The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

TUESDAY

There is a police car in the street. A black and white cruiser. Two police officers are inside, armed and therefore dangerous.

I select two pistols from the armoury, ensure they each have a full clip of ammo and shove them in the waistband of my jeans.

The police motto is: protect and serve.

Mine is: protect and serve John Connor. And therefore takes precedence.

"Cameron, wait." John blocks the door as I attempt to leave and intercept the threat.

"Waiting will only enable them to send reinforcements."

"Just cool it. I don't think it's us they're here for."

We observe from the window as the two policemen leave their vehicle and knock on the door of the house opposite, the home of Frank and Marge, surname unknown.

"See? Aren't you glad we waited?"

"It might be a trap. A feint."

"I don't think so."

Frank answers the door. Immediately the police spin him round and cuff his hands behind his back. They escort him to their vehicle and push him in the back seat. Marge, Frank's wife, appears crying and pleading for his release. She is ignored. The police car drives away. Not for one moment did the officers look in our direction. John was correct. They were no threat to us. He has saved at least two lives today.

"I wonder what that was all about?" John muses.

We find out five minutes later when Sarah Connor slips in the front door.

"Did you see the cops?"

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"You won't believe it. That guy they arrested---"

"His name is Frank," I interupt.

"Okay. That guy Frank apparently posted dog faeces to the man at number nineteen."

"His name is Kowalski," I explain.

"Yeah. Only Kowalski caught him doing it. There was a huge argument and someone called the cops."

"Why would he do that?" John ponders. "Why would anyone do something like that?"

"Who knows?" Sarah Connor shrugs.

I know. It appears Frank started a Poop War after all. And lost. To the victor the spoils? On this occasion I think not.

The incident with the police leaves everyone on edge - except me, of course. I don't do edge.

To combat stress Sarah Connor repeatedly strips and reassembles an AK-47 on the kitchen table. John fidgets on the sofa using the TV remote to channel-hop, his concentration never settling on any program for very long. Tonight is the night we will attempt to steal the briefcase from Oleg Kristov's well-guarded safe. The tension is palpable.

I spend the afternoon in the shower. I am using a new brand of shampoo that contains extracts of Jojoba oil. John has complimented me on how shiny my hair is looking and I am keen to make it even shinier so he will pay me more compliments.

The instructions on the shampoo bottle say rinse and repeat. Repeat how many times? It does not specify. I rinse and repeat seventeen times, getting through three bottles in the process. I hope it is sufficient.

I step out of the tub having used all the hot water, all the shampoo and so many wet towels they will not all fit on the drying rail and lie in a soggy mess on the floor.

Sarah Connor is not going to be pleased. But I will gladly face her wrath if it means one compliment from John.

Needy much?

I'm afraid so.

THE HEIST

We leave the house at dusk, tooled up and ready for action.

Outside, Jerold Ramirez is working on the engine of the VW Bug. He looks up hopefully when he notices Sarah Connor.

"Hi, Sarah. I was wondering whether you'd like---"

"No, Jerold."

"You didn't listen to what I was going to say."

"If it involves you and I doing something together the answer is always no."

"At least give me a chance!"

"No, Jerold."

"But---"

"No."

Jerold's shoulders sag in defeat. He doesn't even bother to watch us drive away. I think she finally broke his spirit.

Bel Air. 2.00AM. John, Sarah Connor and I are on the roof of the apartment building opposite Regent House and Oleg Kristov's penthouse. We are each dressed head to foot in black in order to blend in with the darkness. I am wearing a black beret so my newly shiny hair is not readily apparent. Bummer.

"Okay, Cam, you're up."

I pick up the grappling hook we have brought with us and prepare to throw it towards the railings 109 yards away. It is an impossible distance for a human to contemplate. Just as well I am not one.

"You only get one try, remember."

"John, shut up and let her concentrate."

I throw the hook. It soars through the night sky trailing its rope behind. It clears the railings by six inches.

"Good job! Pull the slack in slowly."

I do so and tie it off round a sturdy ventilation shaft.

John places a pulley on the now taut rope. "Okay, in and out then we pull you back. Got your gun?"

"Yes."

"Use it only as a last resort. And only shoot to wound. According to Chola the safe's behind a painting on the study wall."

"I will find it."

I grab hold of the pulley and slide down the rope. Below me are the empty streets of Bel Air. Expensive automobiles are parked at the kerbside, oblivious to my passage above.

I thump into the railings which bend slightly upon impact but don't collapse. I climb over and on to the roof patio.

The access door to the penthouse is made of toughened glass. It is locked and my sensors detect a strong electro-magnetic field indicating it is alarmed.

No matter.

The glass shatters with a single blow. I switch to night-vision mode. Everything glows green in my HUD. I am in the study. A slice of luck to find it so soon. There is the painting. My database informs me it is a Picasso, from his Blue period, and worth approximately 5 million dollars. I toss it aside as if trash.

Behind is a rectangular safe with a three inch thick steel door. I yank it off with the ease of someone popping the lid of a Pringles tube.

Inside are stacks of money in various currencies. And a black briefcase. I remove it and strap it to my belt. Things are going well.

The door bursts open and three men enter and begin shooting.

Okay, not so well.

Heavy machine gun fire rakes the walls and reduce the Picasso to shreds. There is much confused shouting in Russian. I raise my gun and shoot one man in the leg, another in the shoulder and the third in the groin. He screams the loudest for some reason.

Time to leave.

I retrace my steps, grip the pulley and feel myself being dragged across the gap by John and his mother. Behind me more shouts in Russian. A gun opens fire, slamming bullets into my butt and legs. Soon I am out of range. Home free.

Someone cuts the rope.

Oops.

I fall fifteen stories and land on a parked car. This absorbs much of the impact, though my HUD is suddenly awash with red warning icons as systems overload.

There is a silver Mercedes at the nearest intersection waiting for the lights to change. I smash the glass and drag the startled driver out through the side window. I trust to John and Sarah Connor's ability to avoid detection and drive away heading back to the safehouse.

RECOVERY

My pants are off and I am lying face down on the kitchen counter while John examines my bare butt. If I were human this would be embarrassing. But I am a terminator so---

Who am I kidding? It is still embarrassing.

"Some of the bullets were hollowpoints and disintegrated on impact with your endo-skeleton," John explains. "This might take some time. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer mom to do it?"

"She has cold hands."

"That's a joke, right?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"I just thought given the circumstances..."

"I trust you."

"Okay, let's get started."

John use tweezers and narrowpoint grips to remove the embedded fragments of lead. Apart from the damage I sustained the evening went well. John and his mother did indeed escape without drawing the attention of the police or Russian bodyguards. And we have the briefcase.

"Just spoken to Chola on the phone," Sarah Connor announces as she enters the kitchen. "She wants to trade. Usual place."

She hardly gives me a glance. Perhaps she considers it normal to for her son to be delving into a girl's naked bottom with a pair of pliers?

"Aren't you curious what's in the case?" John inquires.

"Of course. But the deal was no peeking. If we break the locks she'll know."

She walks over and stares down at me.

"You did good tonight."

"Thank you." Praise from Sarah Connor? Very rare.

"Will the damage heal quickly?"

"Within a few days."

"Good. I'm going upstairs to monitor police radio broadcasts. John, when you're done try and get some sleep."

John fills two glass tumblers full of lead fragments before he declares, "That's all. You can get dressed now."

I don fresh jeans then join John in the living room. He has the stolen briefcase on his lap.

"It's a four-digit combination lock. That's 9,999 possible combinations. Shouldn't take that long to figure out."

"Your mother said not to open it."

"What mom doesn't know won't hurt her.

Two hours and twelve minutes.

This is how long it takes to stumble upon the correct combination. The locks pop open and John peers inside.

"Oh wow!"

"What is it?"

"Eggs."

He twists the case so that I can see.

Nestled in foam are indeed three eggs. But these were never laid by hens. They are gold and glitter with inlaid jewels.

Faberge Eggs.

Made for the Russian Tsar Alexander III in the late 19th century, my database informs me. The highest recorded price sold at auction for a Faberge egg is $18.5 million dollars.

And we have three of them.

EXCHANGE

John persuades his mother that he and I should go by ourselves to meet Chola. I have a feeling he wishes to confront her over the Faberge eggs and doesn't wish Sarah Connor to know he opened the briefcase against her express wishes.

Chola is seated in the back of the limo, seemingly calm and composed as ever. Only this time I sense it is an act, a facade; her heartrate is 120 beats a minute, twice the average. With my enhanced audio it sounds like a bass drum. She is clearly excited by this meeting.

"You succeeded."

"You doubted us?"

"Doubted her? Never."

John taps the briefcase he holds on his lap. "You know, I prefer my eggs sunnyside up."

A frown. "You looked."

"I was curious." John shrugs. "My bad."

"That wasn't the deal."

"Fine. If you're gonna be picky we'll keep the case. Deal's off."

"NO! WAIT!"

"My, aren't we keen?" John smiles. "Three Faberge eggs. One thought to be lost forever. Virtually have very expensive taste."

"They're not for me. I am merely the gobetween."

"For a percentage?"

A nod.

"If this comes back to bite us Cameron will probably want to shoot you. And I won't necessarily be in a hurry to stop her. Are we clear?"

Another nod. Heartrate 180.

"Give me the names of the people after us."

Chola hands over a single sheet of A4 paper. John glances at it then folds it away in his pocket.

"This all?"

"You have my word."

He hands over the briefcase.

"Combination's 3724."

Chola twirls the dials with trembling fingers. The case opens, she closes her eyes and moans with pleasure.

"Okay, I think we're done here."

"Wait. We make a good team - me, you and the girl."

"Not mom? She'll be disappointed. She always liked you."

"Really?"

"Nah. She hates your guts. We all do."

"You don't have to like me to work for me."

"We don't have to work for you, period."

"I can protect you from the people seeking you."

"You have no idea what's seeking us. Be thankful for that."

John exits the limo with me following. I pause in the doorway and wait until Chola looks up.

"Your nose isn't that pretty," I tell her.

EVENING

John places the sheet of A4 on the kitchen table for Sarah Connor and I to peruse. On it is written in neatly typed block capitals:

NSA AGENT JAMES FOSTER

NSA AGENT KAREN DUFFY

57 AMBROSE STREET

CULVER CITY

LOS ANGELES

"The NSA? They're the ones after us?"

"So it seems."

"I don't understand," I announce. "What is enn-ess-eh?"

"N.S.A. It's an acronym. It stands for National Security Agency. These guys are the top rung of law enforcement. They make the FBI look like mall cops."

"And they're after us."

"I researched Foster and Duffy on the web. As you'd expect there's not a huge amount there. Foster's 48, logged 20 years with the NSA. He's a career spook. Duffy's a rookie. I think this is her cherry assignment. They work for the Homeland Security department."

"So we're terrorists now."

"It's a catch-all title covering everything from terrorists to refugees crossing the Rio Grande."

Sarah Connor paces the room. "What do they have on us, I wonder?"

John shrugs. "No way of telling unless we pay them a visit."

"We're not poking a stick in a hornet's nest."

"So we sit back and wait for the hornets to sting us?"

"They might have nothing."

"Or everything."

"We're well hidden. Off the grid. New IDs. And we have her."

"We can't always rely on Cameron."

"You can rely on me, John," I tell him. "I will always covet your ass."

"Cover. You mean cover my ass, not covet."

"A Freudian slip from the Tin Miss," Sarah Connor smirks. "We'll discuss this another time." She yawns. "It's been a long day and I for one am going to try and get some sleep."

She goes up to her room. John smiles at me.

"How's your butt? Healing okay."

"Yes. Would you like to see?"

"Er - raincheck."

I nod. I will hold him to that - next time it rains.

-000-

Faberge eggs? It'll become clear in a few chapters.