The Cut Out Read online

  First published in 2015

  Copyright © Jack Heath 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76011 198 4

  eISBN 978 1 92526 786 0

  Teachers’ notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

  Cover and internal design by Kirby Armstrong

  Cover and internal images by Shutterstock

  Set in 10.5 pt Charter ITC by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For Mum and Dad, who made me a reader and a thinker

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE EVASION

  1 RESISTANCE

  2 SPOOKS

  3 NIGHTMARES

  4 THE ATTEMPT

  5 THE ASSET

  6 THE LIBRARY

  7 THE BRIEF

  8 THE RECRUIT

  9 THE DROP

  PART TWO INFILTRATION

  10 EMBEDDED

  11 FRANKENSTEIN

  12 BLOWN COVER

  13 EVASIVE MANOEUVRES

  14 EXFILTRATION

  PART THREE EXTRACTION

  15 THE DEBRIEF

  16 THE MISSION

  17 THE KILL ROOM

  18 THE CARRIAGE PLOT

  19 THE PAYLOAD

  20 THE DOUBLE AGENT

  21 MISSION SUSPENDED

  22 OUT

  THANKS TO

  RESISTANCE

  ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ Fero said.

  ‘Will you relax?’ Irla demanded. ‘It’s about to start.’

  Irla didn’t look relaxed. She was shifting her weight from foot to foot on the cobblestones. Her shoulders jiggled as though she were operating a jackhammer. Condensation plumed from between her chattering teeth. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  Maybe she couldn’t sense the danger, but Fero’s skin was crawling.

  He had never seen Stolkalny Square so packed. The crowd was about thirty protesters wide and at least fifty deep. All were rugged up in puffy parkas or woollen overcoats. Any of them could be hiding a knife or a gun.

  But it was the windows that worried him most. Tall brownstone buildings surrounded the square on three sides. Abandoned shopfronts took up the ground level of each, signs peeling, doors boarded up. Above them, dozens of darkened windows stared down at Fero. There could be eyes watching him from behind the dirty glass. Cameras. Snipers. Anything.

  ‘It’s getting really late,’ he said. ‘Can we go?’

  Irla ignored him. Her eyes were fixed on the dried-up fountain that would soon serve as a stage.

  Fero turned to peer longingly at the ultra-modern megamall in the distance. Compared to the worn stone and rotting wood of Stolkalny Square it looked like an alien spacecraft. Floodlights shone on cheery billboards. Neon patterns flashed. It would be warm in there. Safe.

  The square hadn’t always been considered dangerous. In fact, this was where his parents had first met. They told the story often, as though to reassure him that they had existed before his birth. His father, Wilt, had been trying to hail a taxi. His mother, Zuri, had mistaken Wilt for someone else and tapped his shoulder. Too embarrassed to admit the error – and impressed by his square jaw – she had invited him to a gallery opening that night.

  ‘But that was a long time ago,’ Zuri had told Fero. ‘No one goes there now except thieves and liars.’

  The massive clock on the north wall struck eight. The clanging of a mighty bell echoed through the square. Some people in the crowd carried sleeping bags and vacuum flasks of soup or coffee. They must be planning to defy the curfew. Fero didn’t want to stick around to see what happened to them.

  A news van pulled up nearby. Bald tyres squeaked as they mounted the kerb. A dented door rolled open and two men in stained jeans and faded sweatshirts leapt out.

  Fero didn’t recognise the logo on the shoulder-mounted video camera. Perhaps they broadcast on the web, or for an underground community station.

  He pulled his cap low over his eyes as the black lens swung towards him. His parents were unlikely to watch underground video and see him at the protest, but he edged back anyway, putting a bald, bulky young man between himself and the journalists.

  Fero told himself that even if the footage captured him he was unlikely to stand out. He and Irla were surrounded by people – a skinny old woman waving a PEACE sign, a bearded man with an African drum, a girl who looked younger than Fero clutching a bundle of leaflets, and someone wearing a mask and a leather backpack.

  The mask was a caricature of the President’s face. Those were unmistakeably Nina Grigieva’s eyebrows and her dimpled chin. Her cheeks were flushed bright red, her lips twisted into a sneer. Fero wondered if you could get arrested for wearing something like that.

  He might find out soon. Police were gathering at the far end of the street. Armour bulked up their shoulders and shins. Their faces were inscrutable behind helmets and scratched-up riot shields. Fero was glad someone was here to take charge if the protest got out of hand, but now he was even more anxious about the curfew. He lived in Coralsk, which was five minutes away by train. The trains came only once every fifteen minutes and it was a seven-minute walk to Stolkalny Station. Add to that the distance between Coralsk Station and his parents’ apartment, and he was cutting it fine.

  Fero nudged Irla. ‘We only have an hour to get home.’

  She glared at him. ‘Kamauans are dying. More and more every year. If you don’t care about that, you can go. But I’m staying.’

  ‘Not just Kamauans,’ said the man with the drum, overhearing them. His earrings glittered in the moonlight. ‘Besmaris, too.’

  The person in the mask turned to look at him.

  ‘The government funds terror groups in Besmar,’ the drummer continued. ‘They kill civilians over there all the time.’

  ‘I heard rumours about that,’ Irla said.

  The masked man – or was it a woman? Fero couldn’t tell – said nothing.

  Fero did care, but he wasn’t sure how this rally would solve anything. From here he could see a T-shirt that read STOP THE SURVEILLANCE and a cardboard sign that said NO MORE DRONES. The headline on a fallen leaflet blared OPEN THE BORDER, while some nearby girls were chanting, ‘Grigieva must go! Grigieva must go!’ Individually the protesters made sense, but as a group they were a mess. How could they make sure the message was heard if they couldn’t agree what the message was? And surely the government was working on all these problems.

  He was more worried about Irla’s safety than his own. He had always been athletic. At school no one could boot a soccer ball further than him, and he hardly ever took a hit in boxing or dodgeball. He usually placed second in the hundred-metre sprint and the high jump, because he didn’t like the attention when he came first. Irla, on the other hand, wasn’t into sport. She was much smarter than Fero – she helped him write essays and absorb textbooks – but if the protest got violent
, he wasn’t sure how she’d cope.

  Fero had joined Coralsk High School late. The other students had already coalesced into groups. No one made the effort to talk to him except Irla, perhaps because she had so few friends of her own. Her political views and the intense way she spoke about them made most people uncomfortable, including Fero. But none of his other classmates even knew his name.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever.’ Irla stood on tiptoes to see over the bearded man’s shoulder, and then cheered. As the rest of the crowd burst into applause and shouting, Fero saw an old man step up onto the rim of the fountain. His beard hairs were white at the tip, as though he had come down from the top of Mount Kharsum and was still carrying the frost. He wore a striking red cloak and boots that reached almost to his knees. He looked over his half-moon spectacles at the crowd and brought a megaphone to his lips.

  ‘We are not here because of Nina Grigieva’s lies,’ he shouted. The megaphone whined and crackled.

  The masked protester shrugged off the backpack and started rummaging around inside.

  ‘We are not here because of her broken promises,’ the man with the megaphone continued. ‘We are not here because of her cuts to education, her suppression of the media or her militarisation of the police force.’

  Irla’s eyes shone. Fero wished he could feel what she was feeling. His parents had tried to get him interested in politics, although admittedly not Irla’s kind. ‘You’ll be old enough to vote soon,’ Zuri said. ‘Protecting Kamau will be up to you.’

  But the world was complex. Everyone seemed to have such strong opinions, while Fero struggled to be on anyone’s side. He had only come here for Irla.

  ‘We are here,’ the man boomed, ‘because—’

  He got no further. With a wet smack, a brick hit the side of his head. The old man toppled off the fountain, arms already limp, and vanished from view.

  Fero’s heart skipped a beat. By the time he turned, the masked person was already gone. He or she had dropped the backpack. It lay open on the asphalt, revealing more bricks.

  Someone screamed. Fero was still trying to process what had happened when a roar filled the street. The half of the crowd in front of Fero turned on the half behind. The air fizzed with rage and spittle. Arms were raised, teeth bared.

  Fero grabbed Irla’s hand and dragged her sideways as the wall of faces and fists closed in to crush them.

  A noise cut through the air: Ssslick! The sound of a hundred telescopic riot batons extending. Heavy police boots clomped against the cobbles.

  Fero changed direction, hauling Irla through the crowd, away from the police. Someone brought a PEACE sign down towards his head, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not. Fero blocked it with his forearm. Even through his heavy jacket, the blow jarred him to the bone.

  He felt Irla stumble behind him. If she ended up on the ground, she could be trampled to death. Fero whirled around and caught her, his hands beneath her armpits.

  ‘We’re nearly there!’ he yelled.

  He couldn’t tell if Irla heard him. Her jaw was slack. Her legs looked floppy. Perhaps something had hit her.

  ‘Put that camera down!’ a police officer roared. ‘Put it down! Now!’

  Fero looked over in time to see one of the men from the news van take a baton to the face. He collapsed, blood bubbling from his nostrils as the cop tried to wrench the camera from his hands.

  Fero pulled Irla to the edge of the crowd and found himself up against a concrete wall, between the shopfronts papered with scraps of concert posters and missing person advertisements. They took shelter in a narrow doorway. The heavy wooden door was unmarked. Irla crouched behind a rubbish bin while Fero tried the handle. Locked.

  ‘What happened?’ Irla demanded.

  ‘Someone threw a brick,’ Fero said. He knew that wasn’t what she was asking, but he wasn’t sure what else to say. Maybe some of the protesters had come not to object to Nina Grigieva’s actions, but to start a fight. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I think so.’ Irla touched a matted patch of her black hair. Her hand came away bloody.

  A cop was walking past. His shoulders and thighs were padded with armour. A can of pepper spray dangled from his belt.

  ‘Officer!’ Fero shouted.

  The cop paused. His helmet swivelled towards Fero.

  Irla stayed hidden between the bin and the wall, eyes wide. ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

  Fero ignored her. ‘Do you have bandages?’ he called. ‘Or an icepack?’

  The cop extended his baton and started moving in their direction. Fero raised his hands. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m not doing anything wrong.’

  The cop kept coming. He didn’t reach for his handcuffs. This was to be a beating, not an arrest.

  Fear crawled up Fero’s throat. He was one of the good guys. The cops were supposed to be on his side. What was going on?

  If the cop came any closer he would see Irla behind the bin. Fero had to do something.

  ‘Stay down,’ he whispered. Then he ran directly at the police officer.

  The cop took an instinctive step back. This gave Fero just enough time to change direction and sprint parallel to the wall, away from the police, away from the protest and towards the rest of the city. There should still be people at the Stolkalny shopping centre. If he made it that far, he could blend into the crowd and disappear.

  He heard the cop give chase. Fero tried to imagine that he was on the track at school. He focused on his pumping legs, his thudding feet, his expanding lungs. He wasn’t in his running gear – but he wasn’t weighed down by armour and a riot shield.

  After forty or fifty metres he turned his head. The cop was still after him, baton cutting through the air as he ran, but he hadn’t gained any ground. After a hundred metres, the thumping footsteps sounded further away. Fero was going to escape.

  Then he rounded a corner and found himself facing a police car.

  It was a glossy sedan with tinted windows and thick tyres, designed for sharp turns at high speed. Whether it was just patrolling the street or was there specifically to catch fleeing protesters didn’t seem to matter. The officer slouched in the driver’s seat – a moustachioed man with a stud in one ear – saw Fero stop running. Saw him hesitate.

  The siren chirped. A blue light swept across Fero’s terrified face.

  He turned and fled the other way.

  The street, lined with restaurants, was busy as an ants’ nest. No one knew about the riot happening just around the corner – yet. Groups of middle-aged women stirred cappuccinos under the heating lamps at outdoor cafés. LED signs flashed in shop windows. Teenagers took photos of one another and laughed. Cars cruised past, stereos thumping, drivers drumming on steering wheels.

  Fero pushed through a group of garishly costumed girls, his heart racing. He didn’t need to hear the wailing siren to know that the police car was closing in on him. He could feel the driver’s eyes on his back. He smelled the oil burning in the roaring engine.

  He wasn’t going to make it as far as the shopping centre entrance. And the cop wouldn’t give up – resisting arrest was a serious crime. Fero should have taken the beating. Too late now.

  He ducked into one of the cafés, desperate to get out of sight.

  Bottles shone behind the bar. A recorded piano sonata hung in the air as the last few diners pushed cheesecake around their plates. Bronze plaques hung on the walls, illegible in the dim downlights.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t take any more customers,’ a harried-looking waitress said. She clutched her notepad like a winning lottery ticket. ‘Not so close to curfew.’

  ‘I’m here to pick up a friend.’ Fero moved towards the back of the café without giving her a chance to stop him.

  He ducked past a few scratched bar stools and pushed through an oak door marked RESTROOMS. As he’d hoped, it led to a shared space behind several restaurants. The lights were bright on the polished floor tiles. The paintwork on
the walls was patchy, graffiti still visible beneath it. A slightly warped mirror reflected Fero’s anxiety back at him.

  The bathrooms were to his left. Fero went right, pulled open a door at random, and strode into the garlic-scented air of the cramped Turkish restaurant on the other side.

  Plastic chandeliers gleamed. Stacks of takeaway menus rested on the sticky counter. A plate of diced lamb sizzled as someone carried it past before the hubbub of conversation swallowed the sound.

  A waiter looked at Fero in a puzzled way. Fero wove through the tables towards the front door, hoping he wasn’t about to be accused of leaving without paying the bill.

  He peered out the steamy window. The police car was parked crookedly next to the café. It was empty, which probably meant the police officer was in the café searching for him. Some fleeing protesters had reached this part of the street, some limping, some bleeding. Tears streamed down their faces. The police must have deployed pepper spray. Shoppers stared at them with alarm.

  The front door jingled as Fero walked out. He turned up his collar against the night air as he walked away from the car, not so fast as to be conspicuous.

  ‘Hey!’ a cop yelled from behind him. Whether it was the riot cop or the driver, Fero wasn’t sure.

  He broke into a sprint, pushing aside a man who dropped his briefcase and swore. The police officer’s shoes clacked against the footpath behind him.

  Fero turned a corner and slipped through the shopping centre entrance. People flooded past, carrying bundles of branded bags. Cheesy music, imported from the USA or the UK, beat down from speakers hidden in the ceiling. A young man tried to push a pamphlet into his hands. Fero ignored him. He dashed past the clothes shops and mobile phone stores, headed for the entrance to the subway.

  Neither officer would have seen his face clearly in the darkness. Fero had never been arrested, so the cameras in the shopping complex wouldn’t be able to match his features to any mugshots.

  If he could board a train he might just get away.

  ‘He went that way,’ someone yelled from behind him. The sound was like an adrenaline shot, giving Fero the ability to run even faster.

  He whipped past a newsagent and a shoe store, and then he was dashing down the escalator towards the subway. He dug through his pockets as he fled, looking for his transport pass. Then he realised that he could be identified if he used it.