The Shadow Maker (34 page)

Jojima swallowed his pride. ‘Your sample software has been tested with excellent results,’ he replied. ‘The level of input is extremely impressive. The 3-D perspectives, death graphics, action sequences and erotic images are all compelling. The visual realism is the best we’ve ever tested. My team and I fly out tonight. Congratulations, Barbie-san, the deal is on. We will sign, as scheduled, tomorrow.’

As the call ended with ritual pleasantries, Barbie could hardly contain his joy. With Giselle’s help he had risen from the brink of bankruptcy and the pit of failure to turn his fortunes completely around. He could relax at last. The future was rosy. His triumph was secure.

Two days passed in a bureaucratic blur for Rita and O’Keefe. Never before had they produced such a range of crime reports that were so lengthy, intricate and meticulously formulated, on top of being interrogated over every aspect of events surrounding the confrontation at the church. Each time the legal advisers went through the reports they had to be revised, and each time an internal interview was conducted, a new set of minor details was probed. The process was officious and agonisingly repetitive. Finally, when all the required documents had been checked, approved and delivered to Nash by Friday evening, they both felt the need for a drink.

‘I would have thought twice about shooting Kavella if I’d known it meant two days of paperwork from hell,’ said Rita.

‘I’m just fucked,’ added O’Keefe. ‘I don’t know what aches more, my leg or my brain.’

Loftus met up with them in the squad room. ‘Here’s how things stand,’ he told them. ‘The status quo remains while the legal process moves forward at the usual pace.’

‘So we could still be hung out to dry?’ asked Rita.

‘Not on my assessment. I’ve gone through your reports, and the way you both responded in the field was completely justified. If you’d acted in any other way the consequences would have been much worse.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s my reading of it, but you both know what the legal system’s like.’

‘Unreliable,’ said Rita. ‘Especially when dealing with Kavella, alive or dead.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ said Loftus. ‘But it’s not something you should waste time trying to predict, either of you. O’Keefe, you can now go back on sick leave. That’ll keep you out of mischief for the immediate future. Van Hassel, you’ve got the weekend to forget about everything to do with Kavella, Proctor’s Taskforce Nero and the late lamented Delos Club. In my opinion, it’s distracted us from an equally pressing investigation.’

‘But there’s an obvious overlap with the hunt for the Hacker,’

Rita objected.

‘Obvious, maybe. But what if there was no real overlap, and we merely assumed it?’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Anyway, don’t think about it now. Come back with a fresh mind on Monday when Taskforce Nightwatch will be getting back up to speed.’ He waved them off. ‘And don’t worry about your positions here.’

‘As soon as a manager tells you that,’ grumbled O’Keefe, ‘it’s time to polish up your CV.’

They made their way to the nearest pub. Rita held open the door while O’Keefe hobbled through. She bought two beers and carried them to a padded booth where O’Keefe was sprawled sideways, his crutches propped against a table.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ she asked.

‘I’m at the mercy of the missus,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to get comfortable and watch the sports channel, but I’ll be a captive audience to her nagging.’

Rita laughed. ‘It’s funny how even the strongest males are pushovers when it comes to sexual politics.’

‘Yeah, hilarious,’ said O’Keefe. ‘What are your plans?’

‘I’m having a night out on the town tomorrow with Erin Webster and my friend Lola. We’re going to some trendy new hotspot.’

‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Maybe not as dangerous as the alternative,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘I’ve also been invited for free champagne at the Windsor.’

The Hacker wasn’t the name he’d chosen for himself. Yet it had a ring to it, with a suggestion of accessing the forbidden and disposing of enemies. Although he didn’t object to the title, his true persona was less prosaic, belonging to the pantheon of Platonic warriors.

Originally he’d seen himself as the Light Seeker or Fire Tracer, but now he knew he was the Shadow Maker, the dark creature of the cave.

But for the purpose of the greater game, the Hacker would do.

In the end it didn’t matter what they called him. Being aware of his presence was acknowledgement enough. Though even that was less important than his own self-awareness - allowing him to view the human spectacle objectively and see it for what it was. The ability to
stand outside it
- and
stand outside himself
- was the true meaning of the word
ecstasy.
And that’s what he felt as a performer, a player.

And why?

Because the
game
was
real.

But people didn’t know it. They walked around in their daily lives ignorant of the roles they were playing. They confused conformity with reality. They mistakenly believed the social noise surrounding them was meaningful. And they took the artificial images imposed on them at face value. More fools them. So many in the game of life were losers. He had no intention of joining their ranks.

And yet there were moments of clarity when he questioned what he’d become. More than once he was unable to explain why he’d surrendered control to his dark fantasies, why they had become so intense, so irresistible. Perhaps he’d been under too much stress recently. Or maybe the timing was accidental and his fate had been lying in wait, like a trap to fall into. Perhaps it was inevitable. The cause probably lay in his childhood, feedback from the past, his own voice in his ear, his own urges. But what had made him act on them? What had triggered the move from imagining extreme violence to perpetrating it? Such desperate thoughts opened a new horror.

Along with his victims, he’d mutilated the person he used to be.

His innocence was lost forever. He was damned. The abyss opened below him. Suicide became an option.

Fortunately the mood of self-destruction lifted quickly, allowing him to focus again on the state of play, with its most intriguing development, a rival player. Unlike the she-devils he’d dealt with so far, this woman was a warrior like him. She, too, was deadly, with her victories splashed all over the media, just like his. Her presence in the field, hunting and killing in real time, made it much more interesting, even though they were operating on different levels.

While he cut and thrust his way through demons, Van Hassel was dispatching monsters. Good for her. At this stage he could admire her progress, blowing off one head after another, although the time would come when she would recognise him because they were two of a kind. Ultimately, of course, they would face each other in a duel to the death. Those were the rules of the cave. In the meantime, he would applaud her from a distance.

Now for more immediate sport.

Friday night. Time to play.

Like anything you did, the more practised you became, the better you were at it. Your observation was sharper, your reflexes more attuned. To his trained eye they stood out from the others, like a different species of female. Something in the way they dressed, the way they moved. But more obviously, in the way they looked at you - straight into your eyes, daring you - provocative and alluring at the same time. Their eyes questioned you at first and then, if they held your attention, they drew you in. You felt excitement rising in your belly - the primeval thrill - and you wanted to follow it, even though you sensed the danger. Even though you knew they were acquisitive and destructive. These creatures had no conscience.

They were out for themselves. And if you let them, they’d chew you up and spit you out.

Let them try. The huntress could also become the hunted. And then how the tables would be turned. The predator might find she was pursuing her own nemesis. Instead of procuring her prey and feasting on his ruin, she was herself destroyed.

He could see her now, poised among the shadows of the tavern.

Her companions were talking to her, but her eyes keep drifting back to him as she flicked her hair and sucked on a straw. Their mutual recognition was part of an unspoken language - a non-verbal invitation. It was just a matter of time before she got up from her chair and walked over to his table.

He watched her approach.

Her voice was low and inviting, her intentions clear.

The game plan was decided.

They drove to her lair. Once they were inside his heart beat faster. The chase was reaching its climax. She agreed to his demands without hesitation, attaching metal cuffs to the head and foot of the iron bedstead, and lighting a fire in the tiled hearth in her bedroom while he undressed and pulled on the bronze mask. The sound of her voice was sweet and beguiling as she talked to her pets and fed them - a scene of disarming innocence. It was a ploy to weaken him, trick him. He excused himself and went to urinate and select a weapon, then waited for her to strip off.

Armed with a metal club he confronted her. Naked, she tried to fight him off. He beat her on the hands and the arms and the skull. She was defeated. He fastened her hands and feet to the bed and claimed his prize by exerting his power over her body. The experience was one of release. Time to mark his victory. He found a sharp knife and returned and stood over her, studying her face.

Then he bent down, placed the blade against the bridge of her nose and cut down hard against the bone.

When the job was done he dropped the knife.

‘That will put a stop to you,’ he said.

He washed the blood from his hands and left the arena.

Game over.

At last, after all the financial angst, Barbie’s gamble had paid off.

The deal had been finalised. Tokyo had bought the software, the prototype hardware, the global rights to the game, the multimedia strategy and the marketing profile. The whole damn package.

Coming after months of negotiations, it was liberating - like a rite of passage. The thing he’d nurtured, which had gobbled up so much investment in time, money and nervous energy, had turned into a groundbreaking new product and was no longer his. He was on his way to becoming a billionaire. The exhaustive process concluded with everything formally signed and countersigned late Friday. Now it was Saturday night, and there was nothing to do but celebrate. He raised a tall champagne glass to his lips and sucked down a Bellini.

Across the table from him, Kenshi Jojima pondered a glass of shochu.

‘You look worried,’ said Barbie.

‘You misinterpret,’ said Jojima quietly, picking up his drink and downing it in one. ‘This is my meditative expression.’

Barbie wasn’t sure if that was Nipponese irony. Then again, he was never sure of anything about Jojima. The man was an oriental sphinx. He sat there stiffly, in his business suit, wearing an air of formality and self-containment. By contrast, Barbie was smart casual and wickedly playful. Once all the documents had been processed and filed, he’d felt like a new man. Tonight he could shed the protocol. It was time to enjoy himself. He sat back, legs crossed, looking dangerously relaxed in his white linen suit and black silk shirt, open at the neck.

They were between courses in the city’s funkiest Japanese bar and restaurant. It seemed an appropriate place to celebrate. As usual it was crowded. At the far end was a bare brick wall, lined with every type of liquor on the market. Jojima’s underlings were ranged there on bar stools, drinking as if on some alcoholic kamikaze mission.

The bar was partitioned from the restaurant by cedarwood lattice screens. There was also a lounge area with low leather sofas, delicate bamboo plants and dim lanterns. Above the babble of voices, a DJ

was spinning an exotic mix of Edith Piaf and urban rap on his chrome-plated designer decks.

‘Meditation.’ Barbie beckoned to the cocktail waitress. ‘I took a course in that once.’

Jojima folded his hands. ‘You studied Zen?’

‘Yes. I needed a relaxation technique. Unlike you, I’m not a Buddhist.’

Jojima leant forward a little, his face sharp and earnest. ‘It’s true I had Buddhist training, but I have no religion. I have faith only in my own judgement.’

Barbie gestured to the hovering waitress for another champagne cocktail and another large shochu. ‘No wonder you drive such a hard bargain,’ he said. ‘No self-doubt. No moral hesitation.’

Jojima gazed back at his host studiously, letting him know he could recognise a backhanded compliment when he heard one. Barbie smiled, feeling at liberty to speak his mind now that the multi-million-dollar deal had been completed.

‘In whatever one does there are always ethical considerations,’

said Jojima.

‘What about war?’

‘Even in war one needs a personal code of honour. Without it, a man’s no better than a beast.’

Barbie’s eyes met his. ‘So you have a strong sense of honour?’

The question was loaded, and Jojima knew it. He’d been waiting for something of the sort. It was because of the unspoken pact between them - an unholy transaction involving Barbie’s wife. The way both men had used her was anything but honourable. Barbie had made her services available in return for a business contract, and Jojima had been unable to resist the bribe.

‘I try to be worthy of my ancestors,’ he said hesitantly, then gave a polite shrug and glanced down.

Barbie smiled to himself. This was something else to savour. He’d not only clinched the deal, he’d also subverted the toughest negotiator he’d ever dealt with in the process. Never mind he’d used the tactics of a pimp. Moral corruption didn’t bother him much at all. If anything, it amused him. All the better if it served his purpose. As for Giselle, he couldn’t help admiring her dedication to material success. In practical terms, she’d actually strengthened their marriage.

And what was that, ultimately, but just another contract?

Jojima again downed his drink in one gulp and placed the empty glass in front of him. ‘And what about you, Barbie-san?’ he asked.