Nick Harkaway - The Gone-Away World

Nothing happens. There’s no one looking, or they’re stupid, or they were blinded by the flare. Maybe the ninja outfits are working in our favour. It doesn’t matter. We survive.

The fighting moves away from the main gate, and from us, and redoubles. There’s a loud sound, a joyful cry of “HELLO, THERRRE!” and then startled, undisciplined gunfire; the first jack-in-the-box has been set off and the guards are starting to realise that they are in for a very strange evening indeed. Another flare goes up, and I can see the jack peeping out of the trees and wobbling, to and fro, before someone hits it with a grenade. Then there are screams—not of serious injury, but of alarm and pain. Chilli powder in the wind. Somewhere, right about now, Ronnie Cheung is kicking someone sharply in the unmentionables, and the geese are being whipped into a frenzy.

In my head the map from Humbert Pestle’s file. This is Hut 1. It contains machine parts. As we pass by, I kick the door in. This is part of the plan: we won’t be able to avoid triggering alarms as we move through the compound, so we are going to trigger all of them. If you can’t be silent, you hide yourself in a forest of sound. I glance inside the hut: machine parts. So far, so good.

Samuel P. falls flat on his face. He becomes a bush amid the flowers (this is a corporate facility; at some point it has been landscaped just a little). Elisabeth and I flatten ourselves against the wall. A guard. Two. Professionals then, to ignore the grand kerfuffle going on beyond the fence on the other side of the enclosure (do they believe they are guarding a synthetic milk plant?) and carry on with their rounds. They are wary, but they are not looking for a commando rhododendron. They walk past Sam. He rises silently behind them. A man falls. The other turns, and Elisabeth hits him in the side of the neck, once, twice, three times, catches him as he goes down. She is gentle. I envy him just a little. We put them both in Hut 1, amid the spares. It’s fine if they wake up and make a ruckus, as long as they do it in three minutes, not right now. It’ll add to the fun.

Past Hut 7 and across the roundabout (more flowers). Jorgmund Actual is dressed up as the main office of Lactopolis Inc., glossy and dressed in pink and baby blue, with modern glass. Very corporate. Very ironic. I’m not laughing. The building is large—huge even. Parked boldly in front is a familiar maroon Rolls-Royce. The Bey. We look at one another, shift up another gear. The hardest part will be inside.

Ahead of us four guards, well-armed, armoured. They disappear as we draw close: Vasille’s team is faster than we are. He waves. Baptiste Vasille is totally delighted with this situation. Typical Frenchman. (In the hills around the plant another Jack goes up: “IIIIII’M JACK-OOOO!” and then a boom and more chilli powder, and furious ducks and geese. Strobe lights, shouting, confusion.)

The accommodation block, for visiting milk executives. The glass is armoured and the doors are locked (as expected). Vasille’s group has a circular saw to cover this situation. The noise is very loud, a shrieking, grinding wail. On the other side of the enclosure Tobemory Trent’s team sets something on fire and more alarms go off to cover us. Perfect synchrony. We go inside. A guard arrives at a run, and one of Vasille’s men shoots him in the head. He is the first person I know we have killed, and I feel bad about it. Gonzo wouldn’t. Gonzo is a secret soldier, a pro. Perhaps that’s part of what I was to him: the luxury of regret. The guard doesn’t bleed very much; the bullet is still in his head. He leaks.

Past the lobby everything is calmer. The floor is made of marble. There’s a fountain, and some very stylish seats in artful circles around coffee tables. A row of very old bonsai trees rest under glass. This place is expensive. Five-star. I feel underdressed—a terrible faux pas. At any moment the maître d’ will arrive and request that I retire to my room and change into something more suitable. Not relevant. I shake my head to clear it, follow Elisabeth. (I worry all the same: unease of any kind is a warning. No matter that the fear was spurious. The warning is not. Something is wrong.) Samuel P. leads us down a service corridor.

Hallways and stairs and endless lounges with upmarket carpets. The diversion is working—the guards are elsewhere or not paying attention, or other things less pleasant. First floor. Second. Third. (Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is. Something about the guards.) Guest accommodation. Vasille opens one door after another on the left, Samuel P. the right. No. Nothing. Keep moving—next set of doors. Find the Bey. No. No. No again. (Something missing. Something wrong. Guards but not guards. Booby traps? No. Not that. No pussy willow. Use your nose . . . no. Not that. But something is wrong.)

Samuel P. slams open a door and there are five of them, big lads with guns. Two of them are sitting. Vasille dives into the room, they all fall together in a huddle. His men pile in after, a Belgian and a Spaniard, all flying fists and arms. We follow. It’s a short fight. I don’t even hit anyone, just duck and then my opponent is gone. Not hard. Easy. (Too easy. These men are competent but no more. They are soldiers. Humbert Pestle has had no hand in their training. Too easy. I wait for the shoe to drop. It doesn’t.) I look at Elisabeth. She knows. Her eyes are lit with nervous energy. Not fear but anticipation. The hard part is yet to come. She knocks on the main door.

“Hello?”

The door opens a crack. Zaher Bey, greyer, leaner and warier, in a bathrobe. And then it flies open and he whoops, and does a little dance, and Vasille is shushing him and saying now’s not the time, mordieu ! But the Bey is prancing around Vasille.

It’s been so long, so long, so long! How good to see you. Oh, yes, of course, quite right, I shall be totally silent, silent like the mouse, or better! Hah! The flea which whispers past the mouse’s eagle eye (if such a thing he can be said to possess, being a mouse and not an eagle): in either case the epitome of stealth. What? When? Immediately! Now! . . . Oh, yes, I see. Indeed. Shshsh . . .

He is quiet at last, or rather he is for a moment, then murmurs that we should probably go. I have made something of an error of judgement, yes, indeed. Of trust . . . And then his eye is upon me, and he peers, and sees . . . something. I extend my hand. He takes it, and there is familiarity for us both.

“Zaher Bey,” he says, probing.

“We’ve met,” I tell him, “but you wouldn’t remember; it was a long time ago.”

Zaher Bey holds on to my hand, feels the grip like a butcher with a joint, then his eyes take in my shoulders and my stance, my expression. He pushes against me, and I yield, soft-form style. “Ah!” he says. He draws me back the other way, turns his body, and I follow, butterfly-light. Our hands move a few inches, no more. He stares. “Yes. I see. I see, I see. I am an idiot that I didn’t see it before, when he came. You are he and he is you and neither of you is who you were . . .” He smiles at my dismay. “Years with the Found Thousand. One becomes used to recognising the new. ”

Which is as far as we get before Vasille and Samuel P. slap an armoured coat upon him and remove his bathrobe (white is not a good colour for escaping). The Bey is revealed in a pair of strikingly elegant silk pyjamas, handily maroon (to match his Rolls-Royce, no doubt), which is the next best thing to black at night. In these rooms, with their lush mahoganies, he will blend in even better than we do. Success, stage one. (But still something is wrong.)

Back down to the main level (lots of stairs again, the Bey surprisingly spry, good for him; we’re all panting. Damn, you have to be in good shape for this stuff. I’m sweating. Samuel P. smells like one enormous groin. It’s the thing which limits his effectiveness in special operations: you can always find him if you know how. On the other hand, on longer missions he starts to smell like a jungle cat, carnivore breath and matted fur. He blends right in, as long as he’s in a jungle or on a plain. In an office block, less good.