Читать книгу Redback - Lindy Cameron - Страница 20

Kingston Club, London:

Tuesday 1.30 pm

Adam Lyall, US Deputy Secretary of State, hung up the secure phone in the club's private soundproof Call Room. He was livid; no, murderous. And right now he was tossing up whether to pitch one of the stupid over-stuffed poncy antique chairs out the window or find the closest lackey, in lieu of someone actually responsible, and rip his balls off.

Goddamnit. It was beyond him how a perfectly planned, perfectly timed top-secret op could be so completely ballsed-up. He spun around and slammed out of the small room, across the marble foyer, into the men's room and over to the urinal. It was somebody's good fortune that the bathroom was otherwise empty, or Lyall may have just pissed on him, or yanked him backwards by the scruff into the stalls and kicked him stupid.

He'd actually done that once or twice, for no particular reason, most memorably in a bar in Albuquerque one Thanksgiving. He smacked the bejusus out of a drunk marine and left him lying on the stinking wet floor of the john - just for the hell of it.

Kelman's one-minute call, from somewhere off Laui Island, had heralded the worst kind of bad news. Then the mission commander had confirmed that Ifran, the rebel leader, was shot but not critical and half his cronies were dead or injured. Worse than that, there were two dead operatives and another not likely to survive, one MIA, and no hostages.

Now there were the big questions: How the fuck could an American soldier go missing from a friggin island smaller than the White House; and where were the goddamn hostages?

Lyall grabbed for the handle on his way out of the bathroom, just as the door swung outwards away from him. Angry momentum meant Lyall nearly flattened Edward Drake.

Irritatingly, as this was Her bloody Majesty's land, the kingdom's head of security said, 'Steady on there, chap, where's the fire?'

'From all accounts,' Lyall growled, waiting until three stiff-lipped gentlemen had passed through the foyer towards the exit, 'all over that flea-spit of an island in the Pacific.' He had to keep his voice low, so the flunkeys and local toffs wouldn't hear, but officials from the Pentagon to Downing Street would be getting their own reports soon enough.

'Whatever do you mean Adam?' Drake asked.

Lyall tapped his watch. 'I've got to take another call, but suffice to say the attempted rescue of those hostages was a foul-up beyond…' he waved his fist as he searched for the right expression, 'beyond words.'

Teddy Drake, still holding the men's room door as Lyall strode back into the Call Room, wondered how on earth the Americans had botched things this time. There'd been no British citizens, except for a few colonials, on that island but nonetheless it was probably time to check in with the office for the official situation - if there was one yet. He was not likely to get it out of Adam, here and now, even if he did wait for him to re-emerge.

Lyall snatched at the phone on the first ring. It was Kelman again, as arranged. 'Give me the short version,' he demanded.

'Don't know who started firing first, sir. Think it was the rebs. But as soon as there were bullets, there was no way those guys were surrendering. And they were shooting at everything; the team had to defend themselves. A few things - quite a lot actually - also got blown to hell by both sides.'

'Kelman?'

'Yes sir?'

'Where are the hostages?'

There was silence on the line for a few seconds. It could have been the satphone delay, but Lyall doubted it.

'They were all taken off the island by…' Silence again.

'I didn't catch that, son. Who took them?'

'Someone else, sir. There was another party on the island.'

'What the hell do you mean? Are you telling me we crossed wires with another of our own departments?'

'No sir. Rumour has it they were Australians.'

'What?' Lyall bellowed. 'That pissant stole our thunder? And ruined a perfectly good plan?'

'It looks like it, sir. But, so far, there's no word on the wire about anyone claiming a rescue. So it could just be chatter fed by shit from those on the line, you know, to cover the debacle.'

'Shit indeed. And this is not something that's going to stay under the radar; someone has to take the fall for this.'

'Already working on it, sir.'

'Good man. Go to it.' Lyall disconnected the call, reached for the whisky decanter and poured himself a generous slug.

'Jumped-up skinny-arsed Aussie pissant,' he said aloud, taking his e-pod from his pocket. It might just be time to ask a favour of Teddy Drake's main man. In the meantime he punched in his e-pod password and looked up an international number. Putting his feet up on Baldric IV's, or whoever's ancient friggin desk, he rang the direct line to the US Ambassador in Canberra.

Tokyo Hilton Hotel, Japan:

Tuesday 9.30 pm

Scott Dreher paced the lounge of the 30th floor suite he'd booked into half an hour before. He swirled the ice in his bourbon, took a swig and went back to the window. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he stared out at the massive multi-level fairground that was the Tokyo cityscape: thousands of light bulbs of every colour imaginable, and a good half of them in constant movement. Man, what are you doing here?

Scott was still trying to figure out how a simple feature story on computer war games had turned into an off-the-wall but so far inexplicable international plot of some kind, with, hello, actual murder now in the mix. At which point did the story change? And change again? And get deadly?

Was Hiroyuki Kaga murdered because he'd arranged to talk to Scott? Did whoever killed Hiro even know about him? Was Hiroyuki Kaga actually dead?

Now there's a point. Scott flopped onto the couch, checked his watch and reached for the TV remote. It was just on half-past nine, so he figured he might find some local news.

Oh. Okay, Scotty boy, so there's no question the unmet Hiroyuki is dead. Scott didn't need a translator to tell him that the live news footage of cop cars, ambulances, ranks of Tokyo media and a crowd of onlookers, was all down to the death earlier this evening of the man he was supposed to have met. The fact that the scene was outside an establishment called the Wild Lotus 'love hotel' was a pretty big clue too.

Oh my God. Please don't tell me I'm somehow responsible for the death of Hiroyuki Kaga.

As the cameras panned the growing crowd again, Scott took in the Scapers, Mappers and other techno-punks streaming in to join the grieving throngs of already bawling fans. No doubt Spaceboy, who'd helped them escape the internet café, had joined them by now too.

Hiroyuki Kaga was huge in Japan. He was mangaka, no, daika - the 'big guy of manga' - and cult hero of the century, this one and the last. Scott shook his head. If you took Stan Lee, grand master of comic book heroes, and put him with the various Americans who'd created Lara Croft, Scarifier, and the online Crash Realm, and made them into one man, he'd still not match the legendary Hiroyuki Kaga creator of NiteScape, GlobalWarTek, MindMap, and the Diamond Ninja Clan.

Okay so this status was, until recently, confined to off and on-line gamers - millions of them - and the new breed of Western pop-culture junkies who also trawled the fringes of nerdsville; but to them he was 'The Name, The Man'. And Hiroyuki's fame was about to spread beyond the computer game world and virtual domains, because his creative influence had now reached gamers, designers and even filmmakers in the States.

He caught the fragrant rush of steam from the suddenly opened bathroom door behind him, only a moment before Kaisha said, 'They are lying. Hiro did not kill himself.'

Scott turned to find her wearing nothing but two towels, one on her body and another turbaned on her head. 'Is that what they're saying?'

'Kuso!' Kaisha made a spitting sound at the TV. 'With his own sword, they say he killed himself. As if.'

Oh good, swords now. Scott stood up, went to the cupboard near the bathroom door and took out a white robe. He handed it to Kaisha. 'Did he own a sword?'

'Of course he did. But it was an heirloom, not something he would stick in his own guts.' Kaisha flung the robe on, barely waiting till she'd gathered the chord before dropping the towel.

Scott walked away, back to the window. 'What are they saying, exactly?'

'They say Hiroyuki Kaga, founder and head designer for Nayazuki Firebolt was found dead in a love hotel at 7.45. An anonymous phone call - me, see? - alerted Tokyo police to the place of the…' Kaisha waggled her head, 'tragedy. Rumours are spreading that Hiro Kaga, kenisha - this means like 'authority' - to a million game players, committed sepuku because of some, a…um, because of a business dishonour.

'No way.' Kaisha threw her hands up. 'Ah, bah. Now this putah makes a point of where he was found suggesting a bad love thing. Maji mukatsuku, now I am really pissed off.' She trounced back to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Okay, I'll just sit here. Scott wondered just how many languages Kaisha had running around in her head.

A second later the bathroom door was flung open again, just long enough for Kaisha to add, 'I'm thinking perhaps I may need you to take to me safely to Hiro's brother, like he asked.'

'Sure, whatever, why the hell not,' Scott said to the closing door. 'Where does he live?' he shouted at the bathroom.

'Thailand,' she called back.

Oh, good, just where I wasn't going next.