The Machine

by Tom Aston

  ‘I know. His name is Johan Ekstrom. He’s a paid assassin,’ said Stone, strolling into the room and taking a beer from Virginia Carlisle’s fridge. ‘He was paid to kill me too. In fact he was paid to kill Oyang and make it look like it was me. But don’t worry, since you survived that little drive around the estate with him, I think we can assume he means you no harm. He had plenty of opportunity…’

  Virginia’s mouth gaped. Stone tried hard not to smirk at her TV-style indignation. ‘Don’t worry? DON’T WORRY?’ she screamed. I could have been…’

  ‘Seriously, it’s fine. Ekstrom’s an evil killer, but he’s a professional. He’ll only harm you if he’s paid to do it, or if he absolutely has to.’

  ‘Very reassuring, I don’t think. I need to get out, Stone. And so do you,’ she said.

  ‘And Carslake, I’m guessing,’ said Stone. ‘He’s in there and going with you.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s a long story, but I figured it out,’ said Stone. Carslake had just appeared behind her, also looking surprised. ‘I heard his voice through the door. You’ve got a car?’

  She nodded. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ said Stone.

  With that the three of them walked away from the hotel room down the corridor. Carlisle was shaking her head.

  ‘This is not my scene. I didn’t expect all this,’ she said.

  ‘All what?’

  ‘All this danger, getting-shot-at stuff…’ she said. She sounded disapproving, as if what Stone did was akin to whoring or gambling. ‘…you can keep it. It’s…’

  ‘Strictly for the war reporters, that kind of person? They get paid for it, and hey, they should do it.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Not half so funny as what I’ve discovered about you, Virginia,’ he said. They had stepped out into the warm night air, under a row of Chinese lanterns. ‘You’ve been making up stories about our friend Semyonov, haven’t you? All sorts of wild inventions. When were you going to tell me?’ She stopped. His cool grey eyes looked into hers.

  ‘Semyonov’s an interesting guy,’ she said. ‘People are interested.’ She acted unfazed. Expecting it.

  ‘And you should know. You were at grade school with him,’ said Stone. ‘Then at junior high. In a little town called Coldbury, New Hampshire.’

  ‘Everyone knows that.’ Defensive for once.

  ‘Everyone knows it about you, if they want to look it up,’ said Stone. ‘They don’t know it about Semyonov. Back then his name was Steven Starkfield. You knew that, but you never said a thing.’

  She flicked a look at him. ‘Again. Anyone could find that out,’ she said. ‘People are just too lazy.’

  ‘It wasn’t that easy,’ said Stone. ‘But it’s true. People are lazy. If they can’t research something online, it’s always put off till next week or next month.’ Unless you’re Doug Carslake. ‘And people are intellectually lazy too. If a trusted source like Virginia Carlisle of GNN gives them the outline of a story, they run with it. And if it makes no sense, like the Semyonov story, people compensate by generating all sorts of conspiracy theories and imaginary motivations to justify that story.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she said.

  ‘You were old, old friends with Semyonov, weren’t you, Virginia? You were best friends when you were kids. Then something happened and he disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  ‘He got ill. That’s all.’

  ‘I guess that’s how he got to look so weird. Hairless, pink skinned.’

  ‘You’re forgetting “fat”,’ said Virginia. ‘The papers always mention “fat”. He was fat. And those crazy eyes, don’t forget them.’ All her frustration and irritation was suddenly pouring out. ‘Why is it — if you look weird, people think you are weird? If that’s what you mean, then say it, Stone. People do make up all kindsa stuff to justify what they’re thinking about a person. Everyone thinks Steven Semyonov was weird. And weird equals bad. It doesn’t matter what he’s achieved, what benefits he brought to the world. Let me tell you. Steven was a normal guy. He was the nicest person I ever met.’

  She was so good at this. She throws in the details, the personal testimony. Anyone would believe her. Stone had believed her. Not any more.

  ‘He’s the nicest. Not the cleverest?’

  ‘Maybe. But not back then. All that came later. As a kid he was a geek, sure. He was interested in computers. His hero was Mark Andreessen.’

  ‘The guy who invented the first Internet browser?’

  ‘Sure. But Andreessen launched the first search engine too. That search engine was the big deal for Steve. That was the game changer. He became determined to be like Andreessen.’

  They were out on the pathway from the hotel down to the marina and the other hotel. The Shui Hu. The name for “The Water Margin” in Chinese. The epic novel of adventure and brutality. It was a corny name for a hotel next to a marina. The clear air over the sea was filling with stars. So many stars it looked almost grey. Carslake was behind them, listening in intently.

  ‘He was determined? Determined to do what?’ asked Stone.

  She looked back at him and shrugged. ‘He got ill. We lost touch,’ she said. She looked ahead. There was a world of guilt in the six words she’d just uttered.

  She and Semyonov would have been soul mates in a place like Coldbury. They were the clever kids, both of them so far above the normal plane in that one-horse town, they must have been good friends. But then Virginia Carlisle had turned out the special one. She’d won the scholarship to Vassar — the Ivy League women’s university, where they had the bluest of the blue blood. Carlisle had transformed herself from small town girl to upper-class woman in the twinkling of an eye. Then on into the stratosphere at GNN.

  ‘No reason to feel guilty about it,’ Stone said. He recalled what Virginia said to him, in the limo in Hong Kong. I went to a good school. But I wasn’t ashamed of it. ‘You lost touch with Steven, Virginia. It’s no big deal. You were at Vassar and the world was at your feet. It’s not your fault he got ill.’

  ‘Ill? He wasn’t just ill. Steven was practically living in hospitals. Steroids, depression, liver failure, getting fat, losing his hair. Can you imagine how that feels? What that does to a kid of fifteen? But he was determined. He must have been. He didn’t do anything the easy way.’

  ‘He even designed his own programming language.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ asked Virginia, her head swiveling toward Stone. She knew a whole lot more than she’d said to anyone, and her news reports — full of puzzles and maybes — were a smokescreen to hide the real Semyonov. Very effective when combined with Semyonov’s self-imposed search engine embargo. Carlisle and Semyonov had been working as a team.

  They were walking on past the Marina and onto a path by the shore. The lights of the Polo Resort were behind them, on the other side of a small hill. It was darker. The moon stood thin, like a silver razor above the horizon, and above it, Venus, as bright as Stone had ever seen it.

  ‘He must have devised his own programming language,’ said Stone. ‘No one has a clue how his software works. It’s unique. And it seems to do what it does with a fraction of the programming code anyone else is using. At SearchIgnition they call it the Blackbox. They say that no one outside of SearchIgnition knows what’s in there. But that’s not the half of it. Only Semyonov knows how it works. He wrote it in his own language, but he used codes, and keys and encryptions all over the place.’

  Virginia sounded almost glad to be able to talk about it. ‘Even if they hacked it all,’ said Carlisle. ‘They still wouldn’t have a clue how it worked.’

  They were on a small cliff top maybe twenty metres above the beach. It would be a perfect view in the daylight. The South China Sea stood warm and clear in the moonlight.

  ‘Why are you telling me all this now?’ said Stone. ‘How do you know I won’t just blab this?’

  ‘Carslake blabs things already. Carslake
blogs all this stuff. But thankfully, no one believes him. They won’t believe you either. So long as I contradict you. Besides,’ she said, ‘You don’t have to come with me, either of you. You know I’m bringing you along so I can control the news story, so I can close it down. But that’s fine, because you just can’t resist what I’ve got to show you.’

  That, at least, was true. Stone and Carslake followed Virginia down onto the beach under the starlight. She flipped off her shoes and threw them into a row boat. Stone too felt the warm sand in his toes and breathed in the sub-tropical air.

  ‘We’re going for a boat trip’ she said. ‘But when we get there, let me go in front and do the talking.’

  Chapter 58–10:03pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China

  Virginia had asked to go in front and do the talking. Perhaps Stone should have been less of an alpha male and just let her do it. When they got there, he found himself forced out of the boat and up the beach onto the island with an AK47 practically up his nose, and two more behind his head. It seemed only polite to raise his hands. They had him spread-eagled against a tree by the time he spotted Virginia, who was most definitely not spread-eagled, with her head tilted elegantly to one side, brushing her hair as if ready to meet someone.

  ‘I told you to let me go first,’ she said. Perhaps a little too smug, that.

  One of the Chinese guards was searching Stone through his clothing. What they call a “finger tip search”. Who were these guys? Security guards — or doctors? It was like they were studying for an anatomy exam: part twenty-four — thecolorectal region.

  Stone and Carslake were finally let go and walked up some steps behind Virginia, the guns still on them. She led on through half-lit trees and gardens. She’d been this way before, and Stone knew why. It explained why she was hanging around the Polo Club when she should have been driving the “in-depth investigation” into Semyonov’s death. Virginia Carlisle was nowhere near the lazy actress she’d painted herself to be. She knew all about Semyonov. Knew more than anyone. And she was keeping the story alive, without asking the one obvious question. Because she knew the answer already.

  ‘You told everyone he was dead. You told me you’d seen the body,’ said Stone. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because she was an old and loyal friend,’ said an American voice through the trees. ‘The only one I ever had.’

  Unmistakable, that baritone voice. Semyonov sat like a ghost in the half-light, wearing a white silk robe and with his whitish pink skin glistening. He rose and made to kiss Virginia on both cheeks, then sat back clumsily on the white plastic chair. His movements were old, even though his skin was smooth and hairless, and young-looking. He sat breathing heavily from the exertion of standing to greet Virginia. And Stone noticed he hadn’t actually touched Virginia. They’d kind of mimed the kisses.

  On one wrist he had two open sores. The fattened skin had split open, and someone had been working hard to deal with the wound. In all, here in the warm evening, Semyonov resembled more than anything, an old white beluga whale. Corpulent with blubber, his skin fat, white and shiny, its intelligent, bird-eyes darting around the scene. But the beluga was painfully out of its element. On land it was heavy, its breathing laboured, and its skin would dry and split, however much water was thrown on it. Somewhere, Semyonov’s mind could swim free in a dark, rich ocean, with a freedom and grace no human could emulate. But not here. Right now, only Semyonov’s red eyes gave any idea of his true nature.

  ‘Is this what a man looks like when he makes a pact with the devil?’ asked Carslake.

  ‘Perhaps it is,’ said Semyonov. He tried to smile. Quite a kind smile, but only his lips moved. His lips were pink, cracking red on the inside. The rest of his face didn’t move. ‘Perhaps that’s my problem. I’ve over-reached myself. It’s made me sick and fat and ill.’

  Stone said nothing.

  ‘But it’s a pathology I never heard about, Mr Carslake. I’ve been sick since I was fourteen, before I started any of this. I must have indulged in the Devil-worship back then in a fit of absent-mindedness.’

  ‘Fine words, Semyonov,’ said Stone, walking up to him. He was about to confront him about the weapons he’d created, but something stopped him.

  Semyonov’s tired red eyes stared, piercing, out from under the smooth white flesh. He knew exactly what accusation Stone was going to throw his way, but it didn’t bother him. He just opened his hands, with the palms upwards, as if to say, whatever. Semyonov might be brilliant — the alien intelligence Carslake talked about. But did he really think he’d get Stone on his side and get him to cover for him like Carlisle had? Was that was this was all about?

  The truth was slithering into Stone’s consciousness.

  ‘It was Oyang, wasn’t it?’ said Stone. ‘All that stuff with the weapons. You never even knew about it.’

  ‘Not until Miss Terashima brought it to my attention,’ he said.

  ‘Junko Terashima? Is she why you did all this? Faked your death? You got Virginia Carlisle to cover for you in the media. No one ever asked whether you were really dead, because Virginia said she saw the wrecked car, the tyre marks. And she’s an utterly credible source. Privately, she even told people she’d seen the body, as it was spirited away to Beijing.’

  Semyonov didn’t smile. Or frown. He just stared, blinking slowly with the red eyes, his face immutable, like the worst case of botox you’ve ever seen.

  ‘She didn’t mention that the body was alive when she saw it,’ said Stone, thinking aloud. ‘And someone else was in on this. The Chinese authorities, who must have known at the highest level that the death was a hoax. But it was a very high level, because not even Oyang, with all his contacts, had suspected.’

  Oyang? Oyang and his stories about the giant intelligence that went bad, the computer that was so bored it turned to mayhem and evil. That’s all it was — a story. Oyang had made that elaborate story about Semyonov going mad and going bad, “just because he could.” Stories from Virginia, narratives from Oyang. All garbage. Oyang had done it all alone — the weapons, the patents, the drug smuggling. Not Semyonov, not the Chinese. There was no evidence that the People’s Liberation Army were using any of these new weapons. Oyang made them because he could, and because he wanted to turn some coin.

  ‘So why am I here?’ Stone asked Virginia Carlisle in front of Semyonov. Maybe Semyonov would answer why he hadn’t had him shot.

  ‘Virginia said it was getting kinda hot over there. Dangerous. Some guy wanted to kill Oyang. Then he wanted to kill you. Frame you, then kill you.’

  ‘I noticed. It’s nothing I can’t deal with.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. Oyang left a suicide note written in Chinese. Suicide. He was already dead with a broken neck when the guy shot him.’

  ‘Oyang was selling weapons,’ said Stone, getting Semyonov back on topic. ‘Creaming off the technology.’

  ‘He was. Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t notice?’

  ‘It was pretty half-assed stuff, Stone,’ said Semyonov. ‘Nickel and dime stuff. So, no, I didn’t notice. No one noticed till he sold the patent for an oil refining process for five hundred million.’

  Perhaps Semyonov would have raised an ironic eyebrow. If he could. Instead his eyes remained laser-red on Stone, his face uncreased and expressionless. ‘One question,’ said Stone. ‘Why have we been let into the big secret? You’re going to say you have to kill us before you let me go. Lame, don’t you think?’

  ‘You flatter yourself. Virginia’s a control freak — you must have realized by now.’ That’s what passed for an answer from Semyonov. Things seem obvious when you have an IQ of 200. Semyonov was expressionless, but his movements and the odd mannerism spoke of great weariness. ‘What do I care? I’m dying in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘You’re not dying!’ cried Virginia.

  ‘Virginia. Please.’ Semyonov tried to throw her a reproachful look, but only his eyes said a
nything. His facial muscles were swollen — shot. ‘Not long for this world, Stone. I don’t care what secrets come out. Why would I? I’m not working for SearchIgnition anymore. I don’t have a hundred lawyers analyzing my words like I had a couple of weeks ago. I say what I like. Why would I give a shit? Come on.’ he said.

  Semyonov's eyes wore a sheen of inexpressible fatigue and resignation as he looked into the trees. ‘It’s the little things of life, you know. The little things. Because you’re rich and you have a brain, doesn’t mean it isn’t a hassle. I just can’t deal with all the fuss that goes with my life, and my body. I give my life savings to research in China, and what’s my reward? I gotta host a party. Can you imagine how hard that was? I had a bunch of Communist Party make-up artists spend four hours on me before we even started. A party. It’s like my un-favorite thing, and they make me do it all the time. And to cap it all, Robert Oyang tries to siphon off all the cash to Switzerland. What a pain in the ass.’

  Stone loved some of the words Semyonov used: have a brain, life savings, rich, pain in the ass. Words ordinary people would use. It made him sound ordinary. It wasn’t the real Semyonov. Ordinary? Semyonov was possibly the least ordinary person in the world. For him, someone trying to steal twenty-five billion dollars was “a pain in the ass”. Stone recalled one of the notes Semyonov wrote for him at that same party. Odi profanum vulgum. I hate the vulgar masses. Words written in the middle of a party. That was the real Semyonov.

  ‘You ask why you’re here, you and Carslake,’ said Semyonov, wearily, finally explaining. ‘It’s simply because you figured it all out. Virginia’s a control freak, remember? She thought we should get you onside, because there’s something I need to do before the story breaks. The story about Oyang, and the faked death. ’

  ‘Steven wants some help,’ said Virginia, continuing for him. The mistress of spin. A clear statement, saying virtually nothing. Just like her news reports. ‘I said you could help him. We could help him, the three of us, before the story gets out.’

  ‘What kind of help? Looks like you’ve got quite a few helpers here.’ Stone gestured to the number of guards in the shadows.