The Machine

by Tom Aston

  ‘It’s a simple thing, but in my condition I’m really no use at all,’ said Semyonov.

  ‘You’ve achieved a lot for someone who’s no use, Semyonov. Even in the last few months, the amount of technology…’ said Stone. The flood, the absolute cataract of new technology in the last six months alone. Didn’t look like the work of a man who’s sick and dying.

  ‘It all came from the Machine,’ said the big white man, waving his hand like a useless white fin. ‘I did nothing,’

  ‘Steve, come on!’ said Virginia, like she was a teacher giving a pep talk to a kid. ‘You’ve done so much. You should be proud.’ The bright kid who got a B in maths when he should have got an A.

  ‘It’s all going to shit, Virginia. We both know it. I haven’t done any decent work in months. And I haven’t got long now.’ Semyonov stuck out his fat white hand for her to help him up. There was bleeding around the fingernails. Painful, irritating. His eyes were red and bloodshot, red to their core. Stone noticed that Semyonov’s robe was not silk, but hypoallergenic plastic.

  Virginia slipped on latex gloves before she touched him. Then took his hand and leaned back, heaving Semyonov’s bulk from the chair. ‘I’m going for my alcohol rub, Virginia. I’ve had enough. You tell this guy what he has to do. If he won’t do it — well, shit, what the hell… Somehow, I have to get it out of the ground in Sichuan, and I’ve no time left. We should go there tomorrow and just do it. If these guys won’t help us, then we’ll think of something else.’

  Semyonov tried to get up, but couldn’t manage it. He flopped back to the plastic seat to recover his breath, then made a wheezing rant at Virginia. ‘Look at this guy,’ he said, jutting his chin towards Stone. ‘He thinks I’m a freak. For your information, it was the bleach I used in prison that made my skin like this. I was desperate. Most of my problems are allergies — allergies to bacteria, and I fucked myself up trying to get clean. I didn’t realized back then that all that itching was liver failure. By the time I had the money to do something about it was too late. I’ve had my bowel removed and two liver transplants, but I still can’t eat anything but over-cooked boiled rice. My body is constantly attacking itself. Every three days they inject me with a biological culture to ease it off. Costs ten thousand bucks a shot, takes half the day, and leaves me wide open to infection and cancer.’

  Semyonov was overtaken by a coughing fit. He collapsed to the chair, wracked with pain, shouting for help. A jagged, helpless roar of pain.

  A couple of Chinese medical men materialised in white clothing and led him away. Virginia explained that Semyonov was prey to so many allergies, and his skin suffered so from any bacteria, that he had to be rubbed down three times a day with anti-bacterial gel. Then came sterile lotion in a losing battle to hydrate his cracking skin. Steroids, cortisone injections. And at some stage the guy had obviously been depilated in a bid to control bacteria on his skin. On top of that was the asthma that made it so difficult for him to breath.

  ‘Poor guy,’ said Virginia. There was a wistful look about her. She’d seen all that too many times. ‘Looks like a freak, but he was my first boyfriend, would you believe? Fourteen years old. Quite a good-looking dude back then.’

  So many stories. Semyonov a good-looking dude? Could be true, could be bullshit. It was getting out of hand. Stone waited for her to finish, then asked again.

  ‘What does he want us to do?’

  ‘You have to go down there and bring it out.’ She said it quite directly. Blurting it, but vague again, and with no eye contact. And no mention of what “it” was, although it was plainly the “Machine” that Semyonov was obsessing about. Virginia was reluctant to mention its name.

  ‘Down where?’ said Stone. She didn’t want to say it, but it was down there, down that mine in Sichuan. Something Virginia didn’t want to talk about.

  ‘Do you know the worst thing?’ she said, changing the subject. ‘They insisted on giving him an X-ray when he arrived in Beijing. To see if he was for real. Can you imagine? I mean — how humiliating.’

  Stone realised he believed Virginia and Semyonov and their narrative. It said “Semyonov is the victim,” yet Stone was beginning to buy it. Finally it seemed she was genuine — a real woman.

  Stone realised he liked that about her. He liked her fluff talk. He who had always to be so authentic. He liked Virginia for her changeability, her persuasiveness, her sheer falseness. Except that false wasn’t the real word. It was the artifice, the glorious construct of her public image. And the fact that she had let him behind that facade, and let him see the real woman. There were layers to Virginia. You may like some layers more than others, but they were each beautifully constructed in their own way. A living work of art as much as any performance artist.

  Ying Ning was a work of art too, but she had only one layer. A hard, flinty exterior. If any part was injured or broken, and you saw the layer beneath — you realised it was the same all through. Hard, sharp, impenetrable. Was the real Ying Ning hiding within, all soft and emotional? Seemed unlikely.

  What about Stone himself? How many layers did Stone have? A few, certainly. Some were hard. There was damage below the surface. Deep down, some of those layers were very ugly indeed.

  Here it came again. Another jagged roar of pain from Semyonov ripping through the warm, evening air. Virginia grabbed out for Stone, held his hand. Her eyes were screwed tight with anguish. ‘I’ve never seen him as bad as this,’ she said. ‘We don’t have long.’

  She stood up, and Stone put an arm round her. She was taking deep breaths to calm herself. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do for him. He needs to go to hospital — but where can he go?’ She looked exhausted. She’d been keeping up such a front for so long. ‘You and Carslake will have to stay here,’ she said. ‘There’s an empty room in back. You can sleep in there.’

  She walked off inside the villa, wiping a tear from her eye. One hundred percent genuine for once.

  Carslake watched her go. ‘So that was Semyonov?’ he said, looking around as if unimpressed. ‘Do you think one of these guards has a cigarette?’

  Stone sat with Carslake on the deck in front of Semyonov’s luxury villa. It was an idyllic setting — warm air, tropical plants, a Spanish-style fountain playing a few metres away and a cicada singing at a distance. Then there was an overpowering smell of citronella, lest any insect inflict any more suffering on Semyonov’s skin. Stone noticed that the guards were all still there, armed with AK 47s, at a discreet distance. At this stage they appeared to be taking orders from Virginia Carlisle. It was control-freak Virginia who had made Stone and Carslake prisoners on the tiny island, for no other reason than to control the news.

  Chapter 59–11:57pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China

  Stone and Carslake were told to “get some sleep” in a bedroom at the back of the building. Virginia Carlisle was taking no chances. She was locking them up for the night. The gunmen were still on them, there were no windows and the door was locked from the outside. Virginia may be upset but she was in deadly earnest about protecting Semyonov and his story.

  Who could blame her? Carslake’s blog had made Semyonov out to be a lunatic, and alien, an evil genius and whatever else seemed a good idea at the time.

  ‘I could use a cigarette,’ said Carslake, as the door shut behind them. Evidently he wasn’t keen on confined spaces. Neither was Stone, though he kept the fact to himself. He’d tried to block it from his mind.

  Stone slept for a while. Difficult to say how long in that windowless room. He came to with the sound of helicopter rotors thok-thokking above the house. His semi-conscious mind slid back to his former life in the army.

  Narrow cellars, low ceilings, now this “cell”. Claustrophobia. Kalai Kumza, Afghanistan, 2002. Not a happy memory. At least this time he didn’t have a B52 about to drop thirty tons of ordnance right above his head. And this cell was about one thousand times more luxurious.

  A loud yelling,
panicked shouting in Chinese and English outside the door. Woke him from his half-sleeping state. Screams from Virginia, bellows of pain and rage from Semyonov. What the hell was going on?

  ‘They shot him,’ said Carslake. ‘Listen! They fucking shot him, dragged him down here, now they’re taking him away.’ Despite jumping to conclusions, Carslake didn’t look worried. He looked like he’d expected it. ‘Hear that? That’s not a human sound he’s making, Stone. The Chinese have had enough. They came in that helicopter, shot him or hit him or something and now they’re taking him some place. How the hell did we get stuck in here? God I could use a cigarette.’

  Carslake had a point. Semyonov screamed like an animal about every thirty seconds. Stone could hear Virginia was weeping too, and retching. Carslake really didn’t like it in that little room. His face was green and sweating.

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Stone. ‘We’re all still alive. If they wanted to kill us they had about fifteen opportunities. We’re cool.’

  The screaming redoubled. Carslake gave Stone a snake-like glance through the corner of his eye. ‘Still think we’re going back to Sichuan? More like a fucking interrogation centre in Mongolia.’

  OK. Take it easy hadn’t been the right choice of words just then. No wonder Carslake was freaking out The noise went on, on a loop. Semyonov, or someone, or something, was screaming like wild-eyed bullock in the abattoir. Like someone who knows what’s coming but is powerless to stop it.

  — oO0Oo-

  The screaming and panic outside Stone’s room had finally abated. About seven hours it had been on Stone’s watch since the screaming started. It felt like double. It was seven in the morning and a second helicopter could be heard overhead. Was Semyonov dead or had they sedated him? The helicopter sound receded after about another ten minutes.

  Virginia had talked about going to recover “it” — the Machine. It seemed like a bad joke now.

  By this stage Carslake was tired with worrying — worrying whether Semyonov had been shot, worrying that the room could be bugged, or worrying that the room would stink if he used the toilet. He was lying on his back, looking at the lightbulb and refusing to speak. Stone thought through what was happening again.

  So what had happened to Semyonov and Virginia? Something had gone horribly wrong. It hadn’t sounded like they were captives or had been taken away, but Stone could be wrong. The helicopter had arrived at three in the morning — the prime time for taking prisoners. The “shock of capture” — it was an elementary discipline in the questioning of captives. Get them while they’re still disoriented. Hungry and confused. Was that what had happened?

  It was hours later when Stone managed to get Carslake’s attention again. Worn down by either boredom or exhaustion, Carslake began to speak this time.

  ‘Tell me, Carslake, about Semyonov,’ said Stone, looking at the American’s downcast face across the room. ‘You’ve spent so long researching the guy.’

  ‘He got ill,’ said Carslake. ‘Then he met some Chinese guy in prison, ten years ago. Maybe that’s where all this stuff started.’

  Carslake wearily started to speak, and Stone asked him question after question. In the next hour, using what Carslake knew, and what Semyonov and Virginia had already told him, Stone pieced together the story of Steven Starkfield, aka Semyonov.

  Chapter 60 — 9:15am 13 April — Balong Polo and Country Club Resort, Zhejiang Province, China

  Unusually for him, Ekstrom was happy to use the phone in the hotel room. It was a better bet than his cell phone at any rate, which in China would be intercepted and recorded. There was probably an office in Beijing where a red light flashed every time he used it.

  Ekstrom sat on the bed and glanced at himself in the mirror as he unscrewed the telephone handset to check inside. He had on the snug white jeans and a blue polo shirt tight around his wiry biceps. He’d kept on the leather leg guards, which came up above the knee. An overtly sexual look for a man. He smiled to himself in the mirror as he took the back off the phone handset. He’d earlier seduced the wife of a German reinsurance executive wearing that very outfit. He could see why she’d gone for him. Ekstrom often found himself attractive. It wasn’t a gay thing — just objective fact.

  The tiresome unscrewing of hotel phones was now the norm for Special Circumstances — since the Israeli secret service, Mossad, had perfected the “telephone hit”. A Mossad agent would enter the room posing as a maid or maintenance staff. A tiny charge would be inserted into the ear-speaker, set to explode four seconds after the phone was answered. The explosion was tiny, but since it was held against the ear of the target, it was almost always fatal.

  Ekstrom had even used the technique himself once, in Abu Dhabi. It was ideal anywhere in the Arab world, since Mossad was always blamed for the hit.

  With the phone reassembled, Ekstrom dialed the number. No one spoke as the phone was picked up, but Ekstrom spoke in English.

  ‘Half the job was done,’ Ekstrom said. ‘The Englishman is slippery. He seems to know what’s coming.’

  ‘You mean he outwitted you,’ came the gravelly voice. ‘You were too elaborate.’

  ‘Planning, preparation, subtlety. I make no apologies for the elegance of my methods.’

  There was a harsh edge to the reply. ‘Elegance is for the decadent, Swedish. And I do not want your apologies. I want a job completed. A bullet to the back of the head is effective, I hear.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Ekstrom, controlling his anger. ‘A Chinese firing squad is also effective. But I do not intend to verify the fact in person.’

  ‘I will protect you. You may count on it,’ said the Chinese voice in careful English.

  Ekstrom’s silence showed he had no intention of counting on Zhang’s “protection”. When he spoke his tone was businesslike. ‘The target has flown. Do you know where he is? I need to be right behind him.’

  ‘I can do better than that,’ said Zhang. ‘I can put you ahead of him. You will leave in thirty minutes.’

  Ekstrom hung up. He’d planned the hits on Oyang and Stone such that even with the double hit, he would be beyond suspicion. It had worked out fine with Oyang. But Stone was still out there. And Ekstrom was a professional. He had to finish the job.

  There was too much self-assurance in Zhang’s voice for Ekstrom’s liking. Zhang wanted to take control. But Ekstrom hated relying on others. He felt uncomfortable. Bad things happened when he relied on others.

  On the other hand, the job must be completed. The reputation of Johan Ekstrom and Special Circumstances depended on it. He would take Zhang’s car when it arrived in thirty minutes.

  Chapter 61–11:10am 13 April — Balong Polo and Country Club Resort, Zhejiang Province, China

  Carslake knew plenty about Steven Semyonov, going right back to the photos in his highschool yearbook, then his conviction and his time in prison. He knew less about the man’s illnesses, which Stone had learned about from Virginia, and for that matter, pretty much seen for himself.

  One of the difficult things in the story was grasping that the regular, skinny thirteen year-old in the high school yearbook, with hair and clear skin, was the same person as Semyonov. At first glance, no one would believe they were the same person, and Stone could see why Semyonov, the person, had seemed to appear from nowhere. It was a key to the person he was, and what had happened to him.

  When Carslake finished talking again, and lay back in that stifling bedroom to gaze once more at the ceiling lightbulb, Stone rehearsed the story of Semyonov through in his mind.

  It seemed that until the age of thirteen, the boy called Steven Starkfield was a normal, happy teenager. He also had a beautiful, clever sweetheart called Virginia Kocszelny. The two were inseparable, both clever and so different from anyone else at the small community school, in Coldbury, New Hampshire. However, at the age of fourteen, Steven became ill. For whatever reason — hormone changes maybe, or some mystery virus — he became afflicted by the most acute eczema and asthma. He la
ter discovered they were caused by allergic reactions to normally harmless bacteria. Sores covered his body and his face. It must have felt like he was breathing through a straw. The doctors treated with heavy doses of steroids for the asthma, which explains why the school photo at age fourteen shows a boy forty pounds heavier than the year before, and covered in acne and sores.

  At that time of life, any kid would be sensitive of his appearance. Steven found his body bloated by steroids and his face covered with zits and acne right down to his chest. Stone could guess how it panned out next. Kids can be cruel to one who looks different. But Steven never gave them chance. He hid himself away. Depression, isolation — a very common thing with teenagers who are long-term sick. He even stopped seeing his best friend Virginia, which is why she felt so eternally guilty about it all. Virginia was intelligent, blossoming, beautiful. She would soon escape to a top university, call herself Virginia Carlisle, and never look back.

  Meanwhile, young Steven Starkfield turned in on himself. The computer and the Internet became his world. He applied himself for days on end to programming and hacking, and he was good at it. Virginia said he was inspired by Marc Andreessen, a college kid who wrote the software for the first web browser.

  Carslake pointed out that Andreessen didn’t invent the Web, but it seemed like it at the time. His web browser was the first software you could use to access the Web easily. It was world-changing, but in fact it had been put together in a few weeks by a college kid.

  Young Starkfield suddenly knew what he wanted in life. He wanted to write software that would change the world. According to Carslake, Starkfield would have seen through Andreessen in a few weeks. Because Andreessen’s genius was in the idea, not the programming. Steven would have realized very soon that he could do better than Andreessen, which must be a weird feeling if you’re fourteen.