by Jack Heath
‘Do it!’ Fero would have cocked the gun to make a threatening click, but he and the scarred man both knew that the pistol was already primed to fire.
‘No,’ the man replied. Scared but loyal. Fero had seen that expression often. Sometimes in the mirror.
Fero peered past him at the ladder. There didn’t seem to be anyone else on it. The man must have split off from the rest of the group to block Fero’s escape. He could hear the other Librarians crossing the second roof behind him. If he climbed down the ladder he might still escape, but the scarred man was blocking the way.
‘Step aside,’ Fero said.
‘No.’
‘Don’t make me shoot you.’
The man’s lip trembled, but he didn’t move.
‘Drop it!’ someone shouted behind Fero. He had run out of time. The other Librarians were here.
Fero let go of the gun. It clattered on the concrete.
‘Kick it away.’
He kicked it off the rooftop so the scarred man couldn’t pick it up.
‘On your knees. Interlace your fingers behind your head.’
Fero knelt down. It was over. He was caught.
As he put up his hands, he turned his head to look at the Librarian who had spoken. It was Wilt, flanked by two other agents. Wilt had a pistol. One of the others had a stun gun.
Fero tried to look shocked. ‘Dad? What are you doing here?’
The Librarian with the stun gun fired. Twin needles punched through Fero’s trousers and punctured his thigh. Thousands of volts buzzed through Fero’s blood, spreading chaos through his nerves. All his joints locked up. He was toppling forward, but he couldn’t raise his arms to break his fall. His face hit the concrete, filling his head with sparks.
He heard someone fire another stun gun. A second set of needles pierced the skin of his back. Humming and snapping filled his ears as he quivered on the ground. Maybe his heart would give out before they could get him to the Investigator. At least that way he wouldn’t betray his country.
Fero lay facing the man who had blocked his route to the ladder. Through the fizzing daze he saw another Librarian twist the man’s arms behind his back and cuff them. The scarred man had risked his life for his country, but he had also failed – he had allowed himself to be disarmed by a suspect. He would lose his job, and perhaps his freedom. Disgraced Librarians were often locked up in Velechnya, where they would be beaten to death by the criminals they had arrested.
This man was now a victim of the Kamauan government, just like Fero. They might find themselves sharing a cell.
‘Sorry,’ Fero mumbled through stiff lips.
The word was barely a whisper, but the scarred man heard it. As his former colleagues dragged him away, he glanced down at Fero and spat on him.
A third stun gun fired, and Fero blacked out.
RUN DOWN
Light. Pain.
Fero awoke manacled to a chair under a hot lightbulb. His head was still fizzing from the taser. His shirt and shoes had been removed. The floor was linoleum with a drain in the corner. Shower curtains covered the walls – to contain the blood spatter, he guessed – but he could tell from the muted echoes of his rattling chains that the walls were padded. No one would hear him scream.
He was in deep, deep trouble. But at least he wasn’t in the guillotine this time. Not yet.
No point pretending to be unconscious. Hidden machines would be monitoring his heart rate, his breathing and – as soon as he opened his eyes – his pupil dilation. The Investigator had woken him with the light. Now the questioning would begin.
Fero raised his head, vertebrae creaking, and opened his eyes.
The Investigator wasn’t there. Instead, sitting on a cushioned chair a couple of metres away, was Noelein.
The Chief Librarian was an owlish woman with eyes that took in everything and revealed nothing. Some interrogators would leave the subject alone for hours, letting him simmer in his own panic. But Noelein knew Fero too well. She didn’t want to give him time to come up with a convincing lie.
She was holding a glass of water. He expected her to offer it to him, but she sipped it instead.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said, with difficulty. His tongue was still a little numb.
Noelein raised a plucked eyebrow.
‘They must think I’m Troy Maschenov,’ Fero continued. ‘But I can prove I’m not. No scar on my chin. See?’ He tried to raise his hand and point. The chain went taut.
Noelein had once told him that the real Troy Maschenov had a scar. It was part of the complex net of lies she had used to trap Fero. Maybe now he could turn it against her. She knew who he was – but perhaps he could convince her that he didn’t know it.
‘The real Troy is still out there,’ he continued. ‘And he has someone in your organisation. A mole.’
Noelein leaned back in her chair. ‘Is that really how you want to play this?’
‘It’s true! Look.’ Fero blinked the sweat out of his eyes. ‘No one was supposed to know about me, right? What I did in Besmar was tier-one classified. But ever since, somebody has been following me. I see her on the train, near my house, near my school. An old woman with short blonde hair.’ Anyone he saw on the street could be a Librarian, but she was the one he saw most often. ‘Why would she be tailing me unless she worked for the Bank? And how could she know who I am unless someone from the Library told her?’
‘You’re wasting time you don’t have, Maschenov,’ Noelein warned.
‘I tried to lose her,’ Fero said. ‘I changed my clothes and planted a distraction just like Sloth taught me.’ Sloth, a former Librarian, had taught him no such thing. But he didn’t think Noelein would know that. ‘And then when the Librarians showed up—’ He frowned. ‘With my dad. Why was my father with you guys?’
‘This charade is pointless,’ Noelein said. ‘Are you going to tell me who gave you the anti-conditioning enzyme, or do I have to send you to the Investigator?’
Sloth had given him the enzyme which had partially reversed his brainwashing. Fero shouldn’t have reminded her that Sloth existed. He should have used Cormanenko’s name instead.
‘I’m telling the truth,’ Fero said.
‘Whose phone number was that in your pocket?’
‘You don’t believe me.’ Fero turned his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh God, you don’t believe me!’
Vartaniev had taught him to cry on command. ‘It’s this simple,’ he had said, taking Troy’s face in his hands. ‘Your father was killed by Kamauans. You never got the chance to say goodbye.’
Troy could feel all the other trainees staring at him. He tried to look away, but Vartaniev held his head firmly. His eyes bored into Troy’s.
‘Your mother,’ he continued, ‘and everyone else from your old life, now believes you are a vehicle mechanic in the air force. You are not likely to ever see her again. When you die – and you will – years will pass before she is informed. She will think you simply stopped writing to her. By the time she is told of your death, she will scarcely care enough to weep. She will never know what you did for your country.’
Troy’s cheeks burned. His eyes stung.
Vartaniev snapped his fingers. ‘If you ever need to cry on command, think back to this moment. Don’t blink for as long as possible. If you’re not being watched too closely it helps to yawn with your eyes open. You should also stay hydrated.’
Even after the training, tears had never come easily to Troy. But now they were coming easily to Fero. They dribbled into his mouth, hot and salty. His nose ran. It wasn’t hard to feel miserable when he was facing death in prison, with no hope of ever seeing his family or his homeland again.
‘Please,’ he sobbed. ‘Talk to my dad. He was with the Librarians. He will know that I’m really me.’
Noelein’s face was a blur, but she had stopped challenging him. Perhaps she was starting to doubt herself.
‘The man on the roof!’ Fero said, with sudden inspiration. ‘Troy Maschenov wou
ld have shot him, right? Especially if he knew the guy was a Librarian. Why would he just wait to be caught like that?’
Why indeed? Suddenly Fero realised that he was telling the truth. Troy Maschenov was a soldier, highly trained and loyal to his country. He would have killed that Librarian rather than risk getting captured by the enemy.
If I’m not Troy, he wondered, and I’m not Fero, who am I?
That thought distracted him so much that he didn’t notice the key in Noelein’s hand until she slipped it into his cuffs.
‘Okay, Fero,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
Fero had assumed he was in Velechnya, but when they walked out the door of the interrogation room he found himself in the Library, several storeys below the ground. Artificial light leaked through fake semi-opaque windows. Enormous television screens displayed heavily coded statistics: NGRP=118%, KLO+. Even with his training, Fero had no idea what any of it meant.
Perhaps the hundreds of Cataloguers didn’t either, because they never seemed to glance up from their own computers. It had only been four weeks, but they looked more haggard than the last time Fero was here.
‘I apologise for the confusion,’ Noelein said.
‘So you still haven’t caught Troy Maschenov,’ Fero said. Noelein had given him back his clothes and provided a cup of tea. She was pretending they were allies again.
She hadn’t seemed to believe Fero until he pointed out that he didn’t murder the unarmed Librarian on the roof. Apparently she considered him a ruthless killing machine. For the first time, Fero wondered if maybe he didn’t want to become Troy Maschenov again.
‘No,’ Noelein said, ‘we haven’t caught him. But don’t worry. The woman following you was a Librarian. Her job was to make sure Maschenov didn’t come near you or your family.’
The lies came so smoothly that Fero almost believed her. Perhaps in future the Library could do away with their brainwashing chemicals and just get Noelein to tell people what to think.
‘Oh,’ Fero said. ‘That makes sense. I feel so dumb.’
‘Don’t. You did well even to notice she was there. I’ll replace her with a more subtle operative. But first there’s something you can do for me.’
‘What is it?’ Fero didn’t hide his unease. His two personas were in complete agreement. Troy Mascenov and Fero Dremovich would be equally uncomfortable doing another task for Noelein.
‘We can talk in my office.’
Noelein’s office had moved. Instead of the hardback books, leather armchair and framed photos of strangers, this room had black walls, a metal desk, a single computer and several telephones of various colours.
‘You’ve upgraded,’ Fero said, hoping it didn’t sound sarcastic.
‘Desperate times,’ Noelein said. ‘Take a seat.’
Fero sat on an uncomfortable but probably very ergonomic chair. ‘What do you mean, desperate?’
Noelein sat down. ‘The white list,’ she said, ‘is in the wind.’
The words sent a chill down Fero’s spine, although he had no clue what they meant. ‘Was that a haiku?’
Noelein snorted. ‘No. The white list is a document containing the aliases, real names and mug shots of every Librarian in the world. Many of them are on loan in Besmar.’
On loan was Library slang for undercover. Fero stared at her. ‘And the list is in the wind – meaning, lost?’
‘Not exactly lost. A Kamauan national has offered to sell the list to the highest bidder. We think she’s for real, but we can’t find her.’
‘It sounds like you need to warn all those undercover Librarians.’
‘There’s no way to reach them all in time, and abandoning so many active operations would give Besmar the chance to destabilise us.’ She watched Fero for a moment.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked.
‘I think maybe you can help.’
Fero shut his eyes. ‘We’ve been over this. I’m not a spy. I wouldn’t know where to start looking for your missing list.’
‘No. But you can buy us some time.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You remember Ulrick Vartaniev?’
Even if Troy hadn’t spent years under Vartaniev’s wing, he would have remembered him from his excursion to Besmar four weeks ago. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s the highest bidder.’
Fero felt his heart rate quicken. Was this an opportunity, or a threat? ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Vartaniev isn’t sure the list is authentic – but he would be, if it came from Troy Maschenov. If you show up with a fake list, it could be weeks or months before anyone realises the data is useless. This would give us time to recover the real white list and, if the contents have been distributed elsewhere, get our agents out of danger.’
It sounded like she was offering Fero a way into Besmar, which was exactly what he wanted. But agreeing too readily would give him away.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No way.’
Noelein looked surprised. ‘The mission would be much easier than last time. No hunting down agents, no evading Besmari security forces – all you have to do is hand over a package.’
‘To the head of the Besmari intelligence services?’
‘He trusts you.’
‘He did trust me,’ Fero said. ‘Then I broke out of – and basically destroyed – his headquarters.’
‘As far as he knows, Dessa Cormanenko kidnapped you. He thinks you’re on his side.’
‘What about getting into Besmar? What about getting back out?’
‘We found a tunnel under the Dead Zone,’ Noelein said. ‘We think that’s how the bombers got in four weeks ago. By transmitting some fake orders to the Besmari soldiers on the other side, we’ve arranged for a half-hour window in which the tunnel is unguarded. You won’t have to climb any fences or dodge any land mines this time.’
‘There must be a better way,’ Fero said.
‘Did I mention that you’re on the white list?’
‘I’m what?’
‘Your name, your picture, your operations history. And we’re not the only ones with undercover operatives. You can bet that Besmar has agents here, probably in your apartment building. If that list gets out, someone will come after you. And this time you won’t see them coming.’
It couldn’t be true – Fero Dremovich couldn’t be on the list, because there was no such person. But Fero didn’t miss the ominous glint in Noelein’s eyes. She was threatening him.
She didn’t need to. This mission was perfect. He could just go to Besmar, find Vartaniev, tell him the list was fake and warn him about Cormanenko’s efforts to steal the launch codes.
He felt a twitch of guilt. Cormanenko had saved his life. But he couldn’t let her compromise his country’s security.
He hung his head, as though Noelein had beaten him. ‘All right. When do I leave?’
I’m going home, he thought.
INCENDIARY ACTION
Fero’s plan was derailed quickly.
Noelein led him down the corridor towards the warehouse where he would receive his equipment. With the white list in the wind, there was no time to waste. He was scheduled to cross the border immediately.
He couldn’t believe how fast his luck had changed. In that interrogation cell, death had seemed inevitable. Now he was being sent back to his home country. He was amazed that Noelein had fallen for his act.
‘Your equipment will be better this time,’ she was saying. ‘You won’t be searched at the border, so there’s no need to conceal things inside passports and shoes.’
Fero wondered whether he should ask for a new pair of spring-heeled shoes anyway. ‘So what do I get?’
‘I’ll let Wolf explain that.’
Noelein didn’t give him a chance to ask who Wolf was. She grabbed the handle of a sliding door and hauled it aside, revealing a small, dimly lit workshop. Hot air rolled out of the darkness. Twists of metal glowed on cooling racks. Tubes tipped with drill bits da
ngled from the ceiling.
A woman in a tank top and welding mask stood at the centre of it all, gloved hands tight around the low ceiling girders as though she had just finished a round of chin-ups. She peeled off the welding mask and eyeballed Fero.
She reminded him of Cormanenko, a little bit. Her hair was straighter, her skin lighter, but she had the same muscular figure and battle-hardened knuckles. Maybe she was an equipment engineer now, but Fero was willing to bet she had a background in field work.
‘Agent Cuckoo, right?’ she said finally. ‘I’m Wolf.’
Cuckoos laid their eggs in the nests of other birds. Before Fero was sent to Besmar, Noelein told him his call-sign was chosen because the Besmaris were supposed to believe he was one of their own. Now he realised the deeper truth. The name referred to the brainwashing – he had believed Kamau to be his country, in the same way that a baby cuckoo would believe the bird which fed it to be its mother.
‘Good to meet you,’ he said. ‘You’re an engineer?’
‘Among other things.’ She didn’t elaborate.
‘You have his gear?’ Noelein asked.
‘Yeah.’
Fero followed Wolf to a dark corner of the workshop where a hard-shell equipment case was propped open. Inside was a long, vicious-looking sniper rifle. Troy Maschenov’s training helpfully supplied the name: it was a 7.62mm SV-98.
‘I can’t use that,’ he said.
‘That one’s mine.’ Wolf led him over to a different case. ‘Your things are in here.’
She had a distinctive gait, with long strides and a way of keeping her head bowed, as though watching for tripwires. Fero thought he might have met her before, but he wasn’t sure where. Perhaps Vartaniev had showed Troy a picture.
Wolf took some sunglasses out of the case. ‘Try these.’
Fero put them on. At first he didn’t notice anything unusual. Then he started to see strange pinpricks of light. There was one on Wolf’s workbench and one in each corner of the ceiling. They sparkled like stars.
‘You see the lights?’ Wolf asked. Her eyes glowed like those of a cat in a photograph.
‘Yeah.’
‘Those are fibre-optic cameras in the ceiling. The glasses pick up the shine from anything with a lens – a camera, an eyeball, whatever – and light it up. If you can’t see any lights, you know no one is watching. They run off a lithium-ion battery that lasts about forty hours. Fold the glasses to turn the battery off, unfold them to wake it up.’
