The Machine (An Ethan Stone Thriller) (40 page)

Why say that?  Semyonov knew Stone had been with Virginia all night.  Maybe it was just resentment.  More likely he was testing Stone’s reaction.  More intellectual games.

‘Could have.  But didn’t,.’ said Stone, still looking at the body.

‘And did you see the deliberate mistake, Stone?’ said Semyonov, turning his wheelchair to leave.  Testing him again.  ‘Your problem is that you have the mind of a killer.  You’re too busy admiring the methods.  Take another look at his chest if you want some real evidence.’

This bastard Semyonov knew him too, too well.  Stone looked down once more amongst the blood-matted hair of Carslake’s chest.  

‘It occurs to me that your friend Carslake was with the CIA,’ said Semyonov.  ‘As you pointed out yesterday, the CIA is very interested in me.  Especially after Oyang’s antics in releasing all that technology onto the market,’ said Semyonov.  ‘But it appears that someone took exception to the CIA’s intrusion into Chinese territory.  An agent of the Chinese state killed this man.’

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ asked Stone.

‘Why should it?’ said Semyonov.  His swollen, flipper-like hand moved over the controls of the wheelchair and he hummed toward the door.  ‘The killer is here to protect me.  Perhaps it should bother you, though, Stone.’

The wheelchair stopped at the door, as if a tinge of regret had hit him.

‘Like I said,’ he said.  ‘It’s all going to shit.  Let’s get the Machine out of the mine, and get out of this craphole.’  Semyonov’s voice trailed off as he rolled away down the stone corridor.

Carslake from the CIA.  It explained why Carslake had known so much about Semyonov.  Which in turn explained why Semyonov had been so wary of Carslake.

Stone hadn’t expected this.  Clearly, neither had Carslake.  Poor guy.  Stone stared down at Carslake’s chest once more.  Amongst the darkening blood and the hair was a large gout of saliva.  The killer had finished up, then calmly, spitefully, spat onto Carslake’s chest. 

That cold spittle in the middle of Carslake’s chest meant only one thing – something Semyonov wasn’t aware of for once.  Ying Ning.  She’d made her way here somehow and she’d killed Carslake because he was a CIA agent.  Ying Ning was no rebel, no dissident fighting for workers’ rights.  She was no Fox Girl, will-o-the-wisp continually slipping through the net of the
Gong An
.  She was a Chinese agent, an agent provocateur who’d manipulated just about everyone she’d ever come into contact with.  All to protect Semyonov?  More likely to protect the Machine.

Whatever.  It was no time to play Sherlock Holmes.  Stone had to get back down there.  He would have to bring the Machine out alone.

Chapter 72 -
10:57am 14 April
- Garzê Autonomous Prefecture, Sichuan, China

The half-mile of hole drilled through the rock seemed to pass quicker this time.  Perhaps Stone had more on his mind.  He’d left Virginia at the top of the shaft operating the winding gear.  Semyonov was out there too in his wheelchair, plastic oxygen tubes peeking into his nostrils.  In truth he was looking better than he had since Stone had met him on the island.  Probably the mountain air. 

It was a calculated risk to leave them up there.  If Ying Ning was the killer on the loose, she was working for the Chinese government, who’d done everything up to now to look after Semyonov as a strategic investment.  In theory she should be no threat – to Semyonov at least.  Ethan Eric Stone, however, could well be alongside Doug Carslake on her wanted list.  Not a lot he could do about that right now, short of telling Virginia to look out for Chinese girls carrying cheese wires.  As for protecting himself, Stone couldn’t go near the Machine with anything like a blade or a gun, even if he chose to.

 Stone turned off his helmet flashlight and crept first in the opposite way down the tunnel away from the Machine.  Semyonov had said there was a network of old tunnels down there, and it was as well to look for a refuge, or an escape route.  Also to check there was no one lurking in his rear as he went towards the Machine.  He came upon two forks in the first two hundred metres, then thought better of it.  He couldn’t risk getting lost.  He walked back along, past the cage waiting for him at the same point in the tunnel, then crept on silently in the direction of the Machine. 

It seemed quicker this time.  He’d only just arrived at the incline and the electrical humming was quite loud already.  There was the familiar freezing mist on the slope already.  Something wasn’t right.  It was like the Machine had been moved nearer to the shaft. 

Stone edged up the side of the incline, stooping, hugging the ironstone side of the tunnel, feel the bubbles and nobbles in the meteorite rock.  The freezing mist, vapour wisps of liquid nitrogen flicked his skin, like an arrogant icy finger drawn down the nape of his neck.  He hadn’t had this earlier, not on the slope.  Now it was as if the clouds and tendrils of vapour were tumbling slowly downwards to enfold him, to surround him and suck him in.  It was deathly cold once more.

 
Sheeeeeeee-Hshaaaaawww. 

Stone heard his own breathing in the mask.  Slowing down.  His heart was a slow steady bass line.  Stone’s subconscious mind was readying him for action once more.  Probably nothing again, like the telephone.

Then a short, sharp, slithering sound a few metres away – the thick power cable, as thick as a man’s arm, sliding across the ground.  Followed by a lurching sound.  Someone was moving the Machine - toward the slope.  Stone slipped faster up the side of the slope.  He’d get up there, get level with it.  But he must stay hidden in the mist. 

Sheeeeeeee-Hshaaaaawww.

The buzzing was louder, and the blue lights were there on the Machine, but still shrouded in mist.  It hadn’t been powered down.  Whoever was moving it must be dragging the heavy power cable too.  Stone edged forward, almost abreast of the Machine.  He could make out the shape of the cylinder, and the fragments of ironstone covering it.  There was something else stuck to the side.  He leaned forward slightly into the mist.

 
Sheeeeeeee-Hshaaaaawww.

Thump! 
 On the back of the helmet.  A roundhouse kick had just removed his hard hat.  He knew what was next, and crouched forward and down.  Two lightning high kicks went over his head, swirling the mist into tiny eddies.  But Stone was low.  The dark figure emerged, as Stone pushed from his haunches and hit him in the midriff to put him on his back. 

It didn’t work out.  The man had crashed backwards into something, and managed to regain his footing.

Stone stayed low and wrenched off the breathing mask.  The man had grabbed Stone’s hair and was trying to dash his head against a bony knee, but he’d have to do better than that. 

‘Surprised to see me, Ethan Stone?’  Stone knew those high kicks, and that lean, hard midriff.  The voice confirmed it.  Ekström.

‘You’re losing your touch Ekström,’ said Stone.  ‘What’s the matter?  Don’t like surprises?’  Stone again used his legs.  Grabbed Ekström by the thighs and pushed up, hoisting him into the air, crashing his head into the rock of the ceiling.  Rocky flakes came away and thwacked onto the side of the Machine.  Ekström crashed down onto the cylinder, knocking it backwards.  It fell onto the low-loading platform of its transporter truck.  Rolled forwards, but then stuck in place. 

‘That’ll be your gun, Ekström, stuck to the side of the thing, stopping it rolling away.  There.  You knew it would come in useful.’

‘Not my weapon, Stone.  Do you think I'd use that Chinese piece of shit,’ replied Ekström.  Cool, in spite of everything.

Stone was above Ekström.  He still had hold of him.  Had him on his back.  He was close to Ekström’s face, holding his arms back.  It was close-in wrestling, ju-jitsu style.  Ekström couldn’t strike, could barely move.  Stone couldn’t strike either, but most opponents panic in this situation.  They try to break out, or strike back.  Usually they move their arms or twist their heads.  It opens the neck to a choke position where they can be subdued.  Even an attempt to get up would show the back of Ekström’s neck to Stone, and invite an arm bar across the throat.

But Ekström was not usual.  He was no panicker.  He talked.  He liked to talk, Ekström.  Usually about himself.

‘I heard the whole thing, Stone.  Back in the hangar on the island, when I was helping Semyonov into those plastic underpants.  I got your whole story about the Machine.  It’s quite an invention isn’t it?’ he said with his accented English.  ‘See what you can get by being nice to people?  Zhang sent me in there to tend to the sick.  Very useful being on Semyonov’s medical team.’ 

‘You got to wear a mask and a hairnet.  You’d like that.’

Ekström was talking for a reason, not just to taunt.  What was he up to?  ‘Amazing what you get to hear, when you’re tending to Mr Semyonov.  Quite an invention, that Machine,’ said Ekström with some relish.  ‘How much do you think it will fetch to the highest bidder?  America, China, Russia – they’ll all be ready to talk.’

What was he doing, spouting this bullshit?  They were face-to-face, breath-to-breath, Stone with his arms pinning Ekström’s to his sides and his elbow poised over Ekström’s throat for when his chance came.

‘The Machine’s locked, Ekström.  You won’t get a thing out of it.’

‘Of course.  But the key is sitting in a wheelchair right above us.  He’s an interesting man, Semyonov.  Very motivated by one thing.  He’ll do anything to see that his invention doesn’t go to waste.  He’s already defected once.  I don’t think loyalty is his strong point, Stone.  Do you?’

Stone saw too late what Ekström was doing.  He was distracting Stone while he edged into a stronger position.  Stone tried to pull him back, but Ekström edged his shoulders over once more.  He was almost there.  Stone tried to pull Ekström’s whole body over with his knee, but he was too late.  He was a good fighter, Ekström.  Intelligent, completely cool.  And a nice use of distraction.  Ekström was nudging his shoulder under the cylinder of the Machine, lying on its side.  Its weight of a hundred kilos was jammed only against Ekström’s gun.  If the cylinder bumped over the gun it would roll away.  Ekström’s shoulder nudged again.  Stone’s arms were on Ekström’s.  He was powerless to stop it.  There it went.  A hundred kilograms of cylinder rolled over the gun, and jumped off the end of the transporter, gathering speed, bumping over the gun as it rolled.  The power cable ran after it and then -
slam
!

Pain screamed through Stone’s ankle as the transformer fell forward onto it, yanked over by the power cable.  The ankle was broken for sure.

Ekström was out, standing right above Stone, half-visible in the freezing mist.  Stone turned onto his back.  It was a poor option, but the only option.  Ekström had no weapon, and he would find it tough to engage a man lying horizontal.  Broken ankle or not. 

If he bent to try and throttle him, Stone would drag him back into the ju-jitsu, and Ekström had already lost out on that one.  If Ekström tried to kick, Stone could grab him or throw him.

The Swede prowled around above him.  ‘If you won’t fight, I guess I leave you here.  I think I’ll win the race back to the shaft,’ he said.  Which was true.  It’s exactly what Ekström ought to do.

‘Without the Machine?  OK.  Good luck,’ said Stone.  ‘Think about it Ekström.  You need to power it down.  Otherwise how do you get it in the cage? Or out?  The magnets are too strong.’  Ekström said nothing.  That only happened when he was nervous.  ‘And forgive me for stating the obvious, but the power line ain’t gonna reach all the way to the surface.  You need to power down, and you need t he sequence from me.’

‘OK,’ said Ekström, tensely.  ‘A deal.  You tell me how to power down, and I let you live.’

‘Come on, Ekström.  That’s lame even for you.’ said Stone, smiling into the swelling, piercing pain of his ankle.  He wondered if it was dislocated.  ‘You’ll have to send me up in the cage.  Then I’ll tell you how to do it by phone.  After all, I’m not much use with this ankle.’

Stone didn’t expect that to work, but it might provoke some anger, which was a start.

‘I have a better idea,’ shouted Ekström, standing over him.  ‘You like to get me angry.  But you won’t like me when I’m angry!’  He wasn’t angry.  He was still thinking, and he wanted to give Stone something to think about too.  Ekström grabbed Stone by both ankles and dragged him from under the gear and off the transporter.  Stone roared in pain.  He wondered if he’d pass out.  Stone needed to be cool, to think.  But he couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear.  He felt himself hauled through waves of pain towards the bottom of the slope.  Ekström, stopped, smiled at him, and callously twisted the broken ankle over. 

‘This is the point of most pain, I think.  Anatomy 101.’

Stone roared again as the pain overwhelmed him.  He knew what Ekström was doing, but couldn’t fight back.  Ekström twisted him so Stone was lying on his front, then took a strap from his breathing set, tied Stone’s hands and left him lying on his back. 

‘A good place I think,’ said Ekström.  ‘Now, you will tell me how to power down the Machine.  Otherwise I go up the hill, and I take the brake from the transport truck, which will roll down the hill, with all its load, and collide with the crown of your head.’  He tapped Stone on the top of the head.  ‘Your skull is thick, for sure, Stone.  But not thick enough.  You are killed in a tragic accident.  You see, Stone.  I like accidents.  Even Semyonov can’t object to accidents.  He’s an honest man, Semyonov, but he is desperate for his Machine.  He will work with anyone to get it out.  Even you.  And if you have an accident, he works with me.  He won’t ask too many questions.  About as many questions as he asked about Carslake’s death, I should think.’ 

Ekström was far too near to the truth for Stone’s liking.  Semyonov was too sick for the luxury of a conscience.  His Machine, his legacy, his monument – were all that mattered to him.  Semyonov had discovered Oyang’s money grubbing and weapons trading.  But done nothing, just escaped the hassle.  He hadn’t given a crap about Carslake either.