Tom Aston - The Machine

His employer, Special Circumstances Corporation, was a private military contractor — and employer of mercenaries. SCC was involved in all manner of work from protecting oil workers in Nigeria and Iraq, forming bodyguards for G20 summits or for African despots, and fighting as mercenaries in minor conflicts. Ekstrom’s own unit was known as I amp; T — “Interdiction and Termination”. I amp; T was described in the literature as “a professional, entirely anonymous, fixed-price service for dealing with troublesome individuals and groups”. Corporate Contract Killers might have been a better name. Ekstrom could never understand why marketing people used one name for something, when another name was more correct.

A job request had just landed on Ekstrom’s desk. The usual details: the name of the target individual, photographs, a brief biography and suspected location. As leader of the I amp; T Unit, Ekstrom also had the name of the client, the people paying for the hit — although this information was never passed on to the “asset” who performed the job. In case the asset loused up and was captured, or simply decided to make a double-turn on the job by selling the information. This latest job looked rather dull and unchallenging to Ekstrom — a journalist, female. The client name was interesting, though. SearchIgnition Corporation. Tut tut…

Dealing with a lone female like this was child’s play, but Ekstrom had thought of a way to make the contract more interesting. He was going to indulge his taste for the extraordinary. He checked the detailed instructions he’d written for a third time. It was unusual, but it still shouldn’t present too much of a challenge to the operative. And because his scheme was so exotic, Ekstrom had a mind to see the killing for himself.

He tabbed down on the screen to the field marked Special Instructions, and typed:

Operative to make SmoothVision video film of procedure…

Stone sat at a trestle table set up under plastic sheeting. He was at a cafe in a crowded side street behind Nathan Road. The waiter slammed the plate of baozi steamed dumplings onto the table, along with soya milk in a white plastic cup. Stone opened his tiny laptop.

It had still been early when Stone stepped out of the limo on Nathan Road, but already the streets teemed with shoppers and street vendors. This was a world away from the mirrored skyscrapers of Hong Kong’s postcard waterfront. Strangely traditional. Old-fashioned Chinese mingled with the trappings of the British colony — British buses, driving on the left, and the street signs could have been in London. The neon lights and the Japanese brand names were still there, but only as a veneer on a deep-rooted Chinese culture unchanged through the years of British, Japanese and Communist rule.

Stone looked at the laptop over a mouthful of the baozi . His first job was to get to Junko Terashima before Virginia Carlisle did. He’d been to a phone shop already, and bought a prepaid cell phone and 3G Internet access on a USB stick. Paid cash and wrote a false name on the document. An untraceable Internet connection.

Stone’s fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard as he logged into the triple encrypted server of his NotFutile web site — “leak central” they called it. Still in business.

Stone used the anonymiser on the NotFutile.com server, and typed an email to Junko. No mention of Virginia Carlisle — it would only freak her out. He reread it before he hit send , then closed the computer.

Stone picked up the chopsticks and looked up the five-star Zhonghua Hotel, holding a pork dumpling in mid-air. The Zhonghua, in the downtown Central district of Hong Kong Island, was a symbol of the new Hong Kong establishment — built with Chinese government money and a byword for opulence and service. A telling venue for Semyonov’s big “announcement” that evening, since it appeared Semyonov was jilting the US and falling head over heels for China.

Stone felt he knew Junko Terashima, but in reality knew very little about her. He couldn’t assume that she would turn up at Semyonov’s party. For one thing Carlisle would be there. On the other hand Semyonov’s party was his chance to put the billionaire on the spot — Stone was definitely going to be there. So if he could, he needed to find out what Junko knew before that time. A tight schedule. But not impossible.

Stone called the laoban , paid him, and made his way to the eighteenth floor of Chungking Mansions, a tower block about a kilometre away. Stone needed to keep on the move, stay below the radar, like he had done when he started NotFutile.com three years ago. Chungking Mansions was a place he’d been before — after he left the army, in the days when he moved around constantly. A hostel with dormitory rooms for backpackers. Stone wouldn’t look out of place, and there were no questions asked. More his style than the opulent Zhonghua in any case. Stone found himself a bunk, then checked his email. Nothing yet from Junko Terashima.

He was going to enjoy this — the game of bluff and wits that got you into places you shouldn’t be. He was a past master of crashing press conferences, shareholder meetings, parties — weddings even, if it got him in front of the bad guy. Anything in order to get up close and personal with the big boys of the global arms business. Those guys, they were the real bringers of death, and Stone had found it much more productive to get in their faces than to simply “expose” them online. And Semyonov — now there was a man worth going after.

Stone enjoyed the clandestine side of his work as much as he hated the publicity side of it. He relished the idea of crashing Semyonov’s media party. Virginia Carlisle certainly couldn’t be relied upon to procure the invite for him. And it would be best to surprise her even if she had. It would require a little nerve and a few acting skills, no more.

Stone checked for email again. Still nothing from Terashima. It was no big deal. Stone could go to the Zhonghua Hotel and Semyonov’s “party” alone. Terashima ought to crash Semyonov’s event herself. But something about Junko said to Stone that she wouldn’t. He’d catch up with her when he could.

Stone found himself deep in thought, wandering around the hostel for a few minutes. He looked at the message board of the hostel, a forest of advertisements for cut-price Chinese visas, bogus student ID cards, twenty-four hour bespoke suits, and “massage services” priced for the backpacker market. He realized he was on his guard, looking around, gathering intelligence. It was a habit he’d acquired from the Special Forces days, of scoping out his surroundings for escape routes and possible sources of attack. He knew by now that this was his subconscious, expecting something to happen. It made his heart rate drop, and he felt calm. As if his body and his mind were readying themselves for combat.

Stone looked at his watch. Nearly time to go and meet Mr Semyonov. Stone had one more thing to do before he left. He was covered in the sheen of sweat that pervades South China, sweltering under the feeble rotations of the Chungking Mansions ceiling fan. He’d take a cold shower and then leave.

— oO0Oo-

Stone was on his way out when he checked his computer one last time for messages. He might have expected it. Junko Terashima.

Stone-san! Thank God it’s you. I’m on my own, hiding out in Quarry Bay. I’m nervous, Stone. I wish I hadn’t come. I think someone is following me, maybe GNN. Someone at GNN has picked up my story, already, but it’s worse than that. There’s something I need to tell you. Can you get me on chat -