The Cut Out Page 9

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ he screamed, in Besmari. ‘I’m on your side!’

  Another shot whined through the air above him. Fero wasn’t sure how far he had run – what if the Besmari soldiers accidentally shot the Kamauan guards on the other side of the Dead Zone?

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he yelled again.

  No one seemed to pay him any attention. Three more shots punctured the dirt around the edge of the ditch.

  I’m already in a grave, he thought. If I’m hit, they might just leave me here.

  He dug through his pockets. Phone. Toothbrush bag. Where was it?

  There! He grabbed Troy Maschenov’s passport and held it in the air with a trembling hand. Could the Besmari soldiers see it in the darkness? Or would they simply shoot his fingers off?

  Crack. Fero snatched his hand back down into the ditch. He wasn’t hit. But the soldiers clearly couldn’t see him.

  Wondering if he was making a huge mistake, Fero hurled the passport towards the fence as hard as he could.

  ‘Grenade!’ someone shouted, in Besmari.

  Fero heard the soldiers scrambling for cover. There were no more shots. An expectant silence filled the air.

  ‘I’m a Besmari citizen,’ Fero roared. ‘I’m unarmed. That’s my passport.’

  He heard whispers. The fence rattled as someone unlocked a gate and pushed it open. Boots stomped towards the passport.

  A pause hung in the air. Papers rustled.

  The footsteps approached the ditch. Fero found himself staring up at an aggressive-looking young man with a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  The man held out a gloved hand. ‘Welcome home, Mr Maschenov,’ he said.

  EMBEDDED

  ‘We nearly killed you,’ the Besmari soldier said again. His grin exposed a row of yellowed teeth. His name was sewn into the lapel of his uniform: Hedderov.

  Fero tried to smile back. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You did.’

  The truck was designed for weapons, not people. The hard bench bolted to the wall had room for two, and Fero had been given one of the spaces – perhaps to make up for his near-death experience.

  It hadn’t taken long to drive from the Dead Zone to the Besmari city of Premiovaya. After refuelling, the truck had lumbered back out onto the highway and driven in a straight line for several hours before they reached the edge of Tus. Fero had been shoulder-to-shoulder with the soldiers all that time, and he wasn’t getting any more relaxed.

  He rubbed his raw wrist. At least they’d cut Sloth’s handcuff off.

  ‘I mean, if Peplarya’s aim were any better—’

  ‘Hey!’ another soldier grumbled.

  ‘—you’d be dead,’ Hedderov finished. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Wow,’ Fero agreed.

  Despite what Sloth had said, no one had taken his phone or his bag. The soldiers had patted him down, checking for guns, knives and explosives. Then they bundled him into the back of the truck and started driving.

  No one was shooting at him, but that could change at any moment. If he forgot part of his backstory, if he failed to respond to ‘Troy’, if he accidentally spoke a word of Kamauan, he was dead.

  And it would only get harder. These soldiers weren’t quizzing him like the Tellers would be.

  The truck was entering the centre of Tus now. Fero peered through the window at a trio of brightly lit skyscrapers, trying not to look as though he hadn’t seen them before.

  ‘Are you from around here?’ Peplarya asked. She was a heavy-set woman with tufts of sweaty hair protruding from her helmet.

  Fero shook his head. ‘I’m from Premiovaya. But I’ve been here many times.’

  He had been worried about the language, but lying in a foreign tongue somehow felt more natural than lying in Kamauan. Perhaps because he had spent his Besmari lessons reciting untruths – I have an apple, you have two apples, we have three apples. Or maybe just because the grammar was more fluid, more ambiguous.

  ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘That’s classified.’

  Peplarya looked shocked. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Fero said. ‘I just can’t talk about it. What about you? Where are you from?’

  ‘I grew up right here in Tus. Just two blocks that way.’

  Peplarya pointed. Fero looked out at the city, past the coffee stands and taxis and billboards. The sun wasn’t yet up, but already people were about. Perhaps there was no curfew in this city.

  He had expected Besmar to look different; TV had given him the impression that the air would be slightly yellow and the people would be improbably ugly. But Tus looked just like Stolkalny.

  Where were the slums? The mountains of rotting garbage and rubble? The huddled homeless, worn away by hunger and clad in rags? Maybe this was the rich part of town.

  ‘How long have you been in the army?’ he asked Peplarya.

  ‘Four years now. I joined straight out of high school.’

  ‘And you’ve been on the border all that time?’

  ‘No. I started out as a driver, then I was retrained for helicopter maintenance. But they moved me and a lot of others to the border a few days ago.’

  To stop any Kamauans getting through, Fero thought. After they unleash the virus. ‘I like border patrol,’ Peplarya continued. ‘When Kamau invades, I’ll be the first to know.’

  Fero laughed uneasily. ‘You think that’ll happen?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ll try it, sooner or later. For sure.’ Peplarya opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. ‘What’s it like over there?’ she asked finally.

  ‘In Kamau?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Fero didn’t know where to start. It seemed impossible to sum up the people, the food, the music, the architecture and everything else without simplifying so much that the words would be meaningless. And he had no idea what Troy Maschenov would say.

  ‘I can’t describe it,’ he told her.

  Peplarya looked horrified, as though he had just confirmed all her worst fears.

  ‘We’re here,’ Hedderov called.

  The truck turned towards a thick, blunt building with walls of dark concrete and tinted glass. A sleek logo glinted on top: RNB. Fero glimpsed a billboard – Watch your savings grow with River National! – before they rolled down a ramp beneath the building. A heavy shutter scrolled upwards. The truck cruised into a subterranean tunnel.

  The Bank is literally a bank, Fero thought. Where no one would notice the extra security. That made much more sense than using a library.

  The truck rumbled down a sloped passageway, lit only by neon globes bored into the walls. It seemed to descend for kilometres, deep into the darkness below the bank. Fero guessed this wasn’t the entrance used by the customers.

  Hedderov was talking into a headset. ‘He’s here. You want – okay. Understood.’

  After a few minutes the truck emerged into a cavernous car park and stopped in front of an enormous metal door. It looked thick enough to withstand the apocalypse.

  ‘We’re supposed to wait here,’ Hedderov said. ‘The branch manager wants to see you personally.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fero wondered if he was supposed to know who that was.

  There was an even rumbling as a motor came to life somewhere. The massive door groaned upward, but paused before the truck had room to drive beneath. Two men stooped under the gap. Fero couldn’t see their faces clearly through the windscreen. His heart pounded as they passed the truck and opened the rear doors.

  Fero found himself looking at one of Noelein’s photographs, come to life.

  ‘My God,’ Ulrick Vartaniev said. ‘It’s really you.’

  Vartaniev was much more intimidating than his picture. He was old and nearly bald, but tall and broad-shouldered with work-roughened hands and sinewy forearms. His polo shirt looked brand new. His jaw was almost wider than the top of his skull, and his cheekbones, brows and lips were flat. It was as though his head had been attached upside down, and someone
had tried to correct the problem by painting a face on it the right way up.

  ‘Good to see you, sir,’ Fero said, and flashed a tired smile.

  Vartaniev hugged him. Fero was taken aback. Apparently Vartaniev wasn’t just Maschenov’s boss – they were friends. That would make him harder to fool. Fero hugged him back, hoping Vartaniev hadn’t noticed his hesitation.

  Vartaniev released him and turned to the soldiers. ‘Did anyone check him?’

  Peplarya nodded. ‘No weapons, sir,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not what I’m concerned about. Trackers? Listening devices?’

  Fero thought of the microphone behind his ear. ‘I’m clean,’ he said.

  ‘I trust you,’ Vartaniev said, ‘but I don’t trust the Kamauans. Anything you brought across the border could have a bug in it. Everybody out of the truck.’

  Hedderov and Peplarya scrambled out. Vartaniev gestured to the soldier behind him, who tossed a bundle of clothes into the back of the truck.

  ‘Put those on,’ Vartaniev said, before slamming the doors shut.

  Fero found himself alone. He took a shaky breath, and prodded the clothes on the floor. A white jumpsuit. A pair of open-toed slippers wrapped in plastic.

  There were no pockets. He couldn’t hide his phone or his bag. He could try to conceal them inside the jumpsuit, but if he was caught they would realise he worked for the other side. He would have to trust Sloth that these objects wouldn’t seem abnormal when examined.

  Fero peeled off his clothes and slipped into the jumpsuit. It was surprisingly comfortable, but he still felt naked.

  ‘Fero.’

  Hearing his own name jolted him. But it was only Sloth in his earpiece.

  ‘Listening,’ Fero whispered.

  ‘We have a problem,’ Sloth said. ‘The real Troy Maschenov has broken out of Velechnya.’

  The blood drained out of Fero’s face. ‘How?’

  ‘It’s our fault,’ Sloth said. ‘The confusion surrounding his fake escape allowed him to pull off a real one. A guard at Velechnya saw the prison break on the TV and went to check Maschenov’s cell. Maschenov must have caught an earlier news bulletin, because he was already hiding inside his mattress – no idea how he hollowed it out so fast – and when the guard’s back was turned . . . Well, the point is, he’s out now. When he contacts Ulrick Vartaniev, your cover is blown.’

  ‘What should I do?’ Fero whispered.

  ‘Get out of there as soon as possible. This mission is over.’

  ‘But what about the bombs?’

  Ulrick Vartaniev pounded on the door. ‘You ready, Troy?’ he called.

  ‘Just a second,’ Fero replied.

  ‘Forget the bombs,’ Sloth said. ‘Just run.’

  The door clanked. Fero unzipped his jumpsuit and zipped it up again just as Vartaniev opened the door.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Vartaniev asked.

  Fero nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

  The soldier took his clothes, the phone and the bag. Peplarya and Hedderov climbed back into the truck and started the engine.

  ‘Follow me,’ Vartaniev said, and led Fero under the giant metal door. The small garage behind it was lined with scratched lockers and safety posters. Thick power cables were bolted to walls of sloped, uneven stone. Fluorescent bulbs dangled among a forest of stalactites. This must have been a natural cave system before the Bank appropriated it.

  Vartaniev approached a door, swiped his finger across a scanner, and pushed it open.

  Fero knew he should be looking for a way out. If he stayed, he would be tortured, imprisoned and perhaps killed when Maschenov contacted Vartaniev. But if he fled, the bombs in Kamau would go off, scattering the coronavirus and killing millions of people. Noelein had made it clear there was no plan B.

  ‘As you can see,’ Vartaniev was saying, ‘we’ve made some improvements to our infrastructure.’

  Apparently Troy Maschenov had been here before. If Fero got lost, his cover would be in tatters. He tried to memorise every turn they took, but it was hard to focus on his surroundings while he was lying through his teeth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as he followed Vartaniev through the winding corridors. ‘How long ago was that?’

  ‘Ten months or so.’ The old man had a careful, meandering voice. ‘You remember those flimsy boom gates we used to have?’

  Fero nodded.

  ‘Not any more. Now we have reinforced steel doors covering every entrance – and covering every entrance to every entrance. If the Kamauan army invaded today and made it here unopposed, it would still take them months to get inside.’

  ‘I’ve just met the Kamauan army,’ Fero said. ‘Believe me, it would take them years.’

  Vartaniev didn’t laugh – in fact, he looked oddly sad. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s unlikely to come to that. I have something in the works.’

  The hospital bombing. ‘You always do,’ Fero said.

  They walked past surveillance cameras, locked doors and mirrors that Fero assumed to be one-way glass. The bank was a labyrinth of T-intersections and cul-de-sacs.

  ‘So, you spent two years in a Kamauan prison,’ Vartaniev said. ‘Tell me it was worth it.’

  ‘I failed you, sir,’ Fero said. ‘The Chief Librarian is still alive.’

  ‘I know that. But you must have learned some valuable things?’

  ‘I learned she has an agent under deep cover here,’ Fero said. ‘I think that’s how she knew I was coming.’

  Vartaniev stopped. Fero almost bumped into him.

  ‘I always suspected,’ Vartaniev muttered. ‘One of the Tellers?’

  ‘No,’ Fero said, hoping Noelein knew what she was doing. ‘Someone in our weapons development division. Her name is Biala Yordic. I’d like to get a look at her to be sure, but I think she’s your embezzler.’

  Vartaniev dug a phone out of his pocket.

  ‘If you take her alive,’ Fero added, ‘I’m sure she can tell us just as much about the Library as she told them about you.’

  Vartaniev pressed three buttons and held the phone to his ear. ‘This is the branch manager,’ he said. ‘I want you to arrest Biala Yordic and bring her to me. Y-O-R-D-I-C, in weaponry. Understood?’ After a pause, he put the phone away again.

  Good luck, Dessa, Fero thought.

  Vartaniev led Fero into another corridor. About halfway along was a plastic archway that looked like an airport metal detector.

  Vartaniev stopped. ‘Walk through that for me.’

  Fero shuffled towards it, the jumpsuit rustling about his legs. His heart was racing. Would it pick up the communicator in his ear? As he approached, the archway began to hum.

  He stopped and turned his head back towards Vartaniev, at such an angle that his bugged ear was concealed. ‘Will this hurt?’

  With one finger, he dug out the lump of gel and dropped it. Hopefully anyone who came past would assume it was just a scrap of discarded food.

  Vartaniev didn’t seem to notice. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

  Fero walked towards the archway. As he passed through it, his hair stood on end as if charged with static electricity.

  ‘Now walk back,’ Vartaniev commanded.

  Fero did. The hum died away as the machine powered down.

  ‘Well?’ Fero asked. ‘Are there any listening devices on me?’

  ‘Not any more,’ Vartaniev said. ‘This way.’

  Fero looked back at the floor, trying and failing to spot the communicator. There would be no more help from Sloth. He was on his own.

  The Afterlife Guard tapped his spear on the flagstones and stared at the bare walls without really seeing them. He wondered how long it would be before the cell had another occupant. He wondered where the double-dead man was now.

  Who’s to say there’s nothing beyond? he thought. An after-afterlife?

  Dessa Cormanenko closed the book, using an old receipt as a bookmark. She rose from the chaise longue and tilted her head until her neck cracked. T
he book was a Besmari classic – yet another novel everyone expected her to have read in high school. But unlike the other books, she was enjoying it. She would finish the last few chapters after breakfast.

  Life in hiding left her with plenty of time to read. She couldn’t browse the web because it was too easy to track. She couldn’t listen to music because she wanted to be able to hear people approaching her apartment. Sometimes she watched TV with the sound muted and the subtitles on, but without an actor’s earnest voice, the clichés were too obvious. She couldn’t have friends, or boyfriends. Anyone might be a Teller or a Librarian. And if they weren’t, just being with her would put them in danger.

  And she couldn’t do nothing. When her brain wasn’t occupied, it took a selection of her least favourite memories and cut them together like a movie trailer.

  The outbreak. People trampling one another on the streets of Melzen like a herd of panicked cattle.

  Her brother. His last gasping breath inside the hospital.

  The fire.

  Troy Maschenov . . .

  . . . and what she’d been forced to do to him.

  This apartment was smaller than the one purchased for her by the Library. It was less central, too. After selling the old apartment and buying the new one, she was left with enough money for some renovations.

  The floor, ceiling and walls were laminated in brittle plastic. If anyone drilled through from the other side to plant a fibre-optic camera, a white stain would spread around the hole, alerting her to the intrusion. Invisible laser tripwires latticed the landings in the stairwell outside, each one triggering a different key on the upright piano in her living room. She had expected the quiet tones to keep her awake, but she actually found it easier to sleep knowing the tripwires were there.

  Her bedroom was not her bedroom. She slept in a steel-lined panic room, hidden behind the wall inside the closet. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night, uncertain if a scuffle was an invader, a mouse or a lingering nightmare. She would turn on the row of monitors, check the feeds from the cameras hidden in every room and then return to her self-inflating air mattress.