Tom Aston - The Machine

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.’

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.’