‘Be sensible Oyang.’
‘I knew as soon as I saw the Japanese woman at the press conference. In San Jose. I knew it would go this way.’
‘What is the Machine, Oyang?’
Oyang’s face was blank and resigned. He wasn’t listening. Just shaking his head.
‘The Machine, Oyang? Don’t you want to know what’s going on there? What Semyonov was doing there?’
‘How should I know? Semyonov told me nothing but stories. Anyway, it’s over. I know what the
He was a clever guy, Oyang. But right now he was gibbering, confused. ‘I think maybe the Machine is just a story, Stone, just a kind of a legend Semyonov made up to confuse me about what he was doing.’
‘You don’t really think that.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? I don’t know whether the Machine exists or not, and neither do you. But I can see what comes out of it. For over a year, the Machine gave and gave and gave. Maybe it did the same with Lin Biao in 1969. Now Lin Biao is dead, and Steven Semyonov came to China for it, and he is dead too. Now they’re after me. How much more of a warning do you need?’
‘You’re saying the Machine gave and gave,’ said Stone. ‘What did it give you?’
‘Power, money. You know what it gave me, Stone,’ said Oyang. ‘You’ve seen it. Do you think technology like that came from nowhere? That it grew like bean sprouts out in Sichuan? Be serious. Anyway, I don’t care anymore. Sometimes I think that Steven was using all those visits to Sichuan as a smokescreen. That there is no Machine, that everything came from his imagination. Nothing has come from the Machine since he died.’
Oyang was a bright fellow, and he’d worked with Semyonov closely. He said he didn’t care, but he cared more than anyone. Like half the world, he had been in awe of Semyonov. Semyonov’s intelligence engendered a kind of dumb hero worship. Admiration without understanding. An intellectual crush. Stone had seen it at that party in Hong Kong — both women and men with that dreamy look in their eyes. Like dogs looking up at their master.
Oyang, because he was closer to Semyonov, had had it worse than most. To Oyang, Semyonov was still the untouchable white Buddha. Unknowable.
Now, however, with Semyonov gone, Oyang was lost. His power had gone, and with it his nerve. He was terrified the
‘Oyang,’ said Stone, taking a calm tone again. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
Oyang said nothing.
‘Have you been a naughty boy? Have you been ripping off all those ideas and technology, wherever they’re coming from? Have you just been taking the ideas, from the Machine or ShinComm or wherever, and selling them? Making some fast money?’
Oh dear. That one hit a nerve. Oyang stood bolt upright, energized for the first time. ‘Get out of my room before I call security. My man is armed, you know.’
‘Get a grip Oyang,’ said Stone. ‘It was always going to come out. Some stuff has been patented, some not. Nanotech processes used for crude drug smuggling, beautiful technology diverted to grubby weapons sales. You’ve been creaming millions off from Semyonov’s technology, haven’t you, Oyang? And sending the money to Switzerland. Now Semyonov is dead, and it’s all starting to unravel on you.’
Stone watched Oyang, sitting on the edge of the white fur sofa, twirling the chess pieces in his fingers. Stone was right. Which meant Oyang was a dead man walking. And Stone’s post on NotFutile.com, which had been as near to the truth as he’d hoped, had made it all a hundred times worse for Oyang. No wonder Oyang was falling apart.
‘They’ll kill you, Oyang. Like they killed Semyonov. Whatever Semyonov did, he managed to get on the wrong side of the Chinese and the Americans at the same time. So he fled from the US, but still got nailed in China. Quite an achievement, I’d say. Semyonov was hot property, Oyang. Toxic. And you’re shaping up to be even worse.’ Stone went to sit beside Oyang on the sofa. Oyang was rubbing his hands, picking at the nails. ‘Go now, Oyang. Go to your wife in Switzerland, live a quiet life. It’s your only chance.’
‘How can I?’ said Oyang. ‘It’s an admission of guilt. If I went to the airport it would be obvious and they could shoot me down.’
‘Oyang. THEY’LL FUCKING KILL YOU. Stop all this crap go. You’re in deep, and you know it. I don’t believe in the death penalty, and that’s what’s coming your way if you don’t do something.’
Stone shut the door, leaving Oyang sat on the white fur sofa, looking at the chessboard. He walked down the softly lit corridor. It was like a dreamy Aladdin’s cave — and somehow fitting. It fitted perfectly with the Disneyland going on in Oyang’s mind. Oyang had lost it well before now. Back in Shanghai he’d given Stone the information about the Machine, even showed him Semyonov’s robot manufacturing plant — but then lost his nerve and tried to have Stone killed the day after. He’d probably been talking to Terashima after her question in San Jose, trying to find out how much she knew. All the while knowing she was at risk of being killed. He was highly intelligent, Oyang, making money on a massive scale. He had planned an epic financial swindle to make money out of Semyonov. Yet his nerve failed him all the time. He was completely lacking in physical courage — and now he was scared even to leave his hotel room.
Stone was also aware that Oyang was in far more danger in that Polo club than he would be in Shanghai. For Zhang and his
That led Stone to another conclusion. Balong was also the perfect place for him to die for the same reason.
Chapter 52 — 1:07pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
Ekstrom sat at the controls of the Porsche Turbo S which had been set up in the Atrium of the Balong Country Club. He checked himself in the reflection. Eyes a pleasant, smiling blue underneath the neatly styled hair. There was just a hint of steel under the blond. Perfect. He threw the stick smoothly into first gear, left foot poised to drop the clutch.
Ekstrom was no poser. He looked good, but his look, his apparel — it all had a point. Take those shoes. Looked like tennis shoes, but to people who knew, the difference was obvious. They were designed specifically for driving high performance cars, and Ekstrom kept them for that purpose only.
Three — two — one. High up to his left the light went green, and Ekstrom pulled away in a surge of smooth power from the 430 horsepower unit behind his head. Gear changes — fast and clean. He kept the revs in the powerband, 3500–4500, and twisted easily around the hills on the asphalt road, and then through onto the dirt section of the track. The noise was incredible — so realistic.
The red brown dust of the Balong estate enveloped the windows of the car. Ekstrom’s cool concentration was total. He braked hard, shifted to second for the hairpin, powered out. Seven thousand revs. Beautiful. His favourite part of the course, and the Porsche handled it fabulously. Better than the Maserati he’d tried earlier.
The Maserati dealer behind him was unconcerned. From his concession stand at the Balong Club, he’d already sold seven cars to rich Chinese on the first day of the polo weekend. Maserati was a more exclusive brand. The Porsche was almost commonplace.
Ekstrom checked his time on the competition board and stepped out of the simulator booth in the atrium of the Country Club to a ripple of jockish applause from the polo boys. Ekstrom was impressed. It was a staggering
