Tom Aston - The Machine

‘Sure,’ she said, scathingly. ‘Except unlike you, I wasn’t embarrassed by it, and I didn’t drop out. You did a year of math, then a year of Chinese, weirdly, then you flunked out and joined the army.’

Stone was impressed. Not many people knew about his time in the army. Doesn’t go down too well in the “peace community”.

After five minutes in the green hills of Lantau Island, the Limo was speeding down the highway into the city. ‘OK, you get the idea, Stone,’ she said. ‘I did my homework. I know about you. More than you know about me. You move around. You never use banks or credit cards. You’ve been spotted using at least five different identities. You’ve done some clever stuff, exposed some bad people. Especially the Al-Wahabi scandal, which just landed you in hot water. Which I guess is why you cleared out of Europe, hey?’ She smiled mischievously. ‘But, let’s cut the fluff-talk. What do you know about Junko Terashima?’

‘I’m not here for Junko,’ he replied. It was partially true.

‘So you’re telling me you don’t know her? You just happened to fly to Hong Kong?’ She’d changed tactic. Now she was the hectoring TV interviewer, hovering artfully between derision and sneer to make her “subject” look dishonest and shifty.

Stone wasn’t having it. ‘Very good Virginia, but you’ll have to save all that for the camera.’

‘Stone,’ she said seriously. ‘This is not about stealing your story, or stealing Junko Terashima’s story. Junko thinks she has something huge, and so do you. We checked her email.’

This was meant to be the business end of the conversation. Virginia Carlisle was laying on the serious look, like she was interviewing a politician. A good look too. The sexy librarian on speed.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Stone, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘You fired Terashima, but you’re still hacking her email. That’s like the jealous wife who thinks her ex-husband’s still doing the secretary. It indicates an unnecessary level of interest on your part, wouldn’t you say?’ He looked coolly back into her eyes. ‘Like I said. You fired her, but now you wish you had her story. So you’re going to steal it.’

‘Junko’s in over her head,’ she said, disconcerted. ‘She’s in danger. She should have told me. Tell me what she told you.’

Terashima hadn’t told Stone much of anything. ‘You mean the Semyonov thing?’ he asked, fishing to get something out of her.

‘You really don’t know, do you?’ she said. ‘Junko disappeared in Hong Kong two days ago. And, yes, we’ve got to assume she’s looking for Semyonov. He travelled to Hong Kong, straight after his bombshell announcement in San Jose. He’s planning on some even bigger announcement at a party here in Hong Kong, apparently. Today, at the Zhonghua Hotel. It’s huge. If Junko’s got anything, I need it before that party.’

‘Too bad you fired her in that case,’ said Stone. ‘Maybe you should find her and ask her nicely.’

‘Look,’ said Carlisle. She looked a little desperate for a second, then tried another tack. Sanctimonious concern. Hilarious. ‘She’s a young reporter and she’s gone AWOL in Hong Kong, Stone,’ said Carlisle. She checked into her hotel, but since then — nothing.’ Virginia Carlisle, the caring employer. Love it. ‘Tell me what you know, Stone. For Junko’s sake.’

Carlisle’s “concern” would make a strong man vomit. But sometimes you have to choke it back and focus on what’s important. What Carlisle was doing really didn’t add up. GNN had fired Junko Terashima just days ago. Yet now Virginia Carlisle — star reporter of GNN — is chasing around Hong Kong after her.

No. Junko hadn’t disappeared at all. She’d gone into hiding, and Carlisle, or GNN, wanted her badly. Which meant they realized after they fired her that Junko really did have that big story.

Whatever, this wasn’t just about Junko anymore. Stone could make use of this glamorous reporter. It made sense to keep her onside. But he too needed to find Junko, and he couldn’t do that with Virginia Carlisle around. Stone called for the driver to stop the car.

‘OK, Virginia,’ said Stone. ‘I’ll try to help you. Write down your cell phone number for me.’

‘I don’t give out my…’

‘Just write it down,’ he said. She looked surprised, but took out a card and scribbled her cell phone number, amazed at her own obedience. It was a trick which worked surprisingly often. Order them to give the information .

They were downtown already, on the Kowloon side of the harbour. The Mercedes pulled over to the teeming sidewalk of Nathan Road. Stone opened the door. In came the broiling, humid air of Mong Kok. He stepped out. Skyscrapers towered above dilapidated mid-rise blocks, crusted with layer upon layer of neon signs.

‘Here’s the deal, Virginia,’ he said, shouting through the window. She craned forward to hear him over the traffic noise. ‘You get on the phone to your Hong Kong news office. Tell them to get us into Semyonov’s party tonight. Both of us. Then we can talk, at the Zhonghua hotel.’

‘What about Junko?’ she said angrily. ‘Where are you going?’ Virginia didn’t like surprises.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Stone, and then strolled off into the mid-morning heat of Hong Kong.

Johan Ekstrom looked in the mirror in his office. He liked mirrors. Ekstrom was a tall, slim man with the body of a natural athlete, and ten days on from his “research contract” in Afghanistan, he was back in his normal job. His hair and skin were back in shape. He wore his blond hair short, but not military short. Rugged good looks , was the expression he would use to describe himself. But not too rugged.

Ekstrom was a well-paid man by most people’s standards, but he often reflected that he should be paid more, for he regarded his qualities as unique. He was a killer, and assassin — but he was an artist, and a very skilled artist at that. Few soldiers enjoy killing at close quarters — they have to be drilled to do it, and they suffer trauma as a result. Perhaps five per cent of soldiers realise they can kill easily, and what’s more they enjoy it. Homicidal thugs, living the dream.

Ekstrom was different. He was in a very small percentage of his chosen profession. He thought perhaps he was unique — for he enjoyed killing as an intellectual exercise, not just for the deed itself, the power thing, the visceral rush it gave him. He got off on the planning of an operation — the preparation and (it was a pun he was fond of using) the execution . True, his fast-twitch reflexes and fitness were outstanding, honed by training in yoga and martial arts. True, he derived enjoyment from killing — that deep enjoyment in the pit of the belly that only devout killers ever know. But Ekstrom was no thug. He was a skilled professional, a seasoned practitioner. He was also creative. He got as much of a kick out of directing a team of field operatives as he did from pulling the trigger alone. He loved everything about it.

Ekstrom left the mirror and sat down once more at his desk. Though he thought he deserved more money at Special Circumstances, he would never complain. This job, well… he was living the dream. Anyone can be a hitman for a few grand a time, but the creative planning of assassinations was Ekstrom’s thing, and this job gave him chance to indulge that impulse. He sometimes got to make the hit himself, but mostly he was planning and scheduling things for his team of “assets”, his professional assassins placed strategically around the world. What other job would give him this kind of opportunity?