When the Sparrow Falls

by Neil Sharpson

  The first few minutes would simply be him establishing dominance. I waited patiently for him to get to the point. I wondered which dagger hanging over me was about to fall. Smolna? Lily Xirau? It might even be the fact that I hadn’t reported the graffiti. Did it matter?

  “Do you remember me, Brother?” he asked.

  As my eyes adapted to the gloom I could make out his features. A name surfaced in my mind.

  “Laddi Chernov,” I said. “Yes. I remember you.”

  He had been StaSec once. I had had the distinctly unpleasant task of training him when he had first joined. So this is where he had ended up. I was not in the least surprised that he had been headhunted by ParSec and I can think of no worse insult than that.

  “Well, how’ve you been? Still with Grier?”

  There had always been something so indescribably false about Chernov’s small talk, I remembered. He was like a burglar making polite conversation with a shopkeeper as he made mental notes of all the entrances and the location of the cash register.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Really. It’s been what, six years?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know you’d joined ParSec?”

  “What makes you think I’ve joined ParSec?”

  “You’re in my home. At night. Uninvited.”

  Chernov laughed quietly and nodded.

  “Yes, you’ve got me. Jumped the pond. Sold out. Betrayed the Agency. Became just another Bureau thug. That’s me.”

  “You always did have ambition,” I said, and I tried to make it sound complimentary.

  “Well, ambition will only get you so far,” said Chernov. “Do you know what will get you far, South?”

  “Loyalty?” I asked. Well, what else would you say to ParSec?

  “I made the same mistake. No,” said Chernov, taking a sip from my coffee. “Luck, South. Luck is all you need. Luck, and nothing else. Let me give you an example. On my first week of field duty I took part in a surprise raid on some party wallah that we had reason to believe was defecting to Persia. So we break into his house and find that Bellov’s already done a runner.”

  “Sebastien Bellov?” I asked. I vaguely remembered the name. The deputy leader of the party’s Ellulgrad branch who had disappeared five years ago.

  Chernov stopped, and looked at me sheepishly.

  “Shit,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you his name, should I?”

  I suddenly remembered what I had disliked about Chernov when I had worked with him. Not simply that he was cruel, or that he was so stuffed with party dogma that his brain was a rigid, impenetrable mass. It was that he was gallingly, maddeningly stupid.

  “No,” I said, in answer to his question.

  “Well, anyway,” said Chernov, completely unfazed, “Bellov was gone and we were tearing the place apart looking for some clue as to where he’d slithered off to when there’s a ring at the door. And the agent in charge says, ‘See who it is, Chernov. Bring him in. Kick him in the bollocks and see if he knows where Bellov’s gone.’”

  Devilishly cunning, these ParSec fellows. Skilled and subtle as surgeons.

  “So, hand on my gun and heart in my mouth I open the door,” Chernov continued. “And standing without is a little Ajay man…”

  “Ajay.” The Azerbaijani. You may have heard of them. They had a country once. They’d mostly moved west but there were still a few of them in Ellulgrad, scraping by.

  “A midget. Three foot tall. Ninety years old if he was a day,” said Chernov. “And he’s carrying this tray of little ceramic figurines. Hideous little things. And he’s selling them door-to-door. You’ve seen them?”

  The Azerbaijani peddlers. Yes. I’d seen them. You would open the door and they would give you the biggest smile you’d ever seen. Hello sir, good day sir, you buy, you buy? They all had smile lines around their mouths, and none around their eyes.

  And I knew the figurines so well I could picture them in my mind. Little ceramic representations of the zodiac. They could be found in half the homes in the city, iconic examples of a very specific type of Ellulgrad kitsch.

  “But on his face,” Chernov continued. “On his face, South. A tumor, the size of a baby.”

  He put a cupped hand by his cheek to show the size.

  “I mean, can you imagine? Being confronted by this freak show in the dead of night? And I was so startled that I inadvertently shot him in the face.”

  Chernov chuckled to himself like a best man cracking up in the middle of telling an amusing anecdote about the groom, while I sat across from him, trying to keep my face from betraying my fear, loathing and disgust.

  “Killed him outright, obviously,” Chernov went on. “So of course, I’m slapped in handcuffs, carted away to a cell. Interrogated eight times, and those bastards were not gentle, let me tell you. That’s what we are after all. Bastards. That’s what you call us, isn’t it?”

  He was still laughing, but the laugh was going sour, now. Becoming something wounded and raw. His face was so happy, but his body was hunched and his fingers clenched.

  Chernov was ParSec. That was reason enough to pity him, as well as hate him.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “And then after three days, they let me go,” he said, “and tell me I’ve been promoted.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why, he asks me, and I shall tell him why,” said Chernov. “Because, through sheer luck, through a million-to-one chance, that old man whose brains I blasted all over Bellov’s doormat just so happened to be the ringleader of one of the largest contran operations in the city. I’m absolutely serious. He was a genius! An Azerbaijani. Midget. Genius.”

  Professional curiosity got the better of me.

  “How did he do it?” I asked.

  “He carried all the equipment around with him. State-of-the-art stuff strapped to his body under his coat. And he’d go to peoples’ houses, download their consciousnesses into a chip. Leave the bodies behind and smuggle the chips out of the country. They reckon he got hundreds of people out that way.”

  “What way?” I asked.

  Chernov looked confused. “How do you mean?”

  “How did he get the chips out of the country?”

  “I don’t know. The Persians probably.”

  There, at least, was something StaSec and ParSec were in agreement on: When you don’t know the answer, blame the Persians.

  I nodded, realization dawning.

  “And that’s why he was there. For Bellov. To help him escape.”

  “But Bellov got wind of the raid and never bothered to warn him,” said Chernov, nodding. “And if I hadn’t shot him by accident we never would have caught him. And a great enemy of the state would have slipped right through our fingers. Do you see the motto of the story, South?”

  I did, and it was Always walk behind Chernov.

  “Luck,” I said.

  “Luck,” Chernov echoed. “It all comes down to luck. Now you, I believe you have just become a very lucky man, South.”

  If this was luck, God protect us and keep us from misfortune.

  “How is Gussie Niemann, by the way?” Chernov asked.

  “The deputy director is in good health, I believe,” I replied, blandly.

  “You don’t have to play coy with me, South,” Chernov said. “We know she’s given you the Xirau detail.”

  “You know that?” I asked.

  “We have our sources,” said Chernov, like an ass.

  “I know. Wernham,” I said.

  The look on his face shall keep me warm for the rest of my days.

  “How did you…,” he sputtered.

  “I didn’t,” I replied curtly. “I bluffed. You folded. And you may have forgotten, Chernov, but the first thing I ever taught you was that a state security agent cannot discuss assignments with any individual outside of StaSec. So you see I very much have to ‘play coy’ with you.”

  “Bloody insulting, if you ask me,” said Chernov. “Aski
ng a thirty-year man like you to chaperone some coded trick around town. Illegal, too. You do realize that?”

  “They’re giving her human status. Temporarily.”

  “How ingenious,” Chernov sneered. “And tell me something, South: If they passed a law saying this spoon was a human being would it make it so?”

  “Legally, yes. Chernov, I’m very tired. If you’ve come here to threaten me please make your threats more direct and less veiled. The effect is the same and it’ll save us both time,” I sighed.

  “Oh, I’m not here to threaten you, old man,” said Chernov chummily. “Absolutely not. You have your orders and you’ll carry them out. Don’t think anyone will hold that against you. Gussie Niemann and her lot, they may have to answer for it in time. But no one’s going after you, South.”

  Don’t lie to your elders, boy.

  “That would be very interesting to see,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The first instance in recorded history of shit rolling uphill.”

  Chernov laughed and shook his head ruefully.

  “Yes. Doesn’t sound very likely, now that I’ve said it out loud. All the more reason for you to consider my offer. You see. We’re not happy. On our side. With your side. We’ve become rather alarmed at the laxness and lack of … clarity we’ve been seeing in our brothers in StaSec. Firstly, that Paulo Xirau could live here twenty years in a cloned body without getting picked up by The Old Man is … well, the word ‘Morrison’ springs to mind.”

  Not here to threaten me, indeed.

  “Second,” Chernov continued, “that members of our own party are actually willing to let his fucking code bitch traipse around here. Here, in our country. No. No, no, no. We are not happy. We are not.”

  I had to admit, I felt the same way. The Machine would be here, walking the streets of Caspian. It was a grotesque violation. Chernov leaned in.

  “We think there’s more to this, South,” he whispered. “Have you asked yourself why Mrs. Xirau is being allowed to visit this country?”

  “As a gesture of goodwill to the Machine Powers,” I said. Well, what else?

  “Come now, South,” said Chernov. “Innocence is sweet in small children, in old men it’s pathetic.”

  “Old men need sleep, Chernov,” I said, rubbing my eyes wearily.

  “Here’s what I’m driving at,” said Chernov. “There has been a huge uptake in the number of abandoned bodies being found.”

  Indeed, there had been. And almost entirely the work of a single operation. Discreet, high-quality contran. No blood, no botched extractions. Catering to rich and poor clients alike and leaving no trace. In StaSec we had taken to calling him (or them) “Yozhik.”

  “Yes. I know,” I said. The Parias had brought the number of abandoned bodies found this month to a nice, round forty.

  “Yes. But all those minds are still in the country. We know this. They’re still stored on hardware somewhere, waiting to be smuggled out. Over six hundred potential defectors.”

  Chernov, Chernov, Chernov. StaSec had long suspected that ParSec were independently investigating contran cases and keeping them secret from us. Chernov had just confirmed it. I didn’t know how many cases StaSec had on its books but it was not six hundred. Maybe four. ParSec were evidently sitting on two hundred dead bodies and hadn’t seen fit to tell anyone. It was enough to make you feel sorry for Grier, diligently going through the miserable ritual of notifying nine different agencies and departments with every body that we found. Six hundred. An epidemic.

  I thought, how desperate you’d have to be to abandon your own body, to leave it rotting in some hovel in Ellulgrad while you, everything that was you, was rendered into data and stored on a Sontang chip. The chips themselves were Chinese-made, and around the size of a toenail. Their storage capacity for traditional data was effectively infinite. To store six hundred entire human consciousnesses, complete with memories and unique thought processes would require …

  “At least a dozen chips,” I said.

  “Twelve chips.” Chernov nodded. “We have every confidence that sooner or later those chips will be found and destroyed. But then … here comes Mrs. Xirau. Who ParSec have been told, in no uncertain terms: ‘Hands off.’ StaSec is handling this. StaSec will be escorting her, watching where she goes, controlling who she sees and meets. StaSec will be responsible for searching her person before she leaves the country.”

  The outlines were now sharpening.

  “You think that Lily Xirau is to act as courier for these defectors?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Chernov.

  “For you to be right, that would mean that someone in StaSec is in league with this contran operation,” I said. “Probably more than one person. And probably running it.”

  “Exactly,” Chernov agreed.

  “And when you saw that I was going to be escorting Mrs. Xirau,” I continued, “you thought that I could be convinced to help you confirm your suspicions, given our history together.”

  “There is a position opening in ParSec that I think you would be perfect for, South,” said Chernov, and were I a younger man I would have struck him for the insult.

  “I’ve been telling them that,” Chernov continued. “We could arrange a salary significantly more generous than what you’re on now. And all we ask is that you relay any information you think relevant to us before Mrs. Xirau has a chance to leave the country.”

  It was a lie, and a transparent one at that. ParSec was psychopathic in character, completely untrustworthy. It was one of the reasons they were so ineffective. And even if there was a job waiting for me in ParSec, I was not that desperate for money and prayed that I never would be.

  “Before I give you my answer, Chernov,” I said, “let me ask you one thing. Have you read my file?”

  Chernov looked at me like a husband who’s just heard his wife speak the name of his mistress.

  “What?” he asked.

  “My file. You have access to it surely? I’m told it’s very dull but you at least skimmed it, yes?”

  No, of course you haven’t.

  “Come now, South,” said Chernov. “We’re old friends.”

  Oh Jesus. I folded out my hands on the table and laid out the problem with his approach as clearly as I could.

  “If you had read my file you would know that I attend the absolute minimum of party meetings that I am required to and that every overseer I have ever had has commented on my lack of zeal and enthusiasm for the party. And now I have been given the task of escorting an AI whom you believe is to accept a cargo of twelve computer chips containing the transferred consciousness of approximately six hundred defectors. Who is she to accept this cargo from? You’ve said yourself you suspect someone in StaSec is behind this business. I am in StaSec, and I am the only person who is to have any contact with Lily Xirau during her time here. Couple this with the information in my file and I am obviously the most likely person to be passing the chips on to her.”

  Chernov stared at me liked he’d been struck.

  “Are you … confessing?” he asked me, dumbfounded.

  “I am not confessing,” I said calmly. “I am explaining why I will not be assisting you, or ParSec, in this matter. Because in your haste to capitalize on the fact that we know each other, you have gone and revealed your entire investigation to your most likely suspect. Because you’re a bloody fool, Chernov.”

  I had always considered myself a cautious man. But now, for the third time today, I had done something that could very well get me killed. The first was warning Smolna. The second, scoffing at Niemann’s claim that she was starving due to the embargo. And now this. I had called a member of ParSec a fool to his face. In my kitchen. In the dead of night. With no witnesses.

  Looking back, I realize I was very depressed.

  I fully expected Chernov to shoot me where I sat, but he simply stared at me, my words slowly working their way through his brain like a worm in an apple. He chewed his lip, and th
en stood uncertainly. He clearly did not know what to do. Finally he made to leave, but stopped in the doorway and turned to look at me.

  “Oh we…,” he said, as if suddenly remembering something, and then he switched to Russian. “We killed the old man.”

  His goodbyes said, Chernov left and I heard the front door close behind him. I wondered how Jakub Smolna had died, and whether it was quick.

  I then noticed that Chernov had left a dribble of coffee in his mug. I snatched the mug and drank it down hungrily. It was still barely lukewarm.

  It was the last of the coffee.

  7

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  I took both Xiraus to bed. Mrs. Xirau would be arriving tomorrow morning and I was woefully unprepared. I had hoped to have both files read and reread by the time she arrived in Caspian, but the Parias’ paperwork and now Chernov’s visit had made that impossible. I huddled under the blankets against the cold and wearily tried to at least get the gist of tomorrow’s itinerary.

  Within five minutes, I was asleep.

  * * *

  That night I dreamt of my wife–ex-wife.

  Olesya, who died in transit.

  I dreamed of a night twenty years ago when I had been lying in bed, listening to the rain hammering nails into the roof.

  The bed was a mile wide.

  Olesya had left four months before, after a row that had seen both of us say things that could not easily be unsaid. She had been on her well-worn soapbox, saying that I was blind to the cruelties that ordinary Caspians had to endure.