by Jon Evans
“They must have found us at the party,” Keiran says, his voice devoid of emotion, just solving another puzzle. “They saw us leaving, sent someone to run ahead and set up the fake taxi.”
Laurent says, “I’m going to try to start the car.”
They watch as he gets into the driver’s seat and proceeds to wrestle with the steering column. Hotwiring it, Danielle supposes. She wonders where he learned that. In the Legion, or his shadowy life before.
Keiran draws out a cell phone. “No signal,” he reports.
A flash of light from the west draws all their attention. Headlights, approaching, swinging back and forth as the vehicle follows the curves of the road.
“We were followed,” Angus says quietly. He steps closer to Estelle, moving automatically, ready to protect her.
Danielle holds her breath as the lights approach, fiercely tells them to keep moving, as if with the force of her mind she can propel them further along the road and away from the gas station. But the vehicle slows as it approaches.
“Laurent,” Danielle says, “hurry.”
The vehicle is an open-sided Jeep carrying a half-dozen Indian men in dark clothes. It reminds Danielle very much of the one that carried her up to the hut where she was held captive. It turns into the gas station at speed and pulls to a gravel-spraying halt in front of the Ambassador just as Laurent coaxes the taxi engine into growling life. Danielle tenses, about to try to leap into the taxi and escape, take their chances on a high-speed chase.
Then there are a half-dozen loud barking noises in quick succession, curiously hollow, like a sledgehammer hitting concrete, overlaid with even louder krang! sounds of metal on metal, and six flashes of light from the Jeep’s passenger side, where the Indian man holds something that looks like a stick, as sparks fly from the taxi’s engine, which sputters and dies.
It takes Danielle a moment to put together what just happened. A gun. They shot the taxi, destroyed its engine. For a moment she is so stunned, by the shots, the confirmation that they have been lured and trapped by armed assailants, that she doesn’t know what to do. Then she realizes. She has to run.
But it is too late. “If you move, we will shoot! Stay where you are!” a voice orders. A familiar voice.
Nobody moves; the gunfire has paralyzed them all. The jeep reverses, turning ninety degrees, aiming its headlights straight at them, as Danielle tries, her mind overwhelmed by what is happening, to recognize that voice.
The taxi door opens. Danielle gasps, afraid they will shoot Laurent for disobeying their orders. Then he takes one staggering step out of the car and collapses groaning onto the ground, and she whimpers with horror. One of the bullets aimed at the car hit Laurent. He has been shot, shot and hurt, hurt badly.
A figure steps out in front of the Jeep, silhouetted by the headlights, holding a gun. “Danielle Leaf,” a voice says. “I told you we would meet again.” The voice of the man at Kishkinda, the man who interrogated her, and struck her with the lathi. Vijay.
Chapter 13
Keiran stands with his hands up as the Indian men approach, trying to process the situation, think of a way out, an elegant hack. But there is no solution and no escape. If he runs he will never make it into darkness, not if they are willing to shoot, and they have shown that willingness already. If he could somehow knock out the lights – but he can’t do anything without being knocked out or shot himself. He is furious at himself for not insisting they turn around the moment he noticed they were going in the wrong direction. If he dies here, it will be his own fault.
The leader of Kishkinda’s men, they must be Kishkinda’s, is taller, thicker, and better dressed than the others, and carries a gleaming automatic pistol instead of a revolver. And he knows Danielle. This must be the man who captured her before, who Laurent thinks is Vijay from the Mumbai office. That’s something. A chance, however small, for some social engineering.
“Vijay,” Keiran says. “Good work.”
The man’s expression flickers, confirming his name, and he stops. “Who are you?”
“I’m your only hope of surviving the next seven days.”
Keiran isn’t sure exactly where he’s going with this, but at least he has Vijay’s undivided attention. “Who are you and what the devil do you mean?” Vijay demands.
“You’ve been betrayed. Kishkinda sold you out. After you do this job they’re cutting you loose. I have proof.”
Vijay relaxes. Something Keiran said gave the bluff away. “If he says another word,” Vijay directs one of his men, “shoot him dead.” Then he says something in Hindi, and two of his men start around the car, presumably to fetch Laurent. Vijay digs into his shoulder bag and unearths a large, clanking pair of handcuffs that look like they belong in the Middle Ages.
There is a clunking sound from the other side of the car, and a gasp of pain. Keiran grimly figures it is Laurent, wounded, being forced to his feet. But then it is followed by a single gasped word in Hindi, and another clunking noise.
Keiran looks over to the shot-up taxi. The headlights and flashlights illuminate this side clearly. The heads of the two Indians who went to collect Laurent are no longer visible above the car. As if both of them have disappeared into the patch of shadow, on the other side of the vehicle, where Laurent fell.
Vijay barks two sharp Hindi words, turns, aims his gun at the taxi. He repeats his order. There is no reply. Keiran’s heart fills with hope. Maybe Laurent was not wounded after all. Maybe his stumble and groan were only a ruse.
His suspicion is confirmed when Laurent’s face appears above the edge of the taxi, behind a revolver held two-handed, and fires four times before any of Kishkinda’s men react.
The Jeep’s headlights wink out. Showers of sparks tumble like fireworks from the shattered fluorescent lights. Then darkness covers them all like a thick blanket, and everyone is blind.
Keiran doesn’t hesitate. They don’t have much time, Kishkinda’s men may have flashlights. He already picked out his escape route. He reaches blindly for Danielle, grabs her arm, and pulls her along with him, towards the jungle. Instead of running, he walks on the gravel as silently as he can. She resists at first, scuffing the gravel, but then catches on. There are several gunshots behind them, each of which cause Keiran to twitch with panic, despite reminding himself that you never hear the bullet that hits you.
It is only fifty paces to the end of the parking lot, but the walk feels like it takes hours. Then he feels vegetation beneath his feet. He leads Danielle into the jungle, still walking, they dare not run until they are out of earshot, heedless of the leaves and branches that slash at his face and arms, the muddy inconsistent footing, the fetid mosquito-filled air. Better malaria than murder.
* * *
“These fucking mosquitos,” Danielle whispers.
“Don’t slap them,” Keiran says back, his voice low. “They might hear you. Just accept it. And don’t whisper, whispers carry further than a quiet voice.”
“How long have we been out here?”
Keiran checks his watch. “About thirty minutes.”
“Jesus. That’s all? It feels like it should be the day after tomorrow already.”
Keiran nods. The last time crawled past so slowly was that night in the car park, the night Angus saved his life. He hopes Angus and Estelle got away as well. And Laurent.
“We’re just going to sit here all night?” Danielle asks.
“We don’t have much choice. We don’t dare start shouting for help, and we’re not likely to find our way back in this dark. I’ve never been anywhere this dark. You can practically drink it.”
After a moment Danielle says, “I didn’t hear any shouts. Of people being, you know, hurt. Did you?”
“No.”
“Maybe everyone got away.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m sure Laurent got away,” she says, trying to convince herself. “He wasn’t really hurt.”
“No,” Keiran agrees. “You don’t get shot
and then knock out two men with guns, not unless you’re fucking Superman, not in real life. And I saw him for a moment before he shot out the lights. He looked fine.”
“Then he’s fine. He must be fine. If we got away, he must have got away.”
“It was a smart move. Shooting out the lights is exactly what I would have done.”
“High praise,” Danielle says.
“I certainly think so.”
“Does this mean you don’t think he’s a jerk anymore?”
“What makes you say that?” Keiran asks, surprised.
“Keiran. How can you be so smart and yet so dumb? It was painfully obvious, and not just to me. You do know you’re completely socially transparent.”
“No. Actually I didn’t know that. But yes, I have new respect for Laurent. He’s not a prat after all. Conditional on us all escaping this mess with our lives.”
“Mess is the right word. I’m covered with filth.” The terrain is not so much jungle as swamp.
“You’d rather be covered with your own blood?”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“Sorry,” Keiran says.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?”
He blinks. “No. Not for a while.”
“It shows. You’re more human when you’re dating. Sometimes I didn’t know if I was your girlfriend or your anthropologist liaison with the outside world.”
After a moment Keiran says, stung, “I don’t think this is really the right time for this conversation.”
“Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Stress.”
“Forgiven. But for the record, it’s been four years since you really knew me. Do me a favour. Don’t assume I’m the same man you used to know. People change.”
“Even you?” Danielle asks.
“Even me.”
“Change why? To what?”
Keiran’s reflex is to change the subject, dodge the question, maintain his privacy and mystique. But he feels closer to Danielle than almost anyone else on earth. Which itself, he realizes, is a damning statement; they broke up years ago and since then have spoken only every few months. He has plenty of hacker friends, co-conspirators, but they would never dream about asking about Keiran’s inner life.
“I guess I finally accepted I’m a human being,” he says, making a half-joke out of it. “We’re social animals. No sense denying it.”
“You were lonely,” Danielle says.
Keiran flinches at the word. “No. I just figured, most of the rest of my species seemed to value a considerably greater depth of social interaction than that in which I was accustomed to participate, and perhaps - Let’s just say I decided I need to integrate, instead of partitioning, my intellectual and emotional selves. And my mental versus physical dichotomy while I’m at it. And part of that integration requires further emotional interaction with other people in the social milieu in which I exist. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you have a lot of work to do,” Danielle says, amusement in her voice.
“I’m so glad you find this funny,” Keiran says sourly. “You know, I’ve never talked to anyone about this before. I probably still wouldn’t have if I wasn’t on E.”
“And running for your life,” Danielle says. “Fear tends to lower your inhibitions. Trust me. By now I ought to know.”
“Is that why you’re with Laurent?”
“I’m with Laurent because he’s the most truly good man I’ve ever met. Why are you here? What’s a crypto-libertarian like you doing helping out anticorporate activists like Angus and Estelle? Did that change too?”
“No,” Keiran says. ” I have not lost my mind. Their politics are still idiotic counterproductive bullshit. I’m here because I’m paying back a debt.”
“Must be a pretty big one.”
“Life size.”
“What is it?” Danielle asks.
Keiran hesitates. He suddenly wants to unburden himself, to tell Danielle the whole story of what happened in the car park. “I don’t think I can honourably answer that question in Angus’s absence. At least not without his explicit blessing.”
After a moment Danielle says, “Fair enough.”
“Sorry.”
“No. I understand. I am glad you’re trying to change, Keiran. You’re not a bad man. You’ve got real potential.”
“Thank you so much,” Keiran mutters. He isn’t used to being patronized.
“Assuming, of course, we manage to live through the night.”
* * *
The night seems to linger an unnaturally long time, as if an eclipse has swallowed the sun, but eventually, shapes begin to slowly define themselves around them, fading into existence as if they have just been created from the primordial darkness itself; leaves silhouetted against the sky, long blades of grass floating on muddy puddles, some kind of airborne insect the size of Keiran’s thumb. As dawn begins to stain the eastern sky, Keiran and Danielle move south, where they must inevitably encounter the road. It doesn’t take long, though they fled through the thick brambles for what felt like a long time last night. Keiran suspects that in fact they went in circles.
The abandoned road divides the jungle like a river. They look both ways several times, like paranoid children, before stepping out of cover and onto its smooth black surface. Both of them are covered with scratches and mosquito bites. Keiran goes west, which he thinks will take them away from the petrol station, but as they round the bend they see it before them. Clearly they were more disoriented last night than he knew. The station is abandoned, the ruined taxi still next to the pump, as if waiting for a petrol delivery. The Jeep is gone. After a moment’s deliberation they approach cautiously. No one else is visible. The site seems to have been abandoned for decades.
Keiran approaches the taxi and opens the passenger door. The clunk as it opens sounds oddly foreboding, as if it might cue an ambush, but nothing happens.
“What are you doing?” Danielle asks.
“Looking for identification. I’d like to know how they found us.”
The taxi’s interior, like that of virtually every vehicle in India, is decorated by a picture of Krishna and a protective statuette of Ganesh, both garlanded with fresh flowers. Keiran opens the glove compartment, which is overflowing with papers, cassettes, bidis – individual dried tobacco leaves rolled into tight smokable cylinders – and other debris. Much of the papers are written in Devanagari script, but some of them seem to be English.
“I’m sure he was just paid to look for us,” Danielle says.
Keiran shakes his head. “No way. He just happens to be waiting for us, and his friends just happen to be ready to follow two minutes behind, at three in the morning? They knew we were at that party. They might have been following us all week.”
“How?”
“Maybe you didn’t escape from Kishkinda after all. Maybe they let you escape. Maybe you were followed.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Got a better idea?” Keiran asks. And then he sees the piece of paper with five words scribbled on it.
“No way,” Danielle says, behind Keiran. He is only dimly aware she is speaking at first, as he processes the repercussions of the fifth word. “There’s no way they let us escape. Trust me. There’s no way. We weren’t followed.”
“No,” he says distractedly. “No, you weren’t.”
“What?”
“You’re right. You weren’t followed.”
Danielle pauses. “It’s not usually so easy to change your mind.”
Keiran shows her the piece of paper.
“Angus, Danielle, Estelle, Laurent, LoTek,” she reads. “So they know our names. No surprise if you’re right and they’ve been following us.”
“No. They know your names. They know my handle. Did you ever tell Laurent about LoTek?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Believe it or not,” she says wryly, “your hacker name four y
ears ago really never came up as a topic of conversation.”
A branch snaps. They both freeze, then look up, and see Angus, Estelle, and Laurent emerge from the jungle. All of them are scraped and scratched and filthy, and Estelle, limping on a twisted ankle, leans on Angus. Danielle sprints to Laurent and he lifts her off her feet with a hug.
“Look at this,” Keiran says, brandishing the telltale piece of paper.
Angus and Estelle do so; Laurent and Danielle are still too wrapped up in one another. “In the taxi?” Estelle asks.
Keiran nods grimly.
“What do you reckon it means?” Angus asks.
“It means,” Keiran says, “disaster.”
* * *
They wait in the gravel near the edge of the jungle, half-shielded by the corner of the incomplete petrol station, hoping for a friendly vehicle to appear but ready to escape back into the forest if necessary.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Angus says for the second time. “Not even Estelle. Not that I wouldn’t have, but it just never came up, I always just used your name.”
Estelle nods her corroboration.
“Yes, you did. You told someone. You had to.” Keiran knows this is true because no other explanation makes sense.
“Wait.” Angus winces. “The foundation.”
“The foundation? And who the fuck are they when they’re at home?” Keiran demands.
“Our funders. I told them in an email that I’d brought the notorious hacker LoTek onside. And that, my friend, is all you will ever know about them.”
“Guess again. Someone in your foundation told Kishkinda.”
“No. That’s ridiculous,” Angus says, shaking his head. “Kishkinda is their archenemy. They’re no more likely to pass on information than me.”
“Then there’s a spy in their midst.”
“Impossible. Only one person would have read that email, and if he was secretly on their side, believe me, there is no way we would ever have gotten this far.”
“They knew my handle. Nobody knew I was working with you, and knew my handle, except for you, Danielle, and your foundation man. You didn’t tell anyone. Dani didn’t tell anyone. It’s him, or –” Keiran pauses, as a new, maybe even worse, possibility occurs to him.