The Cut Out

by Jack Heath

  ‘Ulrick Vartaniev recruited me when I was ten. I delivered messages, followed revolutionaries, and prevented a coup in Tus.’

  ‘And what does your mother do?’

  ‘She’s a museum curator.’

  ‘Good. You were sent across the Dead Zone into Kamau two years ago. Your mission was to kill the Chief Librarian. You failed.’

  Fero stared at her. ‘The Bank sent a teenage boy to murder the head of our intelligence services?’

  ‘You concealed yourself in the roof of the Chief Librarian’s house,’ Noelein continued. ‘You drilled a hole in the ceiling of the master bedroom, fed an invisible thread through, and waited. Your were supposed to plant a drop of potassium cyanide onto the thread and drip it into her mouth.’

  Goosebumps rose on Fero’s arms. ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘The house flooded with toxic gas, and you woke up in Velechnya State Prison. The Chief Librarian interviewed you personally. You said nothing. But the questions she asked led you to believe that a source inside the Bank had tipped her off about the assassination attempt. Repeat that back to me.’

  ‘I was sent to kill the Chief Librarian. I sneaked into her house with some potassium cyanide, but I was gassed. When I was interrogated by my intended target, I became convinced that there was a mole inside the Bank.’

  ‘They don’t call them moles. They call them embezzlers.’ Noelein pointed to an attractive young woman with short curls, a broad nose and muscular arms. ‘This is Biala Yordic. You once saw her at Velechnya, where she attended the interrogation of your cellmate, Quan Ser. He later told you he was arrested by her during a failed terrorist attack. You think she’s the embezzler.’ Noelein leaned back in her chair. ‘Of course, her real name is Dessa Cormanenko. She’s going to get you out of the country safely. Then she’ll sneak into Melzen Hospital however she got out last time.’

  Fero examined Cormanenko’s picture. Noelein had said she was sixteen when she escaped from Melzen, which would make her twenty-five now.

  ‘Wait,’ Fero said. ‘Why am I telling the Besmari police that Cormanenko works for us?’

  ‘To blow her cover.’

  ‘But she’s on our side.’

  ‘Besmar is a big country,’ Noelein said. ‘If you went looking for Cormanenko on your own, you’d never find her. But with the help of the Bank . . .’

  ‘The police might just shoot her.’

  Noelein shook her head. ‘They’ll want to know how much she’s told us. Once they’ve arrested her, tell them you need visual confirmation that she’s the same woman you saw at Velechnya. When you meet her, ask if she remembers Quan Ser.’

  ‘My former cellmate?’

  ‘He’s not a real person. Quan Ser is a Library code. It means return to base as soon as possible.’

  Fero rubbed his temples. This was all so complicated. ‘How can she do that if she’s in Besmari custody?’

  ‘Use the phone that Sloth gave you to cut through her handcuffs. She’ll take care of the rest. Tell her about Melzen Hospital, and tell her one of the terrorists is Gear Eruz.’

  ‘Who’s Gear Eruz?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Noelein said. ‘Repeat.’

  Fero took a deep breath. ‘My cellmate at Velechnya was a guy named Quan Ser. He told me Biala Yordic was a Librarian. I saw her when she came in to interrogate him.’

  ‘And the plan is?’

  ‘Wait for the Bank to bring Dessa Cormanenko in. Ask for visual confirmation. Tell her the code – Quan Ser. Cut through her cuffs when I get the chance. Tell her what I know about the terrorist plot, and tell her that one of the terrorists is Gear Eruz. Follow her instructions from there.’ ‘Good work,’ Noelein said. ‘A truck is waiting to take you to the Dead Zone.’

  Fero shut his eyes, trying to keep all the names straight in his head. Jeel Iaga Maschenova was Troy’s mother. Ulrick Vartaniev recruited him. Biala Yordic was really Dessa Cormanenko. Quan Ser didn’t exist. Gear Eruz was someone he didn’t want to know about. The Bank. The Library. Premiovaya. Tus. Tellers. Embezzlers.

  He looked at Noelein. ‘Do you have a photo of the Chief Librarian?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They might question me about the mission,’ Fero said. ‘And if I don’t know who I was supposed to be targeting—’

  ‘The Chief Librarian,’ Noelein said, ‘looks very much like me.’

  Fero remembered the way she had looked at him when they first met. She said she had known Troy Maschenov personally.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. One more thing, before we go.’ Noelein opened the drawer of her desk, and pulled out a short dagger.

  ‘I thought I wasn’t going to take any weapons?’ Fero said.

  ‘You’re not.’ The polished blade glinted in Noelein’s hand. ‘But Troy Maschenov has a scar.’

  THE DROP

  The seat shuddered under Fero as the truck rumbled north towards the Dead Zone. The lights of Kamau twinkled in the rear-vision mirror. Fewer and fewer civilian vehicles appeared on the road. No Kamauan wanted to get too close to the Besmari border. There was always the chance that thugs and maniacs from the dystopia on the other side would try to cross over.

  But there was plenty of military traffic. Armoured personnel carriers and camouflage-patterned cargo trucks growled past. The chassis of an aeroplane trundled by, strapped to a semitrailer. Every few kilometres a checkpoint lit up the darkness, where soldiers leaned on automatic rifles and shone torches into passing cars. Fero had heard that the government put a lot of money into defence. Now he could finally see what they’d bought.

  It was hard not to scratch the scab on his chin. Noelein had dabbed disinfectant on the wound and assured him that there wouldn’t be a permanent mark. Her intention had been to cover his lack of a scar, rather than to give him one. But he couldn’t see how a nick, some photos and a paintball match were adequate training for a spy.

  Sloth shifted into fifth gear. He had volunteered to drive Fero at the last minute. ‘How do you feel?’ he yelled.

  Scared, Fero thought. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The prep was harder than the mission itself will be.’

  ‘I said I’m fine.’

  Sloth shrugged and turned his sad eyes back to the road.

  Noelein had encouraged Fero to eat. It might be a while before his next chance, and he would need energy for the crossing. Fero had forced down some globby potato soup and apple juice. He regretted it. The meal bounced in his stomach like a bowling ball.

  He had been ignoring the radio, but now the journalist’s voice caught his ear.

  ‘. . . the first successful escape in the history of Velechnya State Penitentiary.’ Her voice was thick with static as they drove further from the broadcasting towers. ‘Troy Maschenov was sentenced to life without the possibility of parole for attempted murder, war crimes and espionage . . .’

  ‘Excellent,’ Sloth said. ‘They picked up the story.’

  ‘Who? What story?’

  ‘Sometimes we leak fake tip-offs to the Kamauan media, because we know the Bank monitors it. I was worried the prison break wouldn’t be interesting enough to get any coverage, but it looks like I was wrong. Now they think Troy Maschenov has escaped, so they won’t be suspicious when you turn up.’

  ‘Doesn’t this mean that the Kamauan police will be hunting me?’ Fero asked.

  ‘Exactly. That’ll make it even more convincing.’

  Fero’s lungs tightened with anxiety. ‘How am I supposed to cross the border when my own side thinks I’m an escaped prisoner?’

  ‘That’s the best part. Half the patrols have withdrawn from the border to help seal off the area around Velechnya. The crossing should be easy. Now, you remember what I said about the landmines?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The mines had been placed by the Besmari army more than a decade ago. Fero wouldn’t be heavy enough to trigger an anti-tank mine, and
almost all of the antipersonnel mines had been set off by refugees and wild animals, leaving shallow craters in the desert. According to Sloth, if Fero stayed close to those craters and avoided the ridges, there was ‘practically zero chance’ that he would step on a mine.

  Fero could see the chain-link fence up ahead. It was taller than he had expected, with vicious snarls of razor wire across the top. In front of it, a halogen floodlight illuminated another military checkpoint. Behind it was nothing but darkness – the Dead Zone.

  He looked at his watch – a cheap plastic thing that Sloth had given him, which apparently had no special features. It was nine p.m. Thirty-four hours until the deadline. It was hard to believe that only twelve hours ago he had been in school, with no knowledge of the bombs. Twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t even heard of Troy Maschenov, who he was now supposed to pretend to be.

  Sloth swung the wheel, curving the truck’s trajectory onto a dirt track that ran parallel to the fence. A Kamauan soldier saluted from the roadside. Sloth returned the gesture. Fero kept his head down as the truck shuddered along through the shadows.

  ‘I almost forgot,’ Sloth said. ‘There’s something for you in the glove compartment.’

  Fero opened it to reveal a stick of roll-on deodorant and a plastic glasses case.

  ‘You’ll find a speaker inside that case. Put it behind your ear.’

  Fero cracked open the case to reveal a blob of flesh-coloured gel about the size of a watch battery. It felt too soft to contain a speaker, a wireless receiver or a power cell, but he stuck it behind his earlobe anyway.

  ‘There’s a semi-solid microphone in there,’ Sloth added. ‘So I’ll be able to hear you, as well as you hearing me.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Parked less than five kilometres from the Dead Zone. I’m not leaving this truck until you and Dessa Cormanenko are safely back in Kamau.’

  Fero knew Sloth was probably just following orders, but he was oddly touched. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Speaking of Cormanenko, it’s possible – unlikely, but possible – that she’s been captured already. If so, she may have been brainwashed.’

  The little confidence Fero had managed to scrape together was gone in an instant. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she might not even know that she’s Dessa Cormanenko any more. The Bank sometimes uses a mixture of midazolam and other neuro-disruptive drugs to suppress the memories of their prisoners so they can be programmed with new personalities.’

  Fero gaped at him. ‘But I’m depending on her to get us both out!’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sloth said. ‘So if they tell you that she’s already in custody, request an interview with her. The fluid in that deodorant stick contains enzymes that should reverse the effects of the neuro-disruptors. Smear some on her skin, give her a couple of minutes to recover, and then proceed with the plan as normal.’

  Fero took the stick, popped the cap, and sniffed the coconut-scented liquid.

  ‘The enzymes are harmless to you and me,’ Sloth added. ‘You can use it like an ordinary deodorant stick once you’re over there. You know, to blend in.’

  He said this in such a way that Fero became aware of how much sweat he had produced since he last showered.

  ‘But not right now,’ Sloth said, as if reading his mind. ‘You’re out of time.’

  The truck slowed. Fero put the deodorant stick in the bag with his toothbrush, passport, phone and map. He looked around, but couldn’t see much outside the windows.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

  ‘The fence is about thirty metres to our left,’ Sloth said. ‘You should have fifteen minutes before the next border patrol vehicle comes past. But our truck is probably being tracked on radar, by both Kamauan and Besmari troops. I can’t pull over or they’ll realise I’m dropping someone off.’

  ‘You’re telling me I have to jump out while we’re moving?’ Fero asked.

  Sloth nodded. ‘Good luck.’

  Fero unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door. The oily smell of the roaring engine hit him immediately. He watched the brown dirt whirl past below him.

  A year ago, that car accident had nearly killed him. He had been wearing a seatbelt and the airbag deployed correctly, but the impact still knocked him out. He’d woken up in hospital, dizzy, nauseated, confused by all the strange voices and bright lights. It was days before he felt like himself. Could he really throw himself out of a moving vehicle?

  ‘Now or never, Cuckoo,’ Sloth yelled.

  Noelein’s voice echoed through his head: millions will die.

  Fero jumped.

  He managed to land on his feet. The springs in his shoes catapulted him away from the dirt track, and he landed a second time in the scrubby grass, stumbling to a halt.

  Sloth’s truck disappeared into the darkness. Fero was on his own.

  The silence was overwhelming. He had lived in cities his entire life and had never been this far from civilisation. He could hear his own breath, and the fading engine noise from Sloth’s truck. That was it.

  The fence was barely visible against the night sky. A faint breeze jingled the wire links. Close up, it looked insurmountable. He was tempted to slice through the wire with the phone, but when the sun came up, the Besmari border guards might see the damage through their binoculars. They would realise he had some kind of cutting tool.

  Fero walked up to one of the posts, where the fence was least likely to wobble under his weight. He took off his coat and hurled it upwards. The first throw wasn’t high enough – the coat didn’t reach the razor wire and fell back down. When Fero tried again, the leather snagged the wire but the coat was too bunched up to offer much protection. He would have to clamber up and adjust it.

  Fero grabbed the fence and started climbing. Just like rock-climbing, he told himself. Keep your body close to the fence, move one limb at a time.

  The links dug painfully into his hands. He wished he had been given some gloves as well as the coat.

  Soon he was at the top. He put one hand on the coat and gripped the razor wire beneath. It didn’t hurt. The ballistic nylon did its job. He gingerly untangled the fabric and spread it more evenly across the wire so he had room to climb over. Then he grabbed on with his other hand and heaved himself up. A pair of lights appeared on the horizon.

  Fero watched for a moment. It looked like an approaching SUV. It was on his side of the fence, probably on the same dirt track he and Sloth had taken.

  Which meant it was almost certainly a Kamauan border patrol vehicle, headed right for him. Thirteen minutes early.

  Fero hesitated for a fraction of a second. If he dropped back down and ran away from the fence, they would see the coat. If he stayed long enough to detach the coat, he might be caught in the headlights.

  The only way out was over.

  He scrambled upwards, dragging himself over the coat. His jeans caught on the razor wire, tearing a slit across the knee. He could hear the engine of the SUV now. The driver would see him at any moment.

  He tried to unpick the coat from the razor wire, but was hopelessly tangled. He grabbed the woollen lining with both hands, ripped it free and fell backwards, plummeting towards the dirt.

  He hit the ground and tumbled sideways. Then he tugged the half-shredded coat across his body and held still, hoping he looked like a rock.

  The tyres rumbled closer and closer. Fero held his breath. Were his shoes covered? He couldn’t check without moving.

  The engine growled. The brakes hissed. Fero barely heard these sounds over the pounding of his heart. Was the SUV simply slowing down, or stopping?

  ‘Sloth,’ Fero hissed. ‘Can you hear me?’

  The speaker hissed in his ear. ‘Loud and clear. How’s it going so far?’

  ‘The patrol came early.’

  ‘They see you?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  The tyres crunched to a halt on the dirt track.

  ‘They’re stopping,
’ Fero whispered.

  ‘They’ve seen you. Run!’

  Fero scrambled to his feet, snatched up the coat and ran. A car door opened behind him and someone yelled, ‘Hold it!’

  He ignored them, sprinting headlong into the darkness. The springs in his shoes launched him away from the fence at an impossible pace.

  A voice echoed out across the scrub lands. ‘Stop, or we will fire!’

  Fero’s nerve almost broke. But he was here for a reason. Surrender was not an option.

  Instead, he changed direction, and then changed back. He bounded over the rocky dirt, altering his trajectory every few steps.

  Crack! A rifle shot split the air from somewhere behind him. His heart jolted in his chest. He swerved, wondering how quickly he could get out of range.

  Just ahead he saw a little raised disc of dirt, too perfectly circular to be a rock. It was a trigger – beneath the ground there would be a fuse well and an explosive charge inside a fragmenting casing. A landmine.

  Fero darted sideways just in time, avoiding the trigger. It was probably an anti-tank mine, designed to immobilise vehicles. It shouldn’t go off without a hundred kilograms on the firing mechanism.

  Assuming it had been manufactured properly. Assuming the trigger hadn’t degraded over the years. Assuming Fero’s supercharged speed didn’t make him seem heavier.

  He kept running, his eyes scanning the ground for more threats.

  Crack. A bullet kicked up some dust just ahead of him. He skipped sideways and kept running.

  Sloth’s training had been surprisingly effective. Fero’s body responded to commands before he knew he’d given them, dodging left and right and down.

  They’re only paintballs, he told himself. Keep running and you’ll be fine.

  Crack.

  Fero skidded to a halt. That last shot had come from in front of him, not behind.

  Something towered up ahead, spindly and grey. Another fence. Besmar.

  Shadows swarmed behind the chain-link. Soldiers, bulked up with armour and bristling with weapons. Muzzle flash lit up the night. Fero dropped to the ground and rolled sideways into a shallow ditch. Bullets scuffed the dirt above his head.