Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

‘Forget it,’ Stark snapped. ‘You see nobody until I have more information. And if you don’t give me that information, you know what will happen. You said Rostropovic was the only person you trusted to hide your family while “O’Brien does his work”. What did you mean by that?’

Poliakov spat on the ground. Stark turned to the balaclavad man with the secateurs and nodded. He strode towards Poliakov, who shrank back into his chair. ‘Get this animal away from me!’ Another nod from Stark called the masked man off. Poliakov clutched his bleeding hand. His eyes rolled, and for a moment Alice thought he might faint. Then he seemed to compose himself. He closed his eyes. Opened them again. ‘My government is working with the American president.’ The sneer on his lips made it quite clear what he thought about that arrangement.

‘Collusion,’ Stark said.

‘ Collusion? ’ Poliakov said it like it was an absurd word. ‘You cannot even imagine the extent of it.’

‘Enlighten me.’

Poliakov’s eyes were rolling again.

‘He needs to sit down, sir,’ Alice said, earning herself an irritated look from her boss.

‘Talk,’ Stark said.

‘My people . . .’

‘When you say “your people”, you mean the Kremlin? The FSB?’

‘Elements within both. Close to the Russian president. They have been supplying—’ He frowned for a moment and closed his eyes. Alice thought he was going to pass out and stepped forwards to help him. But then he opened his eyes again and she realised he had been searching for an English word. ‘Deepfake,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ Stark turned to Alice. ‘What does he mean?’

‘Deepfake video, sir. It’s mostly a pornography thing. The faces of celebrities mapped on to porn actors. The technology is very advanced . . .’

‘Pornography,’ Poliakov spat. ‘This is nothing to do with pornography. This is deepfake video footage of the American president’s political adversaries meeting with known terror suspects.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Stark. ‘Which terror suspects?’

‘There are no terror suspects, sir,’ Alice said. ‘They’re fake. Their faces are mapped on to the faces of ordinary people the President’s political rivals might have met quite innocently.’ Her mind was rushing. Dots were joining up. She realised she was several steps ahead of her boss, and an icy sensation hit her in the gut. ‘Sir . . .’ she said.

But Stark brushed her away. ‘Do you have evidence of this?’ he demanded of Poliakov.

‘I gave it to O’Brien,’ Poliakov said. ‘The original footage and the deepfake footage. Separate files. Anyone looking at them side by side will understand what is going on.’

‘You have copies?’

Poliakov looked at him like he was stupid. ‘You think I would risk that?’

‘ Sir . . . ’ Alice said.

‘You didn’t upload it somewhere?’

Poliakov didn’t even bother replying to what he clearly thought was a preposterous suggestion. ‘I gave it to O’Brien,’ he repeated. ‘He knows what to do with it. But he must be fast. The American president is planning something. An attack. On his own soil.’

‘When? Where?’

‘I don’t know where.’

‘When, then?’

Poliakov swayed. He said something, but it was indistinct. Stark nodded at the masked man, who strode up to Poliakov, held him by both shoulders and shook him. ‘When,’ he repeated.

Poliakov’s reply was hoarse. ‘The fourth . . .’ he said. ‘Of July.’

‘ Sir . . . ’ Alice repeated, her voice urgent. The masked man was helping Poliakov to the ground. Stark was staring at him, apparently frozen by this new intelligence.

‘Sir, if O’Brien is innocent, we need to move fast. Hereford have sent someone. To deal with him. It’s happening, sir. Now. He might already be dead.’

Poliakov looked aghast at her, his face wracked with pain. Then, quite unexpectedly, he started to laugh. ‘They’ve conned you into doing that?’ He shook his head, as though he couldn’t quite believe their stupidity. ‘They’ve persuaded you to kill O’Brien? Then it’s over. All the risks I took have been for nothing.’ His eyes rolled.

‘We need to stop it happening, sir,’ Alice said.

Poliakov laughed again. ‘You will never stop it happening,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see?’

‘We need to speak to Hereford, sir. Tell them to pull the op.’

‘They don’t make mistakes, these people,’ Poliakov said. ‘There is always a backup plan. Always .’ His voice was fading. ‘Where is O’Brien now? Jordan? You’re taking out a hit in Jordan? Trust me, if the American president has decided to eliminate him, it is with the knowledge of the Russians. They are the same, don’t you see? And we will have someone else there . . . the Wagner Group . . . ready to finish the job if you call it off . . .’

His eyes rolled again and he slumped heavily on to the balaclavad man, finally unconscious.

Stark stared at Alice. She could see a pulse in his jaw. He suddenly looked ten years older. He pulled out his own mobile phone, dialled a number and practically screamed into it.

‘Get me Hereford on the line. Just do it! Now! ’

FIFTEEN

The General might have instructed his guys not to follow her, but Bethany couldn’t assume they’d obeyed.

It was seven forty-five. An hour and fifteen minutes since she had made contact with the General. His suite was on the third floor. He’d given Bethany – or Sophia, as she’d introduced herself – the room number, 318. Bethany took the plushly carpeted stairs but walked a circuit of the second floor to check she wasn’t being tailed. Her destination was hardly a secret, of course, but if she was being followed she would have to tell the General – or Frank, as he’d introduced himself – so that he could dismiss the overenthusiastic guard from outside his door. She hoped the procedure she had in mind would be silent, but she had to plan for the unexpected.

No tail. Back in the stairwell she could hear two men speaking in Russian on the floor below. Should that concern her? Chances were she could find guests from twenty different nations staying here if she cared to look. She moved to the third floor, found the General’s room and knocked.

She couldn’t help but be inwardly revolted when he opened the door in his hotel robe. It was a patterned Japanese kimono, knee-length, flimsy satin material. The General was a big guy and the kimono was almost comically inadequate. His greying chest hair was visible where the lapels crossed and his military ID tags, which he wore around his neck, nestled half-hidden in the hair. The sleeves stopped a good couple of inches above his wrist. His shins were much paler than his face and hands, and, although he was well built, his legs had lost all their hair like some older men’s do. But he seemed pleased with himself. Bethany forced herself to be outwardly appreciative, even though she found the pungent smell of aftershave and martinis unpleasant. ‘I see you’ve slipped into something more comfortable,’ she said.

‘When you spend as much time as I do in uniform . . .’

‘It must be stifling. Are you going to invite me in?’

The General raised an eyebrow, stepped to one side and gestured for Bethany to come in. The door clicked shut.

‘Nice,’ she said, looking around the well-appointed room. The blackout curtains were closed, blocking what Bethany’s sense of direction told her would be a view of the square at the front of the hotel. There was a comfortable sofa and a dining table. A large TV and even a small cocktail bar. Two doors on opposite walls. ‘I thought soldiers had to make do with grubby little barrack rooms.’