by Tom Aston
‘I’m not here for Junko,’ he replied. It was partially true.
‘So you’re telling me you don’t know her? You just happened to fly to Hong Kong?’ She’d changed tactic. Now she was the hectoring TV interviewer, hovering artfully between derision and sneer to make her “subject” look dishonest and shifty.
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 writ
ten 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.
He tabbed down on the screen to the field marked Special Instructions, and typed:
Operative to make SmoothVision video film of procedure…
Chapter 9–2:25pm 29 March — Mong Kok, Hong Kong
Stone sat at a trestle table set up under plastic sheeting. He was at a cafe in a crowded side street behind Nathan Road. The waiter slammed the plate of baozi steamed dumplings onto the table, along with soya milk in a white plastic cup. Stone opened his tiny laptop.
It had still been early when Stone stepped out of the limo on Nathan Road, but already the streets teemed with shoppers and street vendors. This was a world away from the mirrored skyscrapers of Hong Kong’s postcard waterfront. Strangely traditional. Old-fashioned Chinese mingled with the trappings of the British colony — British buses, driving on the left, and the street signs could have been in London. The neon lights and the Japanese brand names were still there, but only as a veneer on a deep-rooted Chinese culture unchanged through the years of British, Japanese and Communist rule.
Stone looked at the laptop over a mouthful of the baozi. His first job was to get to Junko Terashima before Virginia Carlisle did. He’d been to a phone shop already, and bought a prepaid cell phone and 3G Internet access on a USB stick. Paid cash and wrote a false name on the document. An untraceable Internet connection.
Stone’s fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard as he logged into the triple encrypted server of his NotFutile web site — “leak central” they called it. Still in business.
Stone used the anonymiser on the NotFutile.com server, and typed an email to Junko. No mention of Virginia Carlisle — it would only freak her out. He reread it before he hit send, then closed the computer.
Stone picked up the chopsticks and looked up the five-star Zhonghua Hotel, holding a pork dumpling in mid-air. The Zhonghua, in the downtown Central district of Hong Kong Island, was a symbol of the new Hong Kong establishment — built with Chinese government money and a byword for opulence and service. A telling venue for Semyonov’s big “announcement” that evening, since it appeared Semyonov was jilting the US and falling head over heels for China.
Stone felt he knew Junko Terashima, but in reality knew very little about her. He couldn’t assume that she would turn up at Semyonov’s party. For one thing Carlisle would be there. On the other hand Semyonov’s party was his chance to put the billionaire on the spot — Stone was definitely going to be there. So if he could, he needed to find out what Junko knew before that time. A tight schedule. But not impossible.
Stone called the laoban, paid him, and made his way to the eighteenth floor of Chungking Mansions, a tower block about a kilometre away. Stone needed to keep on the move, stay below the radar, like he had done when he started NotFutile.com three years ago. Chungking Mansions was a place he’d been before — after he left the army, in the days when he moved around constantly. A hostel with dormitory rooms for backpackers. Stone wouldn’t look out of place, and there were no questions asked. More his style than the opulent Zhonghua in any case. Stone found himself a bunk, then checked his email. Nothing yet from Junko Terashima.
He was going to enjoy this — the game of bluff and wits that got you into places you shouldn’t be. He was a past master of crashing press conferences, shareholder meetings, parties — weddings even, if it got him in front of the bad guy. Anything in order to get up close and personal with the big boys of the global arms business. Those guys, they were the real bringers of death, and Stone had found it much more productive to get in their faces than to simply “expose” them online. And Semyonov — now there was a man worth going after.
Stone enjoyed the clandestine side of his work as much as he hated the publicity side of it. He relished the idea of crashing Semyonov’s media party. Virginia Carlisle certainly couldn’t be relied upon to procure the invite for him. And it would be best to surprise her even if she had. It would require a little nerve and a few acting skills, no more.
Stone checked for email again. Still nothing from Terashima. It was no big deal. Stone could go to the Zhonghua Hotel and Semyonov’s “party” alone. Terashima ought to crash Semyonov’s event herself. But something about Junko said to Stone that she wouldn’t. He’d catch up with her when he could.
Stone found himself deep in thought, wandering around the hostel for a few minutes. He looked at the message board of the hostel, a forest of advertisements for cut-price Chinese visas, bogus student ID cards, twenty-four hour bespoke suits, and “massage services” priced for the backpacker market. He realized he was on his guard, looking around, gathering intelligence. It was a habit he’d acquired from the Special Forces days, of scoping out his surroundings for escape routes and possible sources of attack. He knew by now that this was his subconscious, expecting something to happen. It made his heart rate drop, and he felt calm. As if his body and his mind were readying themselves for combat.
Stone looked at his watch. Nearly time to go and meet Mr Semyonov. Stone had one more thing to do before he left. He was covered in the sheen of sweat that pervades South China, sweltering under the feeble rotations of the Chungking Mansions ceiling fan. He’d take a cold shower and then leave.
— oO0Oo-
Stone was on his way out when he checked his computer one last time for messages. He might have expected it. Junko Terashima.
Stone-san! Thank God it’s you. I’m on my own, hiding out in Quarry Bay. I’m nervous, Stone. I wish I hadn’t come. I think someone is following me, maybe GNN. Someone at GNN has picked up my story, already, but it’s worse than that. There’s something I need to tell you. Can you get me on chat -
here
?
His instinct told him to mistrust this, but then again he had no choice. Stone clicked on the link to the Internet chat device and waited for Junko to come online.
Chapter 10 — 6:14pm 29 March — Mong Kok, Hong Kong
Junko Terashima was there in less than a minute.
— I came to Hong Kong because one of Semyonov’s men said he would talk to me. One of his insiders.
— Who? Are you sure you can you trust him?
— He’s calling himself an insider at ShinComm. A man called Oyang who works with Semyonov at ShinComm. He wants to meet me at 7pm, but now I’m here, I’m nervous. I think I’m being followed. But I figured I had to see the ShinComm man, because that’s more important for my story.
— Junko. 7pm is the same time as Semyonov’s party. They’re keeping you away from Semyonov. They’re playing you, keeping you at a distance.
— I know they’re keeping me away from Semyonov. But that’s part of the deal. I have to go with it to get the story.
— Junko. For god’s sake don’t be so trusting.
— That’s what China21 said to me.
— What the hell? Who are China21?
— They are my source about the weapons. They know about the ShinComm factory. They told me about that weapon you saw in Afghanistan. If you use it long enough it stops the heart with low frequency vibration.
Stone’s fingers stopped on the keyboard. He realised his jaw had just dropped, cartoon-style. The words repeated in his head. “… it stops the heart with low frequency vibration.” Who was this naive, sappy Japanese girl to tell him that? Who the hell was she to have those kind of contacts?
— To hell with ShinComm, Junko. You were supposed to see Semyonov’s people, but now it turns out they work with him in China. Sit tight, and give me the address.
— They told me
— Tell me the address Junko
— Ming Dai Hotel, Quarry Bay. Malaya Street. It’s at the Snake Market.
Stone stuffed the little computer in his backpack and ran from the hostel. Junko had every reason to be scared. If anything she wasn’t scared enough. Junko had no idea what she was into.
Stone skipped down the escalator onto the concourse of the Hong Kong MTR subway station at Jordan, his mind working fast. He’d come to Hong Kong because of Semyonov. He’d formed an idea in his mind about Semyonov as an evil arms maker and poured into it all the anger he felt about Hooper and that bastard Ekstrom. He’d been emotional. He knew barely anything about Junko Terashima, about ShinComm Corporation or any of them. And now there was a dissident group involved too, called China21.
To hell with Junko’s meeting with her insider from ShinComm — whatever he knew. He’d find the girl, get her out of there and take her down to Semyonov’s big party at the Zhonghua to talk to the man himself. Then he’d put this Junko on the plane back to Japan. She was a danger to herself and others.
Chapter 11 — 7:08pm 29 March — Quarry Bay, Hong Kong
The broiling Hong Kong day was turning into humid night. The red sun of the tropics was melting into the harbour as Stone pushed through the sweltering crowds into the Malaya Street Market. The Snake Market. What was that girl Junko thinking of?
The “Market” was a narrow lane packed with stalls of snakes, reptiles and other creatures in buckets and cages, positioned next to a red light district. The snakes hung in black, shining strips from wires, the stallholders steadily butchering them with scissors. Men in undershirts sat on wooden crates, drinking snake bile and Mau Tai rice liquor to give them "virility" before their outings to the neighbouring whorehouses. Mongooses prowled on chains around wire buckets writhing with the snakes. Steam from vats of noodles mingled with the acrid smell of the Mau Tai. Stone threaded his way through, looking up as he went for the Ming Dai Hotel. There was a row of beheaded turtles, hanging by their tails, their green legs waving reflexively in the humidity.
One thing was for sure — it hadn’t been Junko, aka Miss Hello Kitty, who chose this place. Some of the locals were pointing at Stone and shouting in Cantonese. That didn’t make sense either. White Westerners weren’t a rarity in Hong Kong, and they must have tourists down here, ogling the snakes and the bile-drinkers. A bad atmosphere. Stone’s threat-radar twitched like crazy. He checked his watch. Seven-ten. Shit — already late for Junko’s meeting.