Authors: David Wingrove
He let the film run again, watching as it cut to a later moment when Fischer had interrupted the meeting to tell the T’ang about the fire.
The camera caught the six men squarely in its lens: Wang Sau-leyan to the left, Hung Mien-lo just behind him, Gesell, Mach and their two companions to the right. It was an important moment to capture – one that, if need be, could be used against the T’ang of Africa. But equally important was the moment just before Fischer had knocked then thrown the doors wide; a moment when Wang’s voice had boomed out clearly.
‘Then you understand,
ch’un tzu
, that I cannot provide such backing without some sign of your good intentions. The smell of burning wheat, perhaps, or news of a whole crop ruined through the accidental pollution of a water source. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you.’
DeVore smiled. No, there was no need for Wang Sau-leyan to say anything more. It was clear what he intended. In exchange for funds he would get the
Ping Tiao
to do his dirty work – to burn the East European Plantations and create havoc with City Europe’s food supplies, thus destabilizing Li Shai Tung’s City. But would the
Ping Tiao
take such a radical action? After all, it was their people who would suffer most from the subsequent food shortages. Would they dare risk alienating public opinion so soon after they had regained it?
He knew the answer. They would. Because Mach was quite prepared to see the
Ping Tiao
discredited. He would be happy to see the
Yu
step into the gap left by the demise of the
Ping Tiao.
He was tired of deferring to Gesell. Tired of seeing his advice passed over.
Well
, thought DeVore, pausing the film again,
perhaps we can use all these tensions – redirect them and control them. But not yet. Not quite yet.
They had broken their meeting temporarily while the fire was dealt with, but when Fischer returned the
Ping Tiao
had already gone. Even so, the final forty seconds of the film provided a fascinating little coda on all that had happened.
Wang Sau-leyan was sitting in the far corner of the room, turning the gift the
Ping Tiao
had given him in his hands, studying it. It was the tiny jade sculpture of Kuan Yin that DeVore had given Gesell only the week before.
‘It’s astonishing,’ Wang was saying. ‘Where do you think they stole it?’
Hung Mien-lo, standing several paces away, looked up. ‘I’m sorry,
Chieh Hsia
?’
‘This.’ He held the tiny statue up so that it was in clear view of the camera. ‘It’s genuine, I’d say. T’ang dynasty. Where in hell’s name do you think they got their hands on it?’
Hung Mien-lo shrugged, then moved closer to his T’ang, lowering his voice marginally. ‘More to the point,
Chieh Hsia
, how do you know that they’ll do as you ask?’
Wang Sau-leyan studied the piece a moment longer, then looked back at his Chancellor, smiling. ‘Because I ask them to do only what is in their own interest.’ He nodded, then looked across, directly into camera. ‘Well, Captain Fischer, is it out?’
The film ended there, as Fischer bowed, but it was enough. It gave DeVore plenty to consider. Plenty to use.
And that was not all. The day had been rich with surprises. A sealed package had arrived from Mars: a copy of the files Karr had taken from Berdichev’s private secretary.
DeVore smiled. He had been telling his senior officers the story only that afternoon – the tale of T’sao and the Tanguts. The Tanguts were northern enemies of the Han, and T’sao, the Han Chief of Staff, had pardoned a condemned man on the understanding that he would swallow a ball of wax, dress up as a monk and enter the kingdom of the Tanguts. The man did so and was eventually captured and imprisoned by the Tanguts. Under interrogation he told them about the ball of wax and, when he finally shat it out, they cut it open and found a letter. The letter was from T’sao to their own Chief Strategist. The Tangut King was enraged and ordered the execution both of the false monk and his own Chief Strategist. Thus did T’sao rid himself of the most able man in his enemies’ camp for no greater price than the life of a condemned man.
So it was with the boy. He would be the means through which the Seven would be destroyed; not, as Berdichev had imagined, from without but from within. The Seven would be the agents of their own destruction. For the boy carried within him not a ball of wax but an idea. One single, all-transforming idea.
DeVore sat back. Yes, and Li Yuan would fight to preserve the boy, for he honestly believed that he could control him. But Li Yuan had not the slightest conception of what the boy represented. No, not even the boy himself understood that yet. But he had seen it at once, when Berdichev had first shown him the Aristotle File. The file was a remarkable achievement, yet it was as nothing beside what the boy was capable of. His potential was astonishing. Li Yuan might as well try to harness Change itself as try to force the boy’s talents to conform to the needs of State.
Li Shai Tung had been right to sign the boy’s death warrant. The old man’s gut instincts had always been good. It was fortunate that the War had undermined his certainty. The old Li Shai Tung would have acted without hesitation. But the old T’ang was effectively dead – murdered along with his son, Han Ch’in, eight years ago.
DeVore nodded to himself, then cleared his mind of it, coming to the final matter. The report was brief, no more than a single line of coded message, yet it was significant. It was what he had been waiting for.
He took the tiny piece of crumpled paper from his top pocket and unfolded it. It had been passed from hand to hand along a chain of trusted men until it came into his own, its message comprehensible only to his eyes. ‘The tiger is restless,’ it read. He smiled. The tiger was his codeword for Hans Ebert, the handwriting on the paper that of his man, Auden.
He had recruited Auden long ago – years before he’d had the man appointed sergeant under Ebert – but Hammerfest had been a heaven-sent opportunity. Auden had saved Ebert’s life that day, eight years ago, and Ebert had never forgotten it. Hans Ebert was a selfish young man but curiously loyal to those about him. At least, to those he felt deserved his loyalty, and Auden was one such. But it did not do to use all one’s pieces at once. Life was like
wei chi
in that respect; the master chose to play a waiting game, to plan ahead. So he with Auden. But now he was capitalizing upon his long and patient preparation. It had been easy, for instance, for Auden to persuade Ebert into launching the premature attack on the
Ping Tiao
cell; an attack that had prevented Karr from discovering the links between the terrorists and himself. But that had been only the start: a test of the young man’s potential. Now he would take things much further and see whether he could translate Ebert’s restlessness into something more useful. Something more constructive.
Yes, but not through Auden. He would keep Auden dark, his true nature masked from Ebert. There were other ways of getting to Ebert; other men he trusted, if not as much. His uncle, Lutz, for instance.
DeVore folded the paper and tucked it back into the pocket. No. Auden was part of a much longer game: part of a shape that, as yet, existed in his head alone.
He smiled, then stood, stretching, his sense of well-being brimming over, making him laugh softly. Then he checked himself.
Have a care, Howard DeVore
, he thought.
And don’t relax. It’s only a shape you’ve glimpsed. It isn’t real. Not yet. Not until you make it real.
‘But I will,’ he said softly, allowing himself the smallest of smiles. ‘Just see if I don’t.’
The pimp was sleeping, one of his girls either side of him. The room was in semi-darkness, a wall-mounted flatlamp beside the door casting a faint green shadow across the sleeping forms. It was after fourth bell and the last of the evening’s guests had left an hour back. Now only the snores of the sleepers broke the silence of the house.
Chen slid the door back quietly and slipped into the room. At once he seemed to merge with the green-black forms of the room. He hesitated a moment, his eyes growing accustomed to the subtle change in lighting, then crossed the room, quickly, silently, and stood beside the bed.
The pimp was lying on his back, his head tipped to one side, his mouth open. A strong scent of wine and onions wafted up from him: a tart, sickly smell that mixed with the heavy mustiness of the room.
Yes
, thought Chen.
It’s him all right. I’d know that ugly face anywhere.
He took the strip of plaster from the pouch at his belt and peeled off two short lengths, taping them loosely to his upper arm. He threw the strip down then drew his gun. Leaning across the girl he placed it firmly against the pimp’s right temple.
‘Liu Chang...’ he said softly, as the pimp stirred. ‘Liu Chang, listen to me very carefully. Do exactly as I say or I’ll cover the mattress with your brains!’
Liu Chang had gone very still. His eyes flicked open, straining to see the gun then focusing on the masked figure above him. He swallowed, then gave a tiny, fearful nod.
‘What do you want?’ he began, his voice a whisper, then fell silent as Chen increased the pressure of the gun against the side of his head.
Chen scowled at him. ‘Shut up, Liu Chang,’ he said, quietly but firmly. ‘I’ll tell you when to speak.’
The pimp nodded again, his eyes wide now, his whole body tensed, cowering before the gunman.
‘Good. This is what you’ll do. You’ll sit up very slowly.
Very
slowly, understand? Make a sudden move and you’re dead.’ Chen smiled cruelly. ‘I’m not playing games, Liu Chang. I’d as soon see you dead as let you go. But my people want answers. Understand?’
Liu Chang’s mouth opened as if to form a question, then clicked shut. He swallowed deeply, sweat running down his neck, and nodded.
‘Good. Now up.’
The pimp raised himself slowly on his elbows, Chen’s gun pressed all the while against his right temple.
Chen nodded, satisfied, then thrust his right arm closer to the pimp. ‘Take one of the strips of plaster from my arm and put it over the girl here’s mouth. Then do the same with the other. And get no ideas about wrestling with me, Liu Chang. Your only chance of living is if you do what I say.’
Again there was that slight movement in the pimp’s face – the sign of a question unasked – before he nodded.
As he leaned forward, Chen pushed slightly with the gun, reminding the pimp of its presence, but it was only a precaution – if the file was correct, he should have little bother with the man. Liu Chang had been an actor in the Han opera before he had become a pimp, more noted for his prowess in bed than his ability with a knife. Even so, it was wise to take care.
Liu Chang moved back from Chen, then leaned forward again, placing the strip across the sleeping girl’s mouth. It woke her and for a moment she struggled, her hands coming up as if to tear it away. Then she saw Chen and the gun and grew still, her eyes wide with fear.
‘Now the other.’
He noted the slight hesitation in Liu Chang and pressed harder with the gun.
‘Do it!’
The pimp took the strip and placed it over the other girl’s mouth. She too woke and, after a moment’s struggle, lay still.
Good,
Chen thought.
Now to business
.
‘You’re wondering what I want, aren’t you, Liu Chang?’
Liu Chang nodded, twice.
‘Yes. Well, it’s simple. A girl of yours was killed here, a month or two ago. I’m sure you remember it. There was a young officer here when it happened. He thinks he did it. But you know better than that, don’t you, Liu Chang? You know what really happened.’
Liu Chang looked down, then away; anything but meet Chen’s gaze. He began to shake his head in denial, but Chen jabbed the gun hard against his head, drawing blood.
‘This is no fake I’m holding here, Liu Chang. You’ll discover that if you try to lie to me. I
know
you set Lieutenant Haavikko up. I even know how. But I want to know the precise details. And I want to know who gave the orders.’
Liu Chang looked down miserably. His heart was beating wildly now and the sweat was running from him. For a moment longer he hesitated, then he looked up again, meeting Chen’s eyes.
‘Okay, Liu Chang. Speak. Tell me what happened.’
The pimp swallowed, then found his voice. ‘And if I tell you?’
‘Then you live. But only if you tell me everything.’
Liu Chang shuddered. ‘All right.’ But from the way he glanced at the girls, Chen knew what he was thinking. If he lived, the girls would have to die. Because they had heard. And because Liu Chang could not risk them saying anything to anyone. In case it got back.
Only it doesn’t matter
, Chen thought, listening as the pimp began his tale;
because you’re dead already, Liu Chang. For what you did. And for what you would do, if I let you live.
Herrick’s was forty
li
east of Liu Chang’s, a tiny, crowded place at the very bottom of the City, below the Net.
It was less than an hour since Chen had come from the sing-song house; not time enough for anyone to have discovered Liu Chang’s body, or for the girls to have undone their bonds. Nevertheless he moved quickly down the corridors – shabby, ill-lit alleyways that, even at this early hour, were busy – knowing that every minute brought closer the chance of Herrick being warned.
It had been two years since he had last been below the Net, but his early discomfort quickly passed, older habits taking over, changing the way he moved, the way he held himself. Down here he was
kwai
again, trusting to his instincts as
kwai
, and, as if sensing this, men moved back from him as he passed.
It was a maze, the regular patterning of the levels above broken up long ago. Makeshift barriers closed off corridors, marking out the territory of rival gangs, while elsewhere emergency doors had been removed and new corridors created through what had once been living quarters. To another it might have seemed utter confusion, but Chen had been born here. He knew it was a question of keeping a direction in your head, like a compass needle.