The Machine

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 -

here

?

His instinct told him to mistrust this, but then again he had no choice. Stone clicked on the link to the Internet chat device and waited for Junko to come online.

Chapter 10 — 6:14pm 29 March — Mong Kok, Hong Kong

Junko Terashima was there in less than a minute.

— I came to Hong Kong because one of Semyonov’s men said he would talk to me. One of his insiders.

— Who? Are you sure you can you trust him?

— He’s calling himself an insider at ShinComm. A man called Oyang who works with Semyonov at ShinComm. He wants to meet me at 7pm, but now I’m here, I’m nervous. I think I’m being followed. But I figured I had to see the ShinComm man, because that’s more important for my story.

— Junko. 7pm is the same time as Semyonov’s party. They’re keeping you away from Semyonov. They’re playing you, keeping you at a distance.

— I know they’re keeping me away from Semyonov. But that’s part of the deal. I have to go with it to get the story.

— Junko. For god’s sake don’t be so trusting.

— That’s what China21 said to me.

— What the hell? Who are China21?

— They are my source about the weapons. They know about the ShinComm factory. They told me about that weapon you saw in Afghanistan. If you use it long enough it stops the heart with low frequency vibration.

Stone’s fingers stopped on the keyboard. He realised his jaw had just dropped, cartoon-style. The words repeated in his head. “… it stops the heart with low frequency vibration.” Who was this naive, sappy Japanese girl to tell him that? Who the hell was she to have those kind of contacts?

— To hell with ShinComm, Junko. You were supposed to see Semyonov’s people, but now it turns out they work with him in China. Sit tight, and give me the address.

— They told me

— Tell me the address Junko

— Ming Dai Hotel, Quarry Bay. Malaya Street. It’s at the Snake Market.

Stone stuffed the little computer in his backpack and ran from the hostel. Junko had every reason to be scared. If anything she wasn’t scared enough. Junko had no idea what she was into.

Stone skipped down the escalator onto the concourse of the Hong Kong MTR subway station at Jordan, his mind working fast. He’d come to Hong Kong because of Semyonov. He’d formed an idea in his mind about Semyonov as an evil arms maker and poured into it all the anger he felt about Hooper and that bastard Ekstrom. He’d been emotional. He knew barely anything about Junko Terashima, about ShinComm Corporation or any of them. And now there was a dissident group involved too, called China21.

To hell with Junko’s meeting with her insider from ShinComm — whatever he knew. He’d find the girl, get her out of there and take her down to Semyonov’s big party at the Zhonghua to talk to the man himself. Then he’d put this Junko on the plane back to Japan. She was a danger to herself and others.

Chapter 11 — 7:08pm 29 March — Quarry Bay, Hong Kong

The broiling Hong Kong day was turning into humid night. The red sun of the tropics was melting into the harbour as Stone pushed through the sweltering crowds into the Malaya Street Market. The Snake Market. What was that girl Junko thinking of?

The “Market” was a narrow lane packed with stalls of snakes, reptiles and other creatures in buckets and cages, positioned next to a red light district. The snakes hung in black, shining strips from wires, the stallholders steadily butchering them with scissors. Men in undershirts sat on wooden crates, drinking snake bile and Mau Tai rice liquor to give them 'virility' before their outings to the neighbouring whorehouses. Mongooses prowled on chains around wire buckets writhing with the snakes. Steam from vats of noodles mingled with the acrid smell of the Mau Tai. Stone threaded his way through, looking up as he went for the Ming Dai Hotel. There was a row of beheaded turtles, hanging by their tails, their green legs waving reflexively in the humidity.

One thing was for sure — it hadn’t been Junko, aka Miss Hello Kitty, who chose this place. Some of the locals were pointing at Stone and shouting in Cantonese. That didn’t make sense either. White Westerners weren’t a rarity in Hong Kong, and they must have tourists down here, ogling the snakes and the bile-drinkers. A bad atmosphere. Stone’s threat-radar twitched like crazy. He checked his watch. Seven-ten. Shit — already late for Junko’s meeting.

Stone shoved in between a pair of iron barrels — ovens, two metres high, forming a blackened gateway. Their oily smoke drifted balefully over the market. As he peered through the fumes his foreboding was replaced by dread. A large painted sign for the Chinese character “Ming”. This was the Ming Dai Hotel, and it was swarming with police. A woman wailed hysterically in their midst. Kids looked on, slack-jawed, and a solitary tart stood outside in a mini-skirt, holding a cigarette between her lips, texting, looking up occasionally.

Stone was too late. Whatever was going to happen had already happened. He could go in the hotel and find out more, but he was too late. He would be arrested and questioned just for looking around. He’d have to regroup