The Fail Safe

by Jack Heath

  PUBLIC SENTIMENT

  Haypen folded up the tripod and put it back in the padded case with the long focus lens. He had to hurry. He believed in this cause, but he had no intention of dying for it. Librarians would start looking for witnesses soon.

  The apartment was dark and bare. The thin curtains were open just half a metre. The only furniture was a folding chair Haypen had brought with him, and which he would discard in an alleyway now that he was done with it. When the new owners moved in, they would never know he had been here.

  There were so many bodyguards and cops down below that he could hardly see the pier anymore. The president was being carried through the crowd on a stretcher. Troy Maschenov had simply been hoisted over someone’s shoulder. At this distance, Haypen couldn’t tell if either of them were alive. Cormanenko’s body had not resurfaced.

  He went to put the camera in the case, and hesitated. There was no point checking how the photo had turned out. Either it had or it hadn’t. It was too late to change anything.

  He checked anyway. It was perfect. Troy Maschenov, the notorious Besmari terrorist, was shielding the Kamauan president with his body as Dessa Cormanenko pointed a gun at them.

  The camera had software which could upload the picture directly to social media. Haypen posted the photo to a variety of anonymous accounts, with the hashtag #enough.

  The tag hadn’t been part of the plan, but he felt it added something. The picture was just a fact. The tag was a feeling which would resonate.

  When the picture had finished uploading, he removed the memory card, snapped it in half and pocketed the pieces. He stuffed the camera into the carry case, zipped it up, grabbed the folding chair and hustled out of the apartment. By the time anyone calculated the angles and worked out where the picture had been taken from, he would be long gone.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘What is it?’ Noelein snapped. She was back in her office at the Library, working through her list. Only half of the agents on loan in Besmar had made it back across the border, and the president wouldn’t wait. She would probably give the order to launch the nukes as soon as she regained consciousness. Noelein was about to lose a huge chunk of her team.

  Still, with Besmar annihilated, she didn’t need them anymore.

  Jeska Schreber, one of the Cataloguers, hovered in the doorway holding a tablet. ‘Something weird is happening on the internet.’

  ‘Something weird is always happening on the internet. Can it wait?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Schreber brought the tablet over. Noelein found herself staring at a picture – a picture that made no sense.

  ‘Who posted this?’ she demanded. ‘When?’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago. We’re still trying to work out who put it up. But millions of people have already seen it.’

  Noelein stared at her. ‘Get it taken down!’

  ‘We got the originals removed, but too many people are uploading copies. We can’t keep up. And look at the comments.’

  Noelein scrolled down. A few people were suggesting that the photo was a hoax, or that Troy Maschenov had secretly worked for the Library all along. But many – most, in fact – were asking dangerous questions.

  Some Besmaris attacked us, but does that mean all Besmari people are bad? Could Maschenov have been trying to disarm that bomb on the train?

  What would bombing Besmar actually solve?

  Maybe we’re just as bad as them.

  Haven’t we fought for long #enough?

  ‘There’s similar chatter on Besmari sites,’ Schreber said. ‘They’re talking about Maschenov like he’s a hero. Standing up to Dosslov’s regime, saving lives no matter who they are, that kind of thing.’

  What did this mean? Noelein didn’t know, and she could feel herself losing control of the situation.

  ‘Boss,’ Schreber said. ‘Your phone.’

  She pointed at the red phone. The one reserved for the president. It was ringing.

  Fero opened his eyes.

  He was in a bed in someone’s bedroom. No – a hotel room. There was a big TV, a small kitchenette and a fake potted plant. The lights had dimmer switches that were within reach of the bed.

  His whole body was stiff and sore. The strain of the last few days was catching up with his muscles. His head felt clear, though. From this he guessed that he had been asleep for at least six hours.

  The curtains were thick and luxurious. The carpet, when he stood up, was soft. There was a phone beside the bed. He picked up the receiver. No dial tone. Designed to receive calls, not to make them.

  Not a hotel room, perhaps. A prison cell. But his captors wanted him to be comfortable. They needed something from him.

  He was wearing cotton pyjamas that weren’t his own. The two-day crust of dirt and sweat on his skin had been washed off. The knowledge that someone had bathed him while he slept made him uneasy.

  He looked out the window. It was sunset. He was still in Kamau – somewhere in West Towzhik, judging by the skyline. The room was three floors above the ground. The windows wouldn’t open. He wondered if this would be the last time he saw the sky.

  Jeans, socks and a grey button-up shirt were folded on the chair beside the bed. Fero checked that no one was in the bathroom or closet. Then he slipped on the clothes as quickly as possible and went over to the door.

  He listened. No sound from the other side. When he tried the handle, it was unlocked. He opened the door.

  A big man in a nondescript suit was standing in the corridor outside. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll let them know you’re awake.’

  ‘Let who know?’ Fero asked.

  The man thought about it, as though this were a complex existential question. ‘My commanding officer,’ he said finally. ‘But who she will tell, I’m not sure.’

  ‘What day is it?’ Fero asked.

  ‘Wednesday, sir.’

  If that was true, he had been unconscious for about ten hours.

  ‘Am I a prisoner?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t leave,’ the man said carefully, ‘but I can’t stop you.’

  Thoroughly confused, Fero closed the door again.

  The kitchenette had tea bags, instant coffee and packets of biscuits. Fero boiled the kettle while he ripped into the biscuits. It felt like years since he had eaten. Once the tea was brewed, he added a little milk and drank the rest straight from the carton.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Fero hesitated. He still had no idea why he was here, and found himself afraid that whoever was at the door would take him to Velechnya.

  They knocked again. Whoever it was, they wanted his permission.

  ‘Come in,’ Fero said.

  A woman with a briefcase, high heels and impeccable makeup entered the room. ‘Mr Maschenov,’ she said, extending a manicured hand. ‘I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.’

  Fero shook her hand. He didn’t actually feel much better – his ears were still ringing, and the biscuits had done nothing to assuage his hunger – but he was anxious to find out what was going on.

  ‘I’m Skyler Prevnyets.’ The woman sat down on a chair and smoothed her pencil skirt over her legs. ‘I’m head of communications for the Kamauan government.’

  Fero said nothing.

  Prevnyets opened the briefcase. ‘I’ve been instructed to return your Besmari passport.’ She handed it to him and kept rummaging through her case.

  Fero stared down at the blue booklet. The Cyrillic writing sparkled on the front. He opened it up to look at the picture. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘In recognition of your service to this country and your act of heroism this morning. I’ve also been asked to give you this.’ She handed him a brown booklet – another passport. Fero opened it up and saw Troy Maschenov’s name again, this time in the Latin alphabet.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Prevnyets said. ‘You’re the first dual citizen of Kamau and Besmar. Or you will be as soon as the paperwork is signed. You’re free to m
ove between both countries.’

  The name on those two passports didn’t seem like his own. He still didn’t feel like Troy Maschenov, ruthless child soldier. He felt like Fero Dremovich, the boy who didn’t exist.

  Maybe, he thought, Fero is who Troy would have become. If he had led a normal life.

  ‘So the Library isn’t after me anymore?’ he asked, knowing that the paranoid part of him would never trust the answer.

  ‘The president has ordered a restructuring of our intelligence services. The Library as you remember it will soon not exist. But yes, your criminal record has been cleared.’

  She looked at him as though expecting thanks for her generosity.

  ‘What about the Bank?’ he asked.

  ‘The Besmari government has backpedalled. At first they said the photo was a hoax—’

  ‘What photo?’

  Prevnyets winced, as though she’d forfeited a bargaining chip she hadn’t known she held. ‘There’s a photo of you protecting President Grigieva from Dessa Cormanenko,’ she said reluctantly. ‘You’re being hailed as a hero in both countries. In order to stay in power, the Besmari government has changed their stance. They’ve publicly congratulated you on your service.’

  ‘And privately?’

  ‘Privately, you may still have enemies.’ Prevnyets shrugged. ‘As an ambassador for peace, that’s to be expected.’

  Fero stared at her. Ambassador?

  ‘I have the paperwork for your dual citizenship here.’ Prevnyets pulled some forms out of her briefcase. ‘There are just a couple of things we need to talk about before it’s signed. Then we can head down to the press conference.’

  ‘Press conference?’

  ‘It’s no big deal. You’ll shake hands with the president, make a brief statement – we’ve written it for you – and answer some questions we gave to agreeable journalists.’

  Fero was still trying to catch up. Within the space of ten hours, a photo had turned him into a peace ambassador. The people of Kamau and Besmar wanted to end the conflict between their countries, and their governments were listening. Now the Kamauan government needed his endorsement to stay in power.

  ‘A couple of conditions. Firstly,’ Prevnyets said, ‘you are not to mention any of the things you did in service to the Library. You never crossed the border illegally, you never stole launch codes from the Besmari prime minister, and you certainly never tried to blow up the head of the Bank. Is that clear?’

  Two of those three things were not exactly done on the Library’s orders, but Fero nodded. They were trying to bribe him with dual citizenship and a clean record, rather than threaten him with prison or death. It was a nice change.

  ‘Secondly,’ Prevnyets continued, ‘Dessa Cormanenko never worked for us. She didn’t help you prevent the train bombing and you weren’t in communication with her in Besmar. Clear?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The peace process is fragile. Any knowledge of the association between us and her – a woman who tried to kill the president and who knows how many other people – could put us right back where we started. Both governments have denounced her.’

  Fero looked out the window. Cormanenko had made a terrible mistake, and paid for it with her life, but it seemed unfair that both countries had condemned her and embraced him. She had done more to end the war than he had.

  ‘One last thing before we go down to the press conference,’ Prevnyets said. ‘I need to know – did you see the shooter?’

  ‘Which shooter?’

  ‘The one who took out Cormanenko. Were they with you? Did one of her people betray her? Or was it a Kamauan civilian?’

  Fero had assumed that the president’s bodyguards had killed Cormanenko. They had showed up moments later, and they had guns. But if it had been them, Prevnyets would know about it. Suspicion grew in his mind.

  ‘You couldn’t tell by examining the body?’ he asked. ‘The kind of bullet, the angle of entry?’

  Prevnyets shook her head. ‘There’s no hope of finding the body. The river will have carried it to the Black Sea.’

  Fero remembered the packets of red fluid on the desk in the warehouse.

  A missing body. A missing shooter. And a woman who was very, very good at faking her own death.

  Cormanenko would have known that murdering Nina Grigieva couldn’t prevent nuclear war, or at least not for long. But forcing a Besmari boy to save the president’s life had changed everything.

  Fero had been her fail safe. Do the right thing.

  ‘I saw a muzzle flash,’ Fero lied. If anyone figured out that there was no shooter, Cormanenko would be hunted down and the peace process might implode.

  Prevnyets leaned forward. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the roof of the nearest apartment building,’ Fero said. ‘A sniper. But I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too far away.’

  Prevnyets nodded, apparently satisfied that Fero would not interfere with the government’s story by unmasking the shooter. ‘Okay. Thank you for your help. Let’s go downstairs and meet the press.’

  Fero followed her out of the room. The big man nodded politely as they passed. The corridors looked like those of a real hotel, but Fero didn’t see anyone as they descended the stairs. Maybe he was the only ‘guest’.

  Prevnyets opened a fire door and they walked into a massive hall packed with people wearing lanyards and holding notepads and phones. When they saw Fero, they burst into applause.

  Fero stood still, shocked, as the sound washed over him. Some people stood up, then others joined them. Soon everyone was on their feet, cheering and clapping. He thought he saw tears on the faces of some of the journalists in the front row. They thought that the war was over, and that it was because of him. Cameras flashed, dazzling him.

  He was ushered onto the stage. Nina Grigieva appeared in front of him, clasping his hand and shaking it warmly. Her hair was immaculate again, her tailored suit freshly pressed. Her eyes sparkled. Fero couldn’t tell how much of her gratitude was real and how much of it was performed for the cameras.

  Dazed, he was led towards a lectern. Two A4 pieces of paper were thrust in front of him – the statement that he was expected to deliver. He scanned the top line and opened his mouth to read it, but the applause was still going. People were whistling, cheering, and smiling at him.

  He thought about Dessa Cormanenko, who had died, yet again, for everyone else’s sins. Who had given up her countries, reviled by both, in order to save them. Who had abandoned her identity and left him with two. Who was now probably mooring a boat on the shore of the Black Sea, preparing for a new life elsewhere.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fero said. His voice caught. The microphone whined. The applause started to die away. ‘Thank you.’

  THANKS TO:

  Clare Forster, who found the perfect home for this series. Anna MacFarlane, Jen Dougherty, Kylie Mason and Clara Finlay whose patience, creativity and relentless attention to detail helped me turn an implausible first draft into something I’m very proud of. Kirby Armstrong, who designed the eye-catching covers for both books. Clare Keighery, Jessica Seaborn and everyone else at Allen & Unwin who made The Cut Out such a success. All the booksellers, librarians and English teachers who really got behind this series (particularly Melanie at Dymocks Brisbane, who arranged a birthday cake for me while I was there!) Madeleine Wilson, Alexandra Howard and Will South, who provided useful feedback. The grand illusionist Cosentino, who discussed competitive breath-holding with me. Lyn Battersby, Alethea Kinsela and everyone else who made the Aurealis Awards happen and made The Cut Out a part of it. The members, volunteers and judges of the Children’s Book Council, who made the The Cut Out a 2016 Notable Book. Tara Moss, David Wong, Waleed Aly and the other writers who try to remind us of our common humanity.

  Yassmin Abdel-Magied, Deborah Abela, Felice Arena, Paolo Bacigalupi, Tristan Bancks, Angelica Banks, Kathryn Barker, A.J. Betts, David Burton, Peter Carnavas, Craig Cormick, Jasper Fforde, Kate Forsyth, Lisa Genova,
Dave Hackett, Leanne Hall, Jacqueline Harvey, Nicole Hayes, Megan Jacobson, Bec Kavanagh, Will Kostakis, Meg McKinlay, Angela Meyer, Dan O’Malley, Michael Pryor, Christopher Richardson, Katherine Rundell, Lian Tanner, K.J. Taylor, P.J. Tierney, Gabrielle Tozer, Emma Viskic, Molly Ward, Frances Watts, Lesley Williams, Fiona Wood, Alice Zaslavsky, Claire Zorn and the other authors who shared wisdom with me while I was on tour. Thanks also to the amazing staff and volunteers at the many wonderful literary festivals around Australia.

  Russell and Anna Holden, my home away from home. The wonderful people of Booked Out, who introduced me to so many readers and supported me when it got tough.

  The terrific Venetia, who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. The wonderful Redvers, who made me laugh. The fantastic Barb and Ian, who borrowed Redvers when I needed to work! The rest of my family and friends, who are so accepting of the fact that I disappear for long periods of time. Someday I’ll be a has-been – then we can hang out.

  Lastly, all the readers who devoured The Cut Out and demanded more. Fero, Dessa and I have been honoured to accompany you on this journey.