by Tom Aston
Stone was also aware that Oyang was in far more danger in that Polo club than he would be in Shanghai. For Zhang and his Gong An henchmen, that Polo Club was the perfect place to kill him. Far better than arrest, or assassination. Throwing a Chinese dissident or intellectual in jail is one thing. Doing it to a millionaire businessman with all those friends in California needs more care. The Chinese like to meet out swift justice, but they also like to avoid all those smug feature pieces in the Wall Street Journal about human rights. Quite convenient then that Oyang should die in some ludicrous millionaires’ binge at the Polo Club. And for the strait-laced communist Zhang and his Gong An buddies, much more fitting.
That led Stone to another conclusion. Balong was also the perfect place for him to die for the same reason.
Chapter 52 — 1:07pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
Ekstrom sat at the controls of the Porsche Turbo S which had been set up in the Atrium of the Balong Country Club. He checked himself in the reflection. Eyes a pleasant, smiling blue underneath the neatly styled hair. There was just a hint of steel under the blond. Perfect. He threw the stick smoothly into first gear, left foot poised to drop the clutch.
Ekstrom was no poser. He looked good, but his look, his apparel — it all had a point. Take those shoes. Looked like tennis shoes, but to people who knew, the difference was obvious. They were designed specifically for driving high performance cars, and Ekstrom kept them for that purpose only.
Three — two — one. High up to his left the light went green, and Ekstrom pulled away in a surge of smooth power from the 430 horsepower unit behind his head. Gear changes — fast and clean. He kept the revs in the powerband, 3500–4500, and twisted easily around the hills on the asphalt road, and then through onto the dirt section of the track. The noise was incredible — so realistic.
The red brown dust of the Balong estate enveloped the windows of the car. Ekstrom’s cool concentration was total. He braked hard, shifted to second for the hairpin, powered out. Seven thousand revs. Beautiful. His favourite part of the course, and the Porsche handled it fabulously. Better than the Maserati he’d tried earlier.
The Maserati dealer behind him was unconcerned. From his concession stand at the Balong Club, he’d already sold seven cars to rich Chinese on the first day of the polo weekend. Maserati was a more exclusive brand. The Porsche was almost commonplace.
Ekstrom checked his time on the competition board and stepped out of the simulator booth in the atrium of the Country Club to a ripple of jockish applause from the polo boys. Ekstrom was impressed. It was a staggering piece of simulator technology from ShinComm Corporation. The car dealers used it so more people could test drive the cars, but the controls were so realistic they could also be switched to “live” mode, and drive a real car remotely around the estate.
He turned to the Porsche dealer behind him. ‘The controls were just like the real thing,’ he called. ‘And the graphics — wow!’
The dealer made a polite bow. ‘It’s a new system. Smoothvision live video combined with amazing RC software from ShinComm. My customers can drive a car through Shanghai, London, or the French Alps from these controls — a real car. Anywhere we have a Porsche dealership. Helps to sell the cars. And if someone takes a car for a test drive and gets too aggressive, we can take control from here and bring them back safely.’
Ekstrom felt his smartphone vibrate and turned to walk away from the hubbub in the marble atrium. Well, well — another message. Two in just a few days. Where was he going next, after the hit at the Country Club? Ekstrom entered his password to decrypt the message.
His eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. Two targets now — and both here in Balong, at the same place. Unconventional.
And the second target — Ethan Stone. Ekstrom had been expecting that one, ever since Williams loused up in Hong Kong. But it was a much more interesting challenge than his first assignment. And the car dealer had just given him an idea.
This was just getting worse. Stone came out of the luxurious Shui Hu Hotel and walked back up from the yachting marina when it hit him. Huge, shiny, dark blue in front of him. A dark blue truck in front of him with a satellite dish deployed on its roof, and a familiar logo on the side panel. GNN Worldwide News. Virginia Carlisle was here again. What was she doing? Did she know Stone was here? Or Oyang? Was she really extrapolating from that post Stone had made on the NotFutile.com web site?
Impossible. There was only one person who could have told her to come here to Balong. Carslake. But why would she listen to Carslake anyway? Stone needed another chat with Virginia Carlisle.
Chapter 53 — 1:19pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
The Polo Tournament was a big event, but it still shouldn’t be that difficult to find Virginia Carlisle. Stone strolled out to a tented village on the edge of the polo fields. Which were in themselves vast. Each field roughly four times the size of a football field.
The scene was nauseatingly reminiscent of Hello magazine, but with a Chinese twist. Argentinian polo players mingled with electronics and textile barons from China’s Gold Coast. Exquisite dim sum and fragrant rice alongside the canapes and caviar. And the ever-present champagne. Stone thought of Ying Ning telling him about that poem on the plane. The Lovely Women, by Du Fu. A party for the super-rich in Tang Dynasty China. Ying Ning was amused by Du Fu’s feelings. Admiration, envy, disgust, desire. Bourgeois feelings she called them, whatever that meant. And in amongst it all was the brooding presence of the super-rich men. Super-powerful, surrounded by flunkeys, dawdling through the crowds, fawned over. Did Ying Ning really think that about Stone? That he was somehow attracted by all this stuff? Stone shook his head.
It wasn’t quite like Du Fu’s poem, this. Photographers bobbed about among the crowds, searching for the quintessential image for Rupert’s press release. Glamorous and rich. They were rich all right. Not so sure about glamorous. Chinese millionaires, plus Shanghai expatriate wives lusting over South American lads in tight trousers. At least Virginia Carlisle had real glamour on her side. Should make her easy to spot.
And so it proved. She’d had a GNN studio set up in the Country Club. Stone flashed a confident smile at the security guy and walked into the studio.
And there she was on all the live TV monitors, just about to begin a piece in front of the cameras. She had stayed in her regular TV character. US army combat trousers, olive drab T-shirt. Tailored for a thousand dollars on Fifth Avenue, naturally.
The energy coursed through Virginia as soon as she stepped in front of the bluescreen. An amazing sight. She bounded on there like a cheerleader. Stone watched her do her stuff through the monitors. The picture showed her back in Sichuan, in the village Stone recognised as Shang-ri La. He’d passed it on the bus. Virginia’s crew had obviously given up on the search and taken some footage of the picture postcard Chinese town for later use. Risible. Crass. But absolutely effective. Half of Asia looked like Shanghai — but Shangri La? Shangri-La was definitely China. So why not use it?
And if you have Virginia in the foreground, well… She had been placed into a scene, standing on a stone-built traditional bridge over the river. Her face breathed honesty, credibility, gravitas, and just a tiny bit of passion. She spoke to you through the camera like she’d known you for twenty years. Animated, engaging, beautiful. There were some ducks and a couple of pagodas behind. There were two guys in front, out of camera shot, with a silver foil board to get the lighting right, and a wind machine purring quietly to the side. Stone’s favourite was the hair lighting consultant, because “filming great hair is never easy”.
GNN’s commitment to authenticity knew no bounds.
Virginia had seen Stone, too, flashed him one of her thousand-watt smiles. Then she looked back to the camera and made the finger signals for three-two-one. Winked to Stone on two. She was off and running, taking it from the autocue in one smooth take.
'The story of Steven Semyonov just keeps giving and giving. The search technology billionaire who disappeared in China over a week ago had recently run out on his position at the top of one of America’s fastest growing corporations. Behind him lies a trail of murder and mystery, with executives at SearchIgnition Technology still refusing to comment on persistent rumours of bad blood between Semyonov, director of corporate Vision, Antonio Alban and the other board members. With Alban known to have been murdered in a James Bond-style hit, and Semyonov’s death still shrouded in mystery, speculation has reached fever pitch in Silicon Valley.
'But it gets better. The incredible story of Steven Semyonov has led me to the beautiful mountains close to Tibet in the far west of China. One of the most intriguing questions is why Semyonov left the US and came to China at all. Technology expert Doug Carslake has tracked Semyonov’s career since the early days, including his investments in China, which began over a year ago. Doug thinks he may have found something…’
So that was Carslake’s game, Stone thought as he watched. Carslake wanted his fifteen minutes of fame on TV with Virginia Carlisle. He was going to tell the world that he discovered this weird object under the mountains. He’d get the GNN technicians to mock up bogus radar pictures of an object underground, make it look convincing.
‘Cut,’ shouted a producer, and Virginia stepped away from the screen.
‘Well, lookee here,’ she said as Stone approached her. ‘It’s my old friend, Ethan Stone. How much time d’ya waste in Sichuan, honey? Feeling pretty silly that I scooped your stuff?’ Even her voice was in TV mode. No upper class Vassar girl tones now.
‘You seem pleased to see me,’ said Stone. She did, in her usual confrontational way. ‘What brings you to the Polo Tournament?’
‘What the heck? Everyone’s here aren’t they?’ she said. A great reply, it really was. Conveyed no information whatsoever. She spent the day with make-up girls and chick-lit, but Virginia was razor-sharp. And always good value in a confrontation. Which Stone was about to provide her with.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Lighten up. It’s a bit of fun. I can be anywhere while I’m here!’ Her arc-light TV smile had just switched on again. With a flick of the head her hair rippled and fell, a curtain of blonde silk over that army T-shirt. ‘It’s disgustingly easy to report from anywhere in the world. At least, you’ll be disgusted, Mr Moral Highground.’
‘So do you buy it?’ asked Stone. ‘Carslake’s story?’
‘Of course not,’ said Virginia. ‘It’s all crap. You know it and I know it.’ She turned to the producer. ‘Let’s take a break. I need to have a chat with Professor Stone here. I think he’s got something he wants to tell me.’
Translation: there’s something she wants to tell me.
Stone left the clubhouse with Virginia, and they were immediately surrounded by a group of polo players who evidently fancied their chances with the TV star. The supply of willing Shanghai wives must be running low.
Stone was genuinely mystified. Virginia was still smiling, charming, flicking the hair around. But he felt she was acting more than ever — stretching every sinew to keep a brave face. Why was she was putting out news stories she didn’t believe? Why come to Balong to put out Carslake’s story, which she thought was “crap”.
Virginia Carlisle strode past the crowds and on toward her hotel. ‘OK, Stone. You’re a clever boy,’ she said finally. ‘How much d’you know?’
‘You can stop fishing, Virginia,’ he said, ‘I know you’ve been speaking to Carslake.’
‘It doesn’t mean I believe what he says,’ said Virginia, but her guard was already dropping.
‘Of course you do,’ said Stone. ‘Because you knew all that stuff about Semyonov already. You always do your research on people — or get your lackeys to do it for you. And now you’re worried because Carslake knows more than you would like. Carslake knows more, hard, unexciting facts about Semyonov than anyone, and you don’t like that. Because you’re worried that guys like Carslake and me are starting to put two and two together. You know that stuff. Where Semyonov grew up, near Manchester New Hampshire. Where he went to school. His real name. Pictures from his school yearbook. His relationships, or the lack of them. His bizarre series of illnesses. The time he spent in jail…’
At this last point about Semyonov being in jail, Virginia looked at Stone, not with her superior, knowing glance any more, but with something akin to despair. Stone had caught her out there, and she knew it. A week ago in Hong Kong, she’d told Stone that Semyonov had studied at Columbia and MIT, when in fact he’d been in jail. She wasn’t even fighting this any more. Her eyes were saying that the game was up. Except Stone wasn’t quite sure which game it was.
They’d reached the door of her hotel room. Virginia stood at the threshold. Didn’t even take out her key. ‘I’m so tired of this whole story,’ she said. ‘Trying to control it.’ Her guard had finally come down, and she knew it. That frightened her. She was the big star who showed herself to the world every day, but right now she wanted to be alone, to hide in her room, until she could find a way to reconstruct her public image for the world.
‘You’re going to have to give me some space, Stone. I really can’t deal with all this right now.’
And that was it. She went in the door and closed it behind her. It was going wrong for Virginia. She’d been peddling garbage stories on GNN primetime, and now she was getting caught out. She’d spoken to Carslake, and she hadn’t liked what she heard. Then she’d spoken to Stone and that hadn’t helped either. She’d obviously realized she’d have to start her whole Semyonov narrative from scratch.
Stone walked away from Virginia’s room. The question was, why had she done it? Stone was still mystified with her behaviour. He needed to find Carslake, and see exactly what that nutjob had said to Virginia Carlisle.
Chapter 54 — 3:17pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
For an operator such as Johan Ekstrom, making a hit at a place like this was child’s play. The resort was spacious, full of people, with every reason for strangers such as him to be seen coming and going. People were arriving, and leaving, by car, by light aircraft and by yacht.
You plan, you kill a man, you leave. It was simple. Best of all, he had the advantage that the place was full of white Europeans, Russians, South Americans, you name it. Was there anywhere else in China where he would find an assassination easier?
Lucky for him, then, that last job spec had come through when it did. Because two assassinations — unconnected — were a different proposition. The second must be completed before the first has been discovered. Or while the hunt is on for the killer from the first hit. Then there’s the likelihood of being spotted near the two events, and being the obvious suspect. The risks are infinitely greater.
The second target would be the more challenging. Ethan Stone. It was tempting to wrap that one up, leave, then deal with Oyang elsewhere. But this Zhang from the Gong An had insisted Oyang be dealt with before he left the Country Club. It was exactly the kind of challenge that made it all worthwhile for Ekstrom. He had to come up with a way of killing Oyang (which was trivial), and dealing with Ethan Stone at the same time.
Ekstrom was wearing polo gear of white trousers and polo shirt of crimson and white quarters. The colours of the Royal Bengal Club, Buenos Aires. He had on riding boots and was carrying the thick leather leg guards of a polo player, concealing the Glock handgun in his waistband. Seventeen round magazine, with suppressor. Is that a silencer in your pants, or are you pleased to see me?
And of course the polo helmet with face guard. No point taking unnecessary risks with security cameras. Ekstrom walked down the corridor to Oyang’s suite at four fifteen. Two minutes max. No need to spin it out. He hadn’t been paid to do that. He’d found out that Oyang had given the butler time off until six. Idiot. By the time the butler discovered Oyang, Ekstrom would be watching the main event: the last moments of Ethan Stone.<
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Ekstrom stood outside the door of Oyang’s suite, and shielded his hands from view of the security camera with his body. He snapped on the latex gloves, swiped the master key through the door lock, and slipped inside. No alarm. No guard. Oyang was making this all too easy.
Johan Ekstrom hated surprises. At least he hated this kind of surprise. He’d just been cheated out of what was rightfully his, and he’d had to change his plans. Worse still, a clean, simple job had just turned into a messy one.
No wonder he hadn’t needed to deal with any security or Oyang’s “butler”. Oyang had sent them away deliberately. Ekstrom picked up the dining chair that was lying on its side on the thick carpet, stood up on it and took out his trusty Swedish Army knife. He sliced though the white rope. As it sprang back, he realised Oyang had used the belt from a white cashmere bathrobe to hang himself.
Oyang’s body collapsed lethargically to the floor. This was no good. In order for Ekstrom to frame Ethan Stone for a murder, Oyang had to have been murdered. Now he had to make a suicide look like murder.
After the business with Alban, Ekstrom would have guessed it would be difficult to get a cadaver to sit up properly. But not this difficult. Ekstrom put the chair on its side, and managed to balance Oyang’s back up against it fairly straight. But then the head lolled back badly. Hardly surprising given that the neck was broken. The eyes were still staring, bulging slightly, and the mouth hung open obscenely.
