dollars was “a pain in the ass”. Stone recalled one of the notes Semyonov wrote for him at that same party.
‘You ask why you’re here, you and Carslake,’ said Semyonov, wearily, finally explaining. ‘It’s simply because you figured it all out. Virginia’s a control freak, remember? She thought we should get you onside, because there’s something I need to do before the story breaks. The story about Oyang, and the faked death. ’
‘Steven wants some help,’ said Virginia, continuing for him. The mistress of spin. A clear statement, saying virtually nothing. Just like her news reports. ‘I said you could help him. We could help him, the three of us, before the story gets out.’
‘What kind of help? Looks like you’ve got quite a few helpers here.’ Stone gestured to the number of guards in the shadows.
‘It’s a simple thing, but in my condition I’m really no use at all,’ said Semyonov.
‘You’ve achieved a lot for someone who’s no use, Semyonov. Even in the last few months, the amount of technology…’ said Stone. The flood, the absolute cataract of new technology in the last six months alone. Didn’t look like the work of a man who’s sick and dying.
‘It all came from the Machine,’ said the big white man, waving his hand like a useless white fin. ‘I did nothing,’
‘Steve, come on!’ said Virginia, like she was a teacher giving a pep talk to a kid. ‘You’ve done so much. You should be proud.’ The bright kid who got a B in maths when he should have got an A.
‘It’s all going to shit, Virginia. We both know it. I haven’t done any decent work in months. And I haven’t got long now.’ Semyonov stuck out his fat white hand for her to help him up. There was bleeding around the fingernails. Painful, irritating. His eyes were red and bloodshot, red to their core. Stone noticed that Semyonov’s robe was not silk, but hypoallergenic plastic.
Virginia slipped on latex gloves before she touched him. Then took his hand and leaned back, heaving Semyonov’s bulk from the chair. ‘I’m going for my alcohol rub, Virginia. I’ve had enough. You tell this guy what he has to do. If he won’t do it — well, shit, what the hell… Somehow, I have to get it out of the ground in Sichuan, and I’ve no time left. We should go there tomorrow and just do it. If these guys won’t help us, then we’ll think of something else.’
Semyonov tried to get up, but couldn’t manage it. He flopped back to the plastic seat to recover his breath, then made a wheezing rant at Virginia. ‘Look at this guy,’ he said, jutting his chin towards Stone. ‘He thinks I’m a freak. For your information, it was the bleach I used in prison that made my skin like this. I was desperate. Most of my problems are allergies — allergies to bacteria, and I fucked myself up trying to get clean. I didn’t realized back then that all that itching was liver failure. By the time I had the money to do something about it was too late. I’ve had my bowel removed and two liver transplants, but I still can’t eat anything but over-cooked boiled rice. My body is constantly attacking itself. Every three days they inject me with a biological culture to ease it off. Costs ten thousand bucks a shot, takes half the day, and leaves me wide open to infection and cancer.’
Semyonov was overtaken by a coughing fit. He collapsed to the chair, wracked with pain, shouting for help. A jagged, helpless roar of pain.
A couple of Chinese medical men materialised in white clothing and led him away. Virginia explained that Semyonov was prey to so many allergies, and his skin suffered so from any bacteria, that he had to be rubbed down three times a day with anti-bacterial gel. Then came sterile lotion in a losing battle to hydrate his cracking skin. Steroids, cortisone injections. And at some stage the guy had obviously been depilated in a bid to control bacteria on his skin. On top of that was the asthma that made it so difficult for him to breath.
‘Poor guy,’ said Virginia. There was a wistful look about her. She’d seen all that too many times. ‘Looks like a freak, but he was my first boyfriend, would you believe? Fourteen years old. Quite a good-looking dude back then.’
So many stories. Semyonov a good-looking dude? Could be true, could be bullshit. It was getting out of hand. Stone waited for her to finish, then asked again.
‘What does he want us to do?’
‘You have to go down there and bring it out.’ She said it quite directly. Blurting it, but vague again, and with no eye contact. And no mention of what “it” was, although it was plainly the “Machine” that Semyonov was obsessing about. Virginia was reluctant to mention its name.
‘Down where?’ said Stone. She didn’t want to say it, but it was down there, down that mine in Sichuan. Something Virginia didn’t want to talk about.
‘Do you know the worst thing?’ she said, changing the subject. ‘They insisted on giving him an X-ray when he arrived in Beijing. To see if he was for real. Can you imagine? I mean — how humiliating.’
Stone realised he believed Virginia and Semyonov and their narrative. It said “Semyonov is the victim,” yet Stone was beginning to buy it. Finally it seemed she was genuine — a real woman.
Stone realised he liked that about her. He liked her fluff talk. He who had always to be so authentic. He liked Virginia for her changeability, her persuasiveness, her sheer falseness. Except that false wasn’t the real word. It was the artifice, the glorious construct of her public image. And the fact that she had let him behind that facade, and let him see the real woman. There were layers to Virginia. You may like some layers more than others, but they were each beautifully constructed in their own way. A living work of art as much as any performance artist.
Ying Ning was a work of art too, but she had only one layer. A hard, flinty exterior. If any part was injured or broken, and you saw the layer beneath — you realised it was the same all through. Hard, sharp, impenetrable. Was the real Ying Ning hiding within, all soft and emotional? Seemed unlikely.
What about Stone himself? How many layers did Stone have? A few, certainly. Some were hard. There was damage below the surface. Deep down, some of those layers were very ugly indeed.
Here it came again. Another jagged roar of pain from Semyonov ripping through the warm, evening air. Virginia grabbed out for Stone, held his hand. Her eyes were screwed tight with anguish. ‘I’ve never seen him as bad as this,’ she said. ‘We don’t have long.’
She stood up, and Stone put an arm round her. She was taking deep breaths to calm herself. ‘I’ll go and see what I can do for him. He needs to go to hospital — but where can he go?’ She looked exhausted. She’d been keeping up such a front for so long. ‘You and Carslake will have to stay here,’ she said. ‘There’s an empty room in back. You can sleep in there.’
She walked off inside the villa, wiping a tear from her eye. One hundred percent genuine for once.
Carslake watched her go. ‘So that was Semyonov?’ he said, looking around as if unimpressed. ‘Do you think one of these guards has a cigarette?’
Stone sat with Carslake on the deck in front of Semyonov’s luxury villa. It was an idyllic setting — warm air, tropical plants, a Spanish-style fountain playing a few metres away and a cicada singing at a distance. Then there was an overpowering smell of citronella, lest any insect inflict any more suffering on Semyonov’s skin. Stone noticed that the guards were all still there, armed with AK 47s, at a discreet distance. At this stage they appeared to be taking orders from Virginia Carlisle. It was control-freak Virginia who had made Stone and Carslake prisoners on the tiny island, for no other reason than to control the news.
Chapter 59–11:57pm 12 April — Balong Polo Resort and Country Club, Zhejiang Province, China
Stone and Carslake were told to “get some sleep” in a bedroom at the back of the building. Virginia Carlisle was taking no chances. She was locking them up for the night. The gunmen were still on them, there were no windows and the door was locked from the outside. Virginia may be upset but she was in deadly earnest about protecting Semyonov and his story.
Who could blame her? Carslake’s blog had made Semyonov out to be a lunatic, and alien, an evil genius and whatever else seemed a good idea at the time.
‘I could use a cigarette,’ said Carslake, as the door shut behind them. Evidently he wasn’t keen on confined spaces. Neither was Stone, though he kept the fact to himself. He’d tried to block it from his mind.
Stone slept for a while. Difficult to say how long in that windowless room. He came to with the sound of
