored with no more kids to kill.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ said the mercenary. ‘This is not mercy. I do enjoy killing.’
You don’t say, thought Stone.
‘A job done efficiently, sometimes with a little panache. It gives me great satisfaction,’ the blond man continued. ‘But in this instance, you can be useful to me.’
Stone was evaluating it all. The guy’s English was precise and fluent. Moreover, the evidence said he was telling the truth. The bodies, the shooting of the children, the autopsies. The blond guy and his men were devout killers. They would switch off Hooper and his men without a thought. Yet Stone was watching Hooper's video after the fact. So Hooper couldn’t be dead. And yet if they hadn’t killed Hooper - why not?
The mercenaries bundled Hooper out through the doorway of the compound. He was led through calm sunlight under the trees and out into open ground. Under the trees were two vehicles. After four years in his current line of work, Stone’s knowledge of the arms business was encyclopaedic, and he recognized the vehicles straight off. The first was a Cougar. Mine-resistant - the Americans had hundreds of them in Afghanistan. But the second vehicle was more of a collectors' item - a low slung armoured personnel carrier. A Chinese Type 90. What the hell was a Chinese Type 90 doing in the middle of Helmand? It was towing something too. Hooper’s head-cam went around the back to see some kind of radar-dish apparatus. The tall, blond man stood on the wheel-fender, then jumped down, cat-like, and approached Hooper again.
‘Take a good look,’ said the blond soldier. ‘This is our secret weapon. We have been running some tests, and I believe you saw the results on your way into town,’ he declared, smiling proudly at the head cam. The camera strayed all over it. The dish was two metres or more in diameter. Stone could see the detail of the control panel, even the manufacturer’s nameplate. Which, bizarrely, was in Chinese.
Hooper’s anger boiled over. ‘You fucking murderer,’ he growled.
Ekström smiled back at Hooper. ‘Fucking… murder did you say?’ said the Swede, grinning. ‘Thank you for the compliment. In this job I get to do both. Fucking, and murder. But just one more thing...’ Ekström made an instant high kick, the sole of his boot flying up beside the camera into Hooper’s face. Stone was impressed in spite of himself. Athletic, precise, brutally fast. The picture flew upwards, to the sun-dappled trees above, and Stone could feel Hooper falling backwards to the ground. There was a blood fleck on the camera lens. No hands came to Hooper’s face. He was cuffed, defenceless.
Then the shock. The words that meant Hooper wasn’t going to escape at all. He was going to die, and Stone was about to watch it happen.
‘In case you are curious, Professor Stone,’ said the blond man, speaking directly at the camera. ‘My name is Ekström. Johan Ekström, from Sweden. I am a fan of your web site, and I guess this will make a nice story for you. No doubt you would like a little extra colour to your story – an execution or a rape maybe? But perhaps another time.’ Ekström smiled laconically and turned to one of his men.
‘Give me your .22. The little one.’
The man threw a small automatic to Ekström. Ekström looked down and aimed centimetres to the side of the head-cam, right at Hooper’s forehead. Another bang and a muzzle flash, Ekström’s hand jumped with slight recoil.
Stone had just watched Ekström shoot his old friend through the head. He’d asked for a .22 so as not to damage the camera at close range with a more powerful weapon.
Ekström calmly bent down close to the camera on Hooper’s helmet.
‘And remember my name! I am Ekström!’ said the Swede, smiling at the camera. ‘Johan Ekström!’
That grinning face. It was revolting, even for a man who’d seen what Stone had in his time.
Stone’s head span, but it was becoming clear what had happened here. Ekström had a reason for all this. Publicity. He wanted to spread word of that weapon and how many people it killed. He had taken the video from Hooper’s head-cam and sent it to Stone. Stone with his anonymous whistle-blowers’ web site was the perfect way to gain publicity. He was a real piece of work, this Ekström.
The telephone rang again. Extension 1311. Jayne again. Stone knew what she wanted, but she’d have to wait. Stone had just rewound, and frozen the video on the image of the weapon. He’d seen something. Yes, there was no mistake. It was a clear as day - for anyone who could read it.
Ekström had made a mistake and Stone was going to exploit it. For Hooper’s sake, Stone would make sure Ekström and whoever was behind him paid a high price for what they’d done.
Chapter 4 - 11:24am 27 March, Faculty Building, West Fleet University, England
Stone was still at his desk when the phone rang again. He’d frozen the video clip on the image of the dish-shaped “weapon”, and was looking at the writing he saw there. The name of the manufacturer. After that it had taken a matter of minutes. A few searches online were all it took, and an email to a reporter in the US. It had been a childish error on Ekström’s part, but he could see how it had happened. Stone was going to take it and blow the whole sordid mercenary thing wide open.
The telephone rang and Stone tried to shake the memory of what he’d just seen from his head. Ethan Eric Stone, Professor of Peace Studies at West Fleet University, looked at the phone with exasperation as it carried on ringing. Finally he picked up.
‘Stone? It’s Jayne. The Vice Chancellor’s in a spin. You know what he gets like. It’s “a very serious matter” apparently. He wants you up here.’
Stone hung up the phone, stood up from his desk and looked distractedly through the window of the ugly 1960’s faculty building. A very serious matter. His boss, Vice Chancellor George Watts, was panicking about something again. That was fine. But for now, Stone thought what he’d just seen happen to Hooper might just be more serious.
Stone ran a hand through his thatch of wiry, sandy blond hair as he looked from the window.
When Stone left the army four years ago, he had veered from the profession of soldier into that of peace campaigner. After the things he had seen in the army he had craved a detox from the violence. A deep cleanse of his psyche. The peace warrior thing was his way of doing it. He’d started his web site, called NotFutile.com, three years ago to expose the activities of the global arms industry. Ironically, the web site name itself had been Hooper’s idea – indirectly. It had been Hooper’s response to the whole idea of exposing the arms business, and the sordid commercial wars they encouraged. ‘Resistance is futile, Stone,’ Hooper would say, as if he were some kind of philosopher. ‘It’s fucking futile, mate. We’ve just got to get on with it.’
That’s why Stone chose the name NotFutile.com. The site was a kind of blind drop box for tidbits of information about the arms industry. People could send documents and leaks anonymously and get them online. NotFutile.com was the proper name, but it quickly acquired a cult following and was known amongst the regulars as LeakCentral. Later it became almost a movement amongst the students. Someone designed a logo and even printed up some T-shirts.
But really, it was only a web site.
Stone had got lucky early when he pieced together a number of research papers and seemingly random press reports to uncover a highly secret UK government satellite surv
eillance system. Stone was arrested and held for a week under anti-terrorism legislation, but they’d had to release him because he’d broken no law. The story was picked up by mainstream media, and NotFutile.com took off from there.
In the early days, Stone was constantly under surveillance. He spent a year or so living out of one bag, alighting in one country after another. But then the bizarre offer of a professorship at West Fleet University had come along.
“Ethan Stone - Professor of Peace Studies.” He had to laugh. He wasn’t professor material, and he didn’t make much of a study of peace. More a personal war against the arms industry. Stone joked once that Professor of Sick and Unusual Weapons Systems would have been a better title, and that was the title Jayne stuck on his office door last Christmas. It made her laugh anyway, and since the Vice Chancellor thought it “sent out the wrong message”, Stone had kept the laminated sign on his office door for the whole year.
The phone rang again.
‘George wants you as soon as possible, Stone. You’d better get your arse up here.’
‘Since you ask so nicely.’ Stone answered, ‘And can I just say I’ve always appreciated your professional manner?’
‘Just get up here!’ she laughed.
He hung up, but had no intention of leaving the room. He walked over and gazed out of the window again. He liked Jayne - she was fun, flirtatious. Much more his type than the hero-worshipping students who followed him around.
If Stone had ever had doubts why University Vice Chancellor George had impulsively hired him as the first Professor of Peace Studies at West Fleet, they didn’t last long. Stone’s NotFutile.com web site and his reputation had given West Fleet the image of being cool and radical. He’d attracted hordes of students. The whole university gained a higher profile. Journalists and camera crews were suddenly regular visitors. ‘Good for business!’ as Watts always said, sounding like a marketing man. Which was what he was, mostly. Not his fault.
Stone remembered the words of one cringe-making reporter:
‘No straggly beards and sandals here,’ she said. ‘Peace activist Ethan Stone combines Zen-like commitment to his research work with the looks of Keanu Reeves.’ Keanu Reeves? It took him months to live that one down.
But it was true that the unconventional new Professor had given the university an image of being modern, progressive, ground-breaking. Stone himself had gained a kind of rock star persona. The girls at the student newspaper made him look cultish and cool, and always printed pictures of him. They said he had managed to make the non-violence movement sexy. Which was an achievement in itself, considering Stone was an eco-ultra, and took a hard-line stance against consumerism. He took his salary in cash, refused a bank account, lived in one room like a student. They said he was a believer, a man without hypocrisy.
And they were right. Nothing “eccentric” in that as far as he was concerned. Stone hated the publicity nonetheless.
There was a scuffling noise outside the office door and Vice Chancellor Watts burst in, red-faced, just as Stone’s phone rang again with a call from Jayne.
‘With you in a second, George,’ said Stone glancing down at the screen in front of him.
‘I need to speak to you, Stone,’ he said, flustered.
‘You don’t say,’ said Stone without looking up. Whatever George Watts wanted to say would have to wait. ‘As it happens, I need to speak to you too,’ he said. ‘I’ve just discovered something. I received a particularly nasty video through the NotFutile.com site,’ said Stone. Watts was looking mystified. ‘Illegal weapons testing in Afghanistan.’ Stone didn’t elaborate. Watts would probably have thrown up if he’d seen that film-clip. ‘But it’s more interesting than I thought. If interesting’s the right word.’ Interesting was definitely not the right word.
Watts looked nonplussed at being talked at by Stone, but Stone continued. ‘You see it seems the mercenaries, Special Circumstances, have been testing a weapon out there in Afghanistan, and sent the details to NotFutile.com to gain publicity. That’s bad enough,’ said Stone. Watts was still looking wary and confused. ‘But they made a mistake. The manufacturer of the weapon put a name plate on it. Only the mercenaries didn’t think to remove it, because they couldn’t read it.’
‘What do you mean they couldn’t read it?’ said Watts.
Stone’s eyes were cool, but behind them his mind was fixed on the image of Hooper, shot in cold blood by the mercenary. Stone was by nature dispassionate. He had a reputation for it, and it had made him a cool killer himself in his time. Yet he was seething with anger after what he’d seen - a cold hard anger. Stone's jaw was fixed with gritted teeth as silently turned the computer screen to show Watts the frozen image of Ekström’s dish-shaped weapon. He stared at Watts, his eyes like chips of grey ice, unblinking. It always made Watts nervous when Stone did that. Watts went red in the face and played with his cuffs.
‘There was a manufacturer’s nameplate on that weapon, George,’ said Stone pointing at the screen with a pencil. ‘New Machine Technologies, Shanghai, China. The mercenaries didn’t notice, because it was written in Chinese, but it’s clear as day. I did a year of Chinese at Cambridge, remember?’
‘Before you dropped out, Stone,’ said Watts, tartly, but still playing with his cuffs. ‘But I don’t see where that gets us.’
‘I did an online search for this firm, George,’ said Stone. ‘New Machine Technologies is a Chinese company. It appears to be a subsidiary of ShinComm Corporation, also of Shanghai, although the ownership structure is a bit vague.’
‘ShinComm are huge,’ said Watts, trying to look knowledgeable. ‘They make smartphones, laptops that kind of thing. Mostly for the Western market.’
‘Sure. But I haven’t finished yet,’ said Stone, still pointing at the screen. ‘Take a look at this. This is a Youtube video clip which came up when I searched on New Machine Technologies.’ Stone began to play the clip on the screen while George Watts watched.
The Youtube clip showed a press conference with the search technology billionaire, Steven Semyonov. The video began as the camera alighted on a rookie reporter for GNN - Global News Network. An attractive young Japanese woman with the name Junko Terashima on her lapel badge. She looked nervous, almost guilty, like one of the quiet girls at school who'd landed herself in front of the principal. The camera flashed back to Semyonov’s face. He smiled like an all-knowing Buddha as she asked the question. Stone had watched this part maybe thirty times already.
‘Junko Terashima, GNN, Washington DC...’ the young reporter began, voice quavering. The whole room looked at her. Her face had a sheen of nervous perspiration as she read from a card.
‘Mr Semyonov, can you confirm you’ve taken a major shareholding in ShinComm and New Machine Technology Company, of Shanghai, China?’
The video flipped to a close-up of Semyonov. There was no reaction in Semyonov’s white face. The penetrating eyes betrayed nothing.
‘I have a great many investments, Junko,’ he said casually. ‘Your point?’
She cleared her throat again as if steeling herself, then read on. ‘As a major shareholder, Mr Semyonov, you must be aware that experimental weapons manufactured by ShinComm have killed hundreds of innocent civilians. How do you feel about that?’
Stone stared the close-up of Semyonov’s smooth face. It was the half smile that hooked him. A smile with the mouth and not the eyes, and it lasted a split-second too long. There was a hairline crack in his impenetrable intelligence.
‘You are mistaken, Miss Terashima,’ Semyonov said simply, but deliberately, and moved on to the next questioner. As the video clip finished, Terashima was being bundled out as a troublemaker.
Watts looked more uneasy than ever. ‘I don’t see the point,’ he said. But Watts saw the point very well. Semyonov was a very powerful man – intelligent, rich. Most of all he was popular. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting Stone. But you’ve already made too many enemies since you came here…’
‘Then another one won’t hurt. Let me explain,’ said Stone. He couldn’t let himself say Hooper’s name, couldn’t admit the personal connection. ‘I just received evidence to back up what this Japanese woman was saying. There was a manufacturer’s nameplate on that weapon. No one believed her when she confronted Semyonov, but here’s the evidence..’
Watts looked at Stone in sudden apprehension. ‘Whatever you’re up to, Stone, I forbid you to make an enemy of Steven Semyonov. For the university or for yourself.’
‘Semyonov is famous for his cool, and his intelligence,’ said Stone, ignoring the objection. ‘He’s never stuck for an answer. Yet here’s a rookie reporter and she’s caught him out. It’s there in his face. You can see it.’ Stone was talking Semyonov, but his mind was fixed on Hooper and the image of Ekström's face grinning from behind that gun barrel. ‘Why would this rookie reporter do this unless she had something? Semyonov is Mr Nice Guy. He’s worth billions and the media love him. Then suddenly – bang! This is not tax fiddling Semyonov’s involved in, George – this is evil, nasty weaponry,.’
‘We’ve just seen a young reporter end her career,’ said Watts. ‘Nothing more.’
‘”Reporter fired for challenging billionaire”. Since when did that mean she was wrong?’ said Stone. ‘The firm Terashima cites is New Machine Tech, George. And New Machine Technologies made the weapon in Afghanistan. The dead women and kids in that village connect directly back to Semyonov.’
‘‘I don’t care what you say,’ said Watts, shaking his head, more nervy than ever. ‘Semyonov’s a popular hero – a moral and intellectual hero. You can’t take him on.’
Stone persisted. ‘Junko Terashima knows about Semyonov, George, and I know about the weapons. Between us we have evidence.’
‘I forbid you to contact her.’