‘Have you lost it?’ Payne snorted. ‘This is Zachary fucking Corsfield we’re talking about.’
‘I know, and you’ve just told me that it was your money and influence that bent the rules to make his books so popular. Isn’t that going to happen again and be even easier to fix this time? People are going to be queuing outside bookshops and crashing websites to get his book on release date. It almost doesn’t matter what’s in it, as long as it sounds like him.’
Payne exhaled noisily and stared at Ethan.
‘Go on.’
‘We need a ghostwriter. One of those guys who writes books for people who can’t, or don’t have the time to do it themselves.’
‘I can’t write a fucking book,’ Payne admitted, thoughtfully.
‘Nor me, and I don’t suppose most people can,’ Ethan said. ‘That’s why they use ghostwriters.’
‘Where do you find them, how long do they take?’ Payne shot at him.
‘Mark, I haven’t a clue right now,’ he told his CEO, ‘but by this time tomorrow I’ll have all the facts.’
The team of three that Kralinsky put together had worked solidly through the night, delivering a file of relevant-only information to Ethan’s flexi-reader the next morning.
To start with, he was stunned to discover that well over seventy percent of popular non-fiction published was ghostwritten, mostly by writers who’d remain totally anonymous throughout the entire process. Sometimes the true author’s name appeared on the book cover as in ‘written with’, or received considerable mention in the book’s acknowledgements, but a majority of ghosts remained just that … ghosts.
In the world of fiction, the researchers’ delved into the symbiosis between heavy editing and ghostwriting, providing more eye-openers. Ethan had always assumed that a manuscript was delivered to a publisher almost print-ready, requiring only minor tweaks to finish it off. This was blown out the water when the research team provided him with examples of complete rewrites by editors for some very prominent and successful authors. In some case the finished edit was totally unrecognizable from the original draft, leaving Ethan with diminished esteem for certain authors and a soaring admiration for the editors.
Finding a ghost in a hurry for Corsfield would need more processing power than Kralinsky could conjure up and Payne was ecstatic when Ethan suggested using Redray Seven to do the data crunching. He assumed that once a suitable candidate was found it would be left entirely to Ethan to broker a deal, but there he very seriously underestimated Payne.
Payne’s need for immediate results brought out his cruel disregard for anyone likely to stand in his way. Unbeknown to Ethan, as soon as Sarah Marsden became their obvious candidate, Payne had initiated a blitzkrieg campaign to rip Sarah Marsden’s children out of her home. He used his classic tactics, showering vast sums of money, firstly on her gutless ex-husband and then on a parade of dodgy witnesses. Ethan was only just discovering what else the man had done to ‘soften up the target’, as he put it.
*
Kralinsky rattled his empty plate on the table.
‘Hello over there,’ he chided his friend, ‘I see he took your bait. What are going to do now?’
Ethan looked at his friend. Ethan’s strategic move in jetting Sarah off to Sydney had stirred the jackal out of its lair. Payne was on his way to Andrews presumably to be conveyed at military speed to Australia, courtesy that certain someone-they-were-looking-for orbiting in Washington’s most influential circles. The problem was that Payne’s move was unexpectedly sudden.
‘What are our intrepid agents up to?’ Ethan asked, watching Kralinsky frowning at his flexi-reader.
‘Shit, they’ve been close enough to drop a locator into her purse,’ he replied, tapping rapidly at the keypad. ‘And surveillance is just sending in footage of them in the bar with her. What’s going on?’
Ethan thought quickly. The situation was becoming critical.
‘How’s your buddy’s QSST going?’ Ethan asked, referring to one of Kralinsky’s joint technical projects with Lockheed Martin’s quiet supersonic jet.
‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to organize an unscheduled test flight. He wants to take it over mach 2 so a trip to Sydney will work out well. What do you want me to do, apart from the obvious?’ Kralinsky added.
‘Cara?’
‘Cara it is.’
24.
Scarface
Writing constantly without the constraints of syntax or grammar to worry about, his mind unleashed a torrent of words. Hour after hour his fingers flew, stopping only to use the bathroom or snatch some food gone cold or stale that he hurriedly crammed into his mouth. Peeing, he danced, impatient and agitated until his stream stopped and he shambled back to work.
The threat of Kristen’s death faded, along with the discomfort of his chains. The lights, adjusting to his frenetic pace, remained on and without a clock, he was suspended in timelessness. Sleep was forgotten as characters and plots danced in his head, screaming for recognition. Something had clicked in Zachary Corsfield’s head. He was an author possessed.
The man with the scar watched, occasionally scanning Corsfield’s words as they poured onto his flex-pad. His interest extended only to the fact that there was progress in the word count—nothing more. He’d done his job and produced results—better than expected it seemed. But any meaning behind Corsfield’s work was irrelevant. Someone else could worry about that.
He looked around the room, a clutter of screens and monitoring equipment. He was comfortable enough there, but what he yearned for was the streets. Electronics made sense but they were just tools he was skilled in using. Nor was he interested in politics or business matters. Planting bombs, stalking victims, killing—that was his calling.
He was well paid to do Argon’s dirty work and moved freely with a multitude of different identities. He’d changed his name many times and despite being known by reputation to hundreds of law-enforcement and intelligent agencies world wide, he remained an invisible and deadly anathema to everyone but his boss, Mark Payne. He’d worked for Payne for almost twenty years, owing him everything—even his life.
*
All that time ago, he’d found Payne in his study waiting for him, totally chilled out at his desk. He was drinking tea for fuck’s sake.
‘Want some? It’s chai tea—pretty good for the nerves, they say.’
‘My nerves are fine,’ he said, hefting a thin-bladed knife so Mark could see it. ‘You know I’ve come to kill you?’
‘Yes I do,’ Payne replied, without showing the slightest hesitation or fear. ‘And I know you’ve carefully planned this. Just getting through security into this house is a feat for an expert. What are you being paid?’
He couldn’t believe Payne’ cool and answered him out of grudging respect. It wouldn’t matter. He was moments away from death anyway.
‘Twenty grand.’
Payne picked up a Mont Blanc fountain pen, made some quick notes and then looked up.
‘It would have taken you two weeks of round-the-clock surveillance at say, forty dollars an hour,’ he said, looking at him intently, ‘that’s thirteen and a half, plus false plates for the stolen vehicle, plus food and accommodation allowances. None of which, by the way, compensates you for your hard-learned expertise in circumventing one of the most sophisticated alarm systems in the world. I paid half a mil for it and it’s supposed to be impregnable.’
This man is unbelievable.
‘So, put me out of my misery and tell me what you would have paid to kill you?’ he asked. ‘I can up my price for the next job.’
‘No less than two hundred K.’ Payne waited for that to sink in. ‘Can I ask you something else?’
He nodded. The stupid bastard didn’t look as if he was about to bleed all over his office carpet. Two hundred fucking K. He hadn’t mentioned that the twenty grand he was getting would be less commission to the broker and would only just get him back into the black. He had debts, and the people he owed weren’t ge
nerous with their loan arrangements.
‘Do you drink?’
He shook his head.
‘Drugs?’
‘Never, although I’ve sold them.’
His next question knocked him over.
‘Do you want to work for me?’ Payne asked him.
‘You’re off your head. I don’t work for dead people,’ he replied without humor.
‘That’s easy fixed. Don’t kill me and then work for me,’ Payne returned with a smile.
‘Not so simple Mr Businessman, the people who hire me will have me executed if you’re not dead by the end of tonight.’
‘Well, that’ll be your first job for me,’ Payne said, sipping his tea. ‘Kill the people who want me dead. I know exactly who they are.’
He remembered pretending to toy with his knife as his mind turned this unexpected development over. From where he stood, a simple throw would have driven his honed blade deep into Payne’s neck, but the knife was merely a backup. There was a five grand bonus for making it look like a suicide. He was now weighing up the value of his expertise to arrange that and realized that his employers were taking him for a sucker.
‘When and how do I get paid?’ he asked, measuring the distance between himself and Payne. The man was probably playing for time and would make a move to save himself soon.
Payne leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
‘How about two hundred thousand into a nominated account right now—that’s loss of earning for not killing me, plus another five hundred for the two people I have in mind? That’s two hundred for each of them because I want you to make it as painful as possible. Can you do that?’
‘And the extra hundred grand, what’s that for?’
‘My contribution to the time and expenses you’ll incur killing your broker, of course,’ Payne said, with a grin. ‘We don’t want any loose ends.’
‘I suppose the stupid question now is how can I trust you?’
‘Look to your right!’ Payne ordered. ‘See the patterned grill in the timber lining of my bookshelves? They’re a series of high velocity cannon ports activated from my desk. I could have had you shredded at any time.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ he said, walking over to examine the beautifully concealed gun barrels.
‘Because I think we have a very long future together,’ Payne replied, placing a small infrared control on his desk and walking over to offer his hand.
He left the unsuspecting broker until last, quietly strangling him in the poorly lit alleyway he frequented, tottering his way home after his customary drinks in his preferred bar. Ironically, the broker’s favorite piece of advice to his contractors was, ‘Never become predictable.’
Payne wanted to watch the other two deaths via real time video and he was happy to oblige. They were messy and very noisy, Payne watching every step of a cruel and systematic torture. He goaded the victims who, until they lost their eyesight towards the end, were forced to watch Payne’s gleeful face on a large plasma screen set up in the soundproof basement of a short-term rental.
*
He hadn’t always been so easy about killing. A brave and stupid person might suggest that he hadn’t always had the balls—something that was certainly true now.
Any empathy he’d had with his victims over the years, had ended one night with the rising tide in a decrepit warehouse, long since abandoned as a water-logged liability.
‘Pull them through,’ the voice said from the shadows.
He felt his guts melt into screaming pain as his testes were grasped, and then squeezed and manhandled through a hole in the metal chair he was chained to. Despite the cellar’s cold dank air, sweat streamed down his face. He vomited, his contractions tearing at his scrotum now firmly clamped beneath his seat
He’d expected a severe beating and then a swift death. What else for fucking the boss’s wife? He’d taken the thrashing without a word, constantly on the lookout for a chance to escape the inevitable. They were too good—he’d trained them well.
But what was this all about?
‘I can see you thinking,’ his boss said, coming into the dim circle of light. ‘You should be honored. It took a week to work this out.’
His boss shook the chair. Bolted firmly to the floor, it hardly trembled.
‘Elise is dead,’ he said. ‘She’s probably floating by as we speak. And you’re next, unless of course you want to take matters into your own hands.’
He held up a key.
‘The tide will fill this place in three hours,’ he said, placing the key on the slimy concrete floor, just out of reach. ‘And that key unlocks the padlock holding your chains.’
‘Why don’t you just kill me?’ he asked.
‘After you made a fucking dick out of me, are you serious? No, this is much better,’ he said, slipping a switchblade into his shirt pocket. That knife is not particularly sharp, and while you’re wondering whether or not to saw your balls off with it, you’ll also be thinking I might just come back and let you go. Will I, or won’t I, that’ll be the question?’
‘Fuck you,’ he told him.
His boss grinned.
‘Well, that’s decided that then. Untie his right arm,’ he ordered.
With his arm free he narrowed his eyes, measuring the distance between him and his boss.
‘No, my friend,’ he said stepping back. ‘I’ve seen you in action before. But here’s a little parting reminder of how it’s going to feel if you do decide on a little self-inflicted surgery.’
When his boss’s shoe slammed into his testicles he didn’t pass out immediately. He had to endure a sheet of blinding agony that seemed to last forever. When he opened his eyes again, he was alone.
He made only a cursory check of his chains before reaching into his shirt pocket for the knife. He had to be quick. Checking that the key was still sitting tantalizingly close, he tore half of his shirt off, making one half into strips and keeping the other as a pad.
Opening the knife, he thumbed the blade and grimaced. It had been dulled alright—probably on a slab of concrete.
He took a deep, even breath, placing the tip of the blade against his bruised and battered flesh. For a moment it felt comforting cool.
Taking one more breath, he emptied his mind and made the first of many cuts.
25.
A very, very nice house
There was no fresh air. Suddenly Sarah couldn’t breathe properly. She’d been in the place for less than an hour and everything was happening too quickly. She didn’t like this Suzie woman at all—she needed to speak to Ethan. Urgently.
*
‘You must be Sarah,’ the young blonde woman had said, tapping towards her across an acre of polished parquetry floor on impossible heels. She held out her hand, smiling warmly. ‘I’m Suzie and I’ve been asked to look after you.’
Suzie’s hand gripped Sarah’s with a firm and practiced ease. She was somewhere in her twenties with smooth, unblemished skin that hadn’t been beaten by too much Australian sun but still glowed with outdoorsy health. At first, Sarah took to her.
‘I’ve never met a ghostwriter,’ Suzie said, indicating a wide, glass sided timber staircase that seemed to float above the floor.
‘That makes two of us,’ Sarah laughed. ‘I’ve never met one either.’
Ben and Sam had dropped her off outside a two-storey office block in Verona Street and, wishing her well, continued on their so-called winery tour. She’d woken early that morning feeling decidedly seedy, only just managing to respond to Sam’s call to join her in the pool for a leisurely swim before breakfast. The thought of food made her heave, but it was a good move. The water was delicious, clearing her head and replacing the queasiness with a thundering appetite. Ben was already at the table, having worked off his bourbon in the gym.
‘Sure you don’t want to come on the grape trail?’ he offered, with a cheeky grin.
‘I think I had the best of that last night,’ she replie
d. ‘Anyway, its work for me now. By the way, I’m sorry if I went on a bit. Champagne always makes me chatty.’
Ben waved her apology away.
‘You’re great company and we enjoyed ourselves. We should catch up later if you’re not too tired from writing your novel.’
As Sarah followed Suzie’s perfectly toned calves up the stairs, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned to either of them that it would be a novel she’d be engaged on rather than non-fiction. But, reaching the top of the stairs, the thought was driven completely from her mind.
The kitchen was ten times bigger than her one back home. A black granite island bench stretched thirty feet, almost dwarfing an eight burner gas top sitting in the middle of it. Across one wall, an array of ovens gleamed seductively. Suzie handed her a tall glass of chilled juice.
‘Mango, lime, mint and ginger.’
‘Thank you. Wow, this is nice,’ Sarah said, trying to take it all in. ‘Who lives here?’
‘You do,’ Suzie smiled. ‘We’ve been instructed to make you as comfortable as you possibly can be. Let me show you around.’
As the two women crossed a vast open-plan lounge and dining area, walking towards a double door, lights began to come on. Reaching the door, it swung open to reveal an enormous bedroom decorated in lush deep reds and gold. Sarah could think only decadently baroque.
‘Close curtains and play ocean!’ Suzie ordered as they stepped inside.
As daylight faded, subtle lighting began to illuminate the room. Sarah looked at Suzie in amazement as the sounds of gentle surf surrounded them. She yawned and they both laughed.
Sarah caught her own reflection in a floor to ceiling mirror.
‘Oh, look at that, an unbroken mirror for a change,’ she said. ‘Why are all the mirrors you come across cracked these days? It’s like everyone hates seeing themselves.’
‘If you like mirrors, you’ll love the bathroom. It’s got an enormous tub to soak in. I’ll let you explore it later,’ Suzie said, pointing out a card with a list of voice commands. ‘If you go in there now, you’ll never come out, believe me. Come and see your study.’
The Last Book. A Thriller Page 20
