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 helicopter rotors thok-thokking above the house. His semi-conscious mind slid back to his former life in the army.
Narrow cellars, low ceilings, now this “cell”. Claustrophobia. Kalai Kumza, Afghanistan, 2002. Not a happy memory. At least this time he didn’t have a B52 about to drop thirty tons of ordnance right above his head. And this cell was about one thousand times more luxurious.
A loud yelling, panicked shouting in Chinese and English outside the door. Woke him from his half-sleeping state. Screams from Virginia, bellows of pain and rage from Semyonov. What the hell was going on?
‘They shot him,’ said Carslake. ‘Listen! They fucking shot him, dragged him down here, now they’re taking him away.’ Despite jumping to conclusions, Carslake didn’t look worried. He looked like he’d expected it. ‘Hear that? That’s not a human sound he’s making, Stone. The Chinese have had enough. They came in that helicopter, shot him or hit him or something and now they’re taking him some place. How the hell did we get stuck in here? God I could use a cigarette.’
Carslake had a point. Semyonov screamed like an animal about every thirty seconds. Stone could hear Virginia was weeping too, and retching. Carslake really didn’t like it in that little room. His face was green and sweating.
‘Take it easy,’ said Stone. ‘We’re all still alive. If they wanted to kill us they had about fifteen opportunities. We’re cool.’
The screaming redoubled. Carslake gave Stone a snake-like glance through the corner of his eye. ‘Still think we’re going back to Sichuan? More like a fucking interrogation centre in Mongolia.’
OK. Take it easy hadn’t been the right choice of words just then. No wonder Carslake was freaking out The noise went on, on a loop. Semyonov, or someone, or something, was screaming like wild-eyed bullock in the abattoir. Like someone who knows what’s coming but is powerless to stop it.
— oO0Oo-
The screaming and panic outside Stone’s room had finally abated. About seven hours it had been on Stone’s watch since the screaming started. It felt like double. It was seven in the morning and a second helicopter could be heard overhead. Was Semyonov dead or had they sedated him? The helicopter sound receded after about another ten minutes.
Virginia had talked about going to recover “it” — the Machine. It seemed like a bad joke now.
By this stage Carslake was tired with worrying — worrying whether Semyonov had been shot, worrying that the room could be bugged, or worrying that the room would stink if he used the toilet. He was lying on his back, looking at the lightbulb and refusing to speak. Stone thought through what was happening again.
So what had happened to Semyonov and Virginia? Something had gone horribly wrong. It hadn’t sounded like they were captives or had been taken away, but Stone could be wrong. The helicopter had arrived at three in the morning — the prime time for taking prisoners. The “shock of capture” — it was an elementary discipline in the questioning of captives. Get them while they’re still disoriented. Hungry and confused. Was that what had happened?
It was hours later when Stone managed to get Carslake’s attention again. Worn down by either boredom or exhaustion, Carslake began to speak this time.
‘Tell me, Carslake, about Semyonov,’ said Stone, looking at the American’s downcast face across the room. ‘You’ve spent so long researching the guy.’
‘He got ill,’ said Carslake. ‘Then he met some Chinese guy in prison, ten years ago. Maybe that’s where all this stuff started.’
Carslake wearily started to speak, and Stone asked him question after question. In the next hour, using what Carslake knew, and what Semyonov and Virginia had already told him, Stone pieced together the story of Steven Starkfield, aka Semyonov.