Chapter 45
CONNECTIONS
Wang Sau-leyan stood before the full-length dragon mirror in his dead father’s room while his brother’s maids dressed him, watching his own reflection.
‘You should have seen them! You wouldn’t believe how offended they were!’ He laughed and bared his teeth. ‘It was marvellous! They’re such hypocrites! Such liars and schemers! And yet they fancy themselves so clean and pure.’ He turned and glanced across at the Chancellor, his mouth formed into a sneer. ‘Gods, but they make me sick!’
Hung Mien-lo stood there, his head lowered. He was unusually quiet, his manner subdued, but Wang Sau-leyan barely noticed him; he was too full of his triumph in Council that afternoon. Dismissing the maids, he crossed to the table and lifted his glass, toasting himself.
‘I know how they think. They’re like ghosts, they travel only in straight lines. But I’m not like them. They’ll have prepared themselves next time, expecting me to be rude again – to trample on their precious etiquette. They’ll meet beforehand to work out a strategy to deal with my “directness”. You see if they don’t. But I’ll wrong-foot them again. I’ll be so meek, so sweet-arsed and polite they’ll wonder if I’ve sent a double.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, and all the time I’ll be playing their game. Undermining them. Suggesting small changes that will require further debate. Delaying and diverting. Querying and qualifying. Until they lose patience. And then...’
He stopped, for the first time noticing how Hung Mien-lo stood there.
‘What is it, Chancellor Hung?’
Hung Mien-lo kept his head lowered. ‘It is your brother, Excellency. He is dead.’
‘Dead? How?’
‘He... killed himself. This afternoon. An hour before you returned.’
Wang Sau-leyan set the glass down on the table and sat, his head resting almost indolently against the back of the tall chair.
‘How very convenient of him.’
Hung Mien-lo glanced up then quickly looked down again. ‘Not only that, but Li Shai Tung’s armoury at Helmstadt was attacked this afternoon. By the Ping Tiao. They took a large amount of weaponry.’
Wang Sau-leyan studied the Chancellor’s folded body, his eyes narrowed. ‘Good. Then I want a meeting with them.’
The Chancellor looked up sharply. ‘With the Ping Tiao? But that’s impossible, Chieh Hsia...’
Wang Sau-leyan stared at him coldly. ‘Impossible?’
Hung’s voice when it came again was smaller, more subdued than before.
‘It will be... difficult. But I shall try, Chieh Hsia.’
Wang Sau-leyan leaned forward, lifting his glass again. ‘Make sure you do, Hung Mien-lo, for there are others just as hungry for power as you. Not as talented perhaps but, then, what’s talent when a man is dead?’
Hung Mien-lo looked up, his eyes meeting the new T’ang’s momentarily, seeing the hard, cold gleam of satisfaction there, then bowed low and backed away.
Kao Chen stood in the corridor outside the temporary mortuary, his forehead pressed to the wall, his left hand supporting him. He had not thought he could be affected any longer – had thought himself inured to the worst Man could do to his fellow creatures – yet he had found the sight of the mutilated corpses deeply upsetting. The younger ones especially.
‘The bastards...’ he said softly. There had been no need. They could have tied them up and left them. Surely they’d got what they wanted? But to kill all their prisoners. He shuddered. It was like that other business with the hostages – Captain Sanders’s young family. There had been no need to kill them, either.
He felt a second wave of nausea sweep up from the darkness inside him and clenched his teeth against the pain and anger he felt.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
His sergeant, a Hung Mao ten years Chen’s senior, stood a few paces distant, his head lowered slightly, concerned but also embarrassed by his officer’s behaviour. He had been assigned to Kao Chen only ten days before and this was the first time they had been out on operations together.
‘Have you seen them?’
The sergeant frowned. ‘Sir?’
‘The dead. Cadets, most of them. Barely out of their teens. I kept thinking of my son.’
The man nodded. ‘The Ping Tiao are shit, sir. Scum.’
‘Yes...’ Chen took a breath then straightened up. ‘Well... let’s move on. I want to look at their dead before I report back.’
‘Sir.’
Chen let his sergeant lead on, but he had seen the doubt in the man’s eyes.
All of this looking at the dead was quite alien to him – no doubt his previous officers hadn’t bothered with such things – but Chen knew the value of looking for oneself. It was why Tolonen had recruited Karr and himself: because they took such pains. They noticed what others overlooked. Karr particularly. And he had learned from Karr. Had been taught to see the small betraying detail – the one tiny clue that changed the whole picture of events.
‘Here it is, sir.’
The sergeant came to attention outside the door, his head bowed. Chen went inside. Here things were different, more orderly, the bodies laid out in four neat rows on trestle tables. And, unlike the other place, here the bodies were whole. These men had died in action: they had not been tied up and butchered.
He went down the first of the rows, pausing here and there to pull back the covering sheets and look at a face, a hand, frowning to himself now, his sense of ‘wrongness’ growing with every moment. Finally, at the head of the row, he stopped beside one of the corpses, staring down at it. There was something odd – something he couldn’t quite place – about the dead man.
He shook his head. No, he was imagining it. But then, as he made to move on, he realized what it was. The hair. He went closer and lifted the head between his hands, studying it. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the dead man’s hair was cut like a soldier’s. Quickly he went down the row, checking the other corpses. Most of them had normal short hair – styles typical of the lower levels – but there were five with the same military-style cut, the hair trimmed back almost brutally behind the ear and at the line of the nape.
‘Sergeant!’
The man appeared at the doorway at once.
‘Bring me a comset. A unit with a visual connection.’
‘Sir!’
While he waited he went down the line again, studying the men he had picked out. Now that he looked he saw other differences. Their nails were manicured, their hands smooth, uncalloused. They were all Hung Mao, of course, but of a certain kind. They all had those grey-blue eyes and chiselled features that were so typical of the men recruited by Security. Yes, the more he looked at them, the more he could imagine them in uniform. But was he right? And, if so, what did it mean? Had the Ping Tiao begun recruiting such types, or was it something more ominous than that?
The sergeant returned, handing him the comset, then stood there, watching, as Chen drew back the eyelid of the corpse with his thumb and held the machine’s lens over the eye, relaying an ID query through to Central Records.
He had his answer almost immediately. There were six ‘likelies’ that approximated to the retinal print, but only one of the full body descriptions fitted the dead man. It was as Chen had thought: he was ex-Security.
Chen went down the line, making queries on the others he had picked out. The story was the same: all five had served in the Security forces at some point. And not one of them had been seen for several years. Which meant that either they had been down in the Net or they had been outside. But what did it signify? Chen pressed to store the individual file numbers, then put the comset down and leaned against one of the trestles, thinking.
‘What is it, sir?’
Chen looked up. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, after all. I thought I recognized the man, but I was mistaken. Anyway, we’re done here. Have the men finish up then report to me by four. The General will want a full report before the day’s out.’
‘Sir!’
Alone again, Chen walked slowly down the rows, taking one last look at each of the five men. Like the other dead, they wore the Ping Tiao symbol – a stylized fish – about their necks and were dressed in simple Ping Tiao clothes. But these were no common terrorists.
Which was why he had lied to the sergeant. Because if this was what he thought it was he could trust no one.
No. He would keep it strictly to himself for the time being, and in the meantime he would find out all he could about the dead men: discover where they had been stationed and who they had served under.
As if he didn’t already know. As if he couldn’t guess which name would surface when he looked at their files.
Nan Ho, Li Yuan’s Master of the Inner Chamber, climbed down from the sedan and, returning the bow of the Grand Master of the Palace, mounted the ancient stone steps that led up to the entrance of the summer palace.
At the top he paused and turned, looking back across the ruins of the old town of Ch’ing Tao. Beyond it the bay of Chiao Chou was a deep cobalt blue, the grey-green misted shape of Lao Shan rising spectacularly from the sea, climbing three li into the heavens. A thousand li to the east was Korea and beyond it the uninhabitable islands of Japan.
It was a year since he had last visited this place – a year and two days, to be precise – but from where he stood, nothing had changed. For his girls, however, that year had been long and difficult: a year of exile from Tongjiang and the Prince they loved.
He sighed and turned back, following the Grand Master through. This was the smallest of the T’ang’s summer palaces and had lain unused since his great-grandfather’s days. It was kept on now only out of long habit, the staff of fifty-six servants undisturbed by the needs of their masters.
Such a shame, he thought as he made his way through the pleasantly shaded corridors into the interior. Yet he understood why. There was danger here. It was too open; too hard to defend from attack. Whereas Tongjiang...
He laughed. The very idea of attacking Tongjiang!
The Grand Master slowed and turned, bowing low. ‘Is anything the matter, Master Nan?’
‘Nothing,’ Nan Ho answered, returning the bow. ‘I was merely thinking of the last time I was here. Of the crickets in the garden.’
‘Ah...’ The Grand Master’s eyes glazed over, the lids closed momentarily, then he turned back, shuffling slowly on.
The two girls were waiting in the Great Conservatory, kneeling on the tiles beside the pool, their heads bowed.
He dismissed the Grand Master, waiting until he had left before he hurried across and pulled the two girls up, holding one in each arm, hugging them tightly to him, forgetting the gulf in rank that lay between them.
‘My darlings!’ he said breathlessly, his heart full. ‘My pretty ones! How have you been?’
Pearl Heart answered for them both.
‘Oh, Master Nan... it’s so good to see you! We’ve been so lonely here!’
He sighed deeply. ‘Hush, my kittens. Hush now, stop your crying. I’ve news for you. Good news. You’re leaving this place. Two weeks from now.’
They looked up at him, joy in their faces, then quickly averted their eyes again. Yes, they had changed, he could see that at once. What had the Grand Master done to them to make them thus? Had he been cruel? Had there been worse things that that? He would find out. And if the old man had misbehaved he would have his skin for it.
Sweet Rose looked up at him hopefully. ‘Li Yuan has asked for our return?’
He felt his heart wrenched from him that he had to disappoint her.
‘No, my little one,’ he said, stroking her arm. ‘But he wishes to see you.’ One last time, he thought, completing the sentence in his head. ‘And he has a gift for you both. A special gift...’ He shivered. ‘But he must tell you that. I come only as a messenger, to help prepare you.’
Pearl Heart was looking down again. ‘Then she will not have us,’ she said quietly.
He squeezed her to him. ‘It would not be right. You know that. It was what we spoke of last time we were here together.’
He remembered the occasion only too well. How he had brought them here in the dark of night, and how they had wept when he had explained to them why they must not see their beloved Prince again. He swallowed, thinking of that time. It had been hard for Li Yuan, too. And admirable in a strange way. For there had been no need, no custom to fulfil. He recalled arguing with Li Yuan – querying his word to the point where the Prince had grown angry with him. Then he had shrugged and gone off to do as he was bid. But it was not normal. He still felt that deeply. A man – a prince, especially – needed the company of women. And to deny oneself for a whole year, merely because of an impending wedding! He shook his head. Well, it was like marrying one’s dead brother’s wife: it was unheard of.
And yet Li Yuan had insisted. He would be ‘pure’ for Fei Yen. As if a year’s abstinence could make a man pure! Didn’t the blood still flow, the sap still rise? He loved his master dearly, but he could not lie to himself and say Li Yuan was right.
He looked down into the girls’ faces, seeing the disappointment there. A year had not cured them of their love. No, and neither would a lifetime, if it were truly known. Only a fool thought otherwise. Yet Li Yuan was Prince and his word was final. And though he was foolish in this regard, at least he was not cruel. The gift he planned to give them – the gift Nan Ho had said he could not speak of – was to be their freedom. More than that, the two sisters were to be given a dowry, a handsome sum – enough to see them well married, assured the luxuries of First Level.
No, it wasn’t cruel. But, then, neither was it kind.
Nan Ho shook his head and smiled. ‘Still... let us go through. We’ll have some wine and make ourselves more comfortable,’ he said, holding them tighter against him momentarily. ‘And then you can tell me all about the wicked Grand Master and how he tried to have his way with you.’
Chuang Lian, wife of Minister Chuang, lay amongst the silken pillows of her bed, fanning herself indolently, watching the young officer out of half-lidded eyes as he walked about her room, stopping to lift and study a tiny statue, or to gaze out at the garden. The pale cream sleeping robe she wore had fallen open, revealing her tiny breasts, yet she acted as if she were unaware, enjoying the way his eyes kept returning to her.
She was forty-five – forty-six in little over a month – and was proud of her breasts. She had heard how other women’s breasts sagged, either from neglect or from the odious task of child-bearing, but she had been lucky. Her husband was a rich man – a powerful man – and had hired wet-nurses to raise his offspring. And she had kept her health and her figure. Each morning, after exercising, she would study herself in the mirror and thank Kuan Yin for blessing her with the one thing that, in this world of Men, gave a woman power over them.
She had been beautiful. In her own eyes she was beautiful still. But her husband was an old man now and she was still a woman, with a woman’s needs. Who, then, could blame her if she took a lover to fill the idle days with a little joy? So it was for a woman in her position, married to a man thirty years her senior; yet there was still the need to be discreet – to find the right man for her bed. A young and virile man, certainly, but also a man of breeding, of quality. And what better than this young officer?
He turned, looking directly at her, and smiled. ‘Where is the Minister today?’
Chuang Lian averted her eyes, her fan pausing in its slow rhythm, then starting up again, its measure suddenly erratic, as if indicative of some inner disturbance. It was an old game, and she enjoyed the pretence; yet there was no mistaking the way her pulse quickened when he looked at her like that. Such a predatory look it was. And his eyes – so blue they were. When he looked at her it was as if the sky itself gazed down at her through those eyes. She shivered. He was so different from her husband. So alive. So strong. Not the smallest sign of weakness in him.
She glanced up at him again. ‘Chuang Ming is at his office. Where else would he be at this hour?’
‘I thought perhaps he would be here. If I were him...’
His eyes finished the sentence for him. She saw how he looked at her breasts, the pale flesh of her thighs, showing between the folds of silk, and felt a tiny shiver down her spine. He wanted her. She knew that now. But it would not do to let him have her straight away. The game must be played out – that was half its delight.
She eased up on to her elbows, putting her fan aside, then reached up to touch the single orchid in her hair. ‘Chuang Ming is a proper Lao Kuan, a “Great Official”. But in bed...’ She laughed softly, and turned her eyes on him again. ‘Well, let us say he is hsiao jen, neh? A little man.’
When he laughed he showed his teeth. Such strong, white, perfect teeth. But her eyes had been drawn lower than his face, wondering.
He came closer, then sat on the foot of the bed, his hand resting gently on her ankle. ‘And you are tired of little men?’
For a moment she stared at his hand where it rested against her flesh, transfixed by his touch, then looked up at him again, her breath catching unexpectedly in her throat. This was not how she had planned it.
‘I...’
But his warm laughter, the small movements of his fingers against her foot, distracted her. After a moment she let herself laugh, then leaned forward, covering his hand with her own. So small and delicate it seemed against his, the dark olive of her flesh a stark contrast to his whiteness.
She laced her fingers through his, meeting his eyes. ‘I have a present for you.’
‘A present?’
‘A first-meeting gift.’
He laughed. ‘But we have met often, Fu Jen Chuang.’
‘Lian...’ she said softly, hating the formality of his ‘Madam’, even if his eyes revealed he was teasing her. ‘You must call me Lian here.’
Unexpectedly he drew her closer, his right hand curled gently but firmly about her neck, then leaned forward, kissing her brow, her nose. ‘As you wish, my little lotus...’
Her eyes looked up at him, wide, for one brief moment afraid of him – of the power in him – then she looked away, laughing, covering her momentary slip; hoping he had not seen through, into her.
‘Sweet Flute!’ she called lightly, looking past him, then looking back at him, smiling again. ‘Bring the ch’un tzu’s present.’
She placed her hand lightly against his chest, then stood up, moving past him but letting her hand brush against his hair then rest upon his shoulder, maintaining the contact between them, feeling a tiny inner thrill when he placed his hand against the small of her back.
Sweet Flute was her mui tsai, a pretty young thing of fifteen her husband had bought Chuang Lian for her last birthday. She approached them now demurely, her head lowered, the gift held out before her.
She felt the young officer shift on the bed behind her, clearly interested in what she had bought him, then, dismissing the girl, she turned and faced him, kneeling to offer him the gift, her head bowed.
His smile revealed his pleasure at her subservient attitude. Then, with the smallest bow of his head, he began to unwrap the present. He let the bright red wrapping fall, then looked up at her. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, it’s not one of the Five Classics...’
She sat beside him on the bed and opened the first page, then looked up into his face, seeing at once how pleased he was.
‘Gods...’ he said quietly, then laughed. A soft, yet wicked laugh. ‘What is this?’
She leaned into him, kissing his neck softly, then whispered in his ear. ‘It’s the Chin P’ing Mei, the Golden Lotus. I thought you might like it.’
She saw how his finger traced the outlines of the ancient illustration, pausing where the two bodies met in that most intimate of embraces. Then he turned his head slowly and looked at her.
‘And I brought you nothing...’
‘No,’ she said, closing the book, then drawing him down beside her, her gown falling open. ‘You’re wrong, Hans Ebert. You brought me yourself.’
The eighth bell was sounding as they gathered in Nocenzi’s office at the top of Bremen fortress. Besides Nocenzi, there were thirteen members of the General Staff, every man ranking captain or above. Ebert had been among the first to arrive, tipped off by his captain, Auden, that something was afoot.
Nocenzi was grim-faced. The meeting convened, he came swiftly to the point.
‘Ch’un tzu, I have brought you here at short notice because this evening, at or around six, a number of senior Company Heads – twenty-six in all – were assassinated, for no apparent reason that we can yet make out.’
There was a low murmur of surprise. Nocenzi nodded sombrely, then continued.
‘I’ve placed a strict media embargo on the news for forty-eight hours, to try to give us a little time, but we all know how impossible it is to check the passage of rumour, and the violent death of so many prominent and respected members of the trading community will be noticed. Moreover, coming so closely upon the attack on Helmstadt Armoury, we are concerned that the news should not further destabilize an already potentially explosive situation. I don’t have to tell you, therefore, how urgent it is that we discover both the reason for these murders and the identity of those who perpetrated them.’
One of the men seated at the front of the room, nearest Nocenzi, raised his hand.
‘Yes, Captain Scott?’
‘Forgive me, sir, but how do we know these murders are connected?’
‘We don’t. In fact, one of the mysteries is that they’re all so very different – their victims seemingly unconnected in any way whatsoever. But the very fact that twenty-six separate assassinations took place within the space of ten minutes on or around the hour points very clearly to a very tight orchestration of events.’
Another hand went up. Nocenzi turned, facing the questioner. ‘Yes, Major Hoffmann?’
‘Could this be a Triad operation? There have been rumours for some time that some of the big bosses have been wanting to expand their operations into the higher levels.’
‘That’s so. But no. At least, I don’t think so. Immediate word has it that the big gang bosses are as surprised as we are by this. Two of the incidents involved small Triad-like gangs – splinter elements, possibly trying to make a name for themselves – but we’ve yet to discover whether they were working on their own or in the pay of others.’
Ebert raised his hand, interested despite himself in this new development. He would much rather have still been between the legs of the Minister’s wife, but if duty called, what better than this?
‘Yes, Major Ebert?’
‘Is there any discernible pattern in these killings? I mean, were they all Hung Mao, for instance, or were the killings perhaps limited to a particular part of the City?’
Nocenzi smiled tightly. ‘That’s the most disturbing thing about this affair. You see, the victims are mixed. Han and Hung Mao. Young and old. And the locations, as you see...’ he indicated the map that had come up on the screen behind him ‘...are scattered almost randomly. It makes one think that the choice of victims may have been random. Designed, perhaps, to create the maximum impact on the Above. Simply to create an atmosphere of fear.’
‘Ping Tiao?’ Ebert asked, expressing what they had all been thinking. Before the attack on Helmstadt it would have been unthinkable – a laughable conclusion – but now...
‘No.’
Nocenzi’s certainty surprised them all.
‘At least, if it is Ping Tiao, then they’re slow at claiming it. And in all previous Ping Tiao attacks, they’ve always left their calling cards.’
That was true. The Ping Tiao were fairly scrupulous about leaving their mark – the sign of the fish – on all their victims.
‘There are a number of possibilities here,’ Nocenzi continued, ‘and I want to assign each of you to investigate some aspect of this matter. Is this Triad infiltration? Is it the beginning of some kind of violent trade war? Is it, in any respect, a continuation of Dispersionist activity? Is it pure terrorist activity? Or is it – however unlikely – pure coincidence?’
Captain Russ laughed, but Nocenzi shook his head. ‘No, it’s not entirely impossible. Unlikely, yes, even improbable, but not impossible. A large number of the murders had possible motives. Gambling debts, company feuds, adultery. And however unlikely it seems, we’ve got to investigate the possibility.’
Ebert raised his hand again. ‘Who’ll be co-ordinating this, sir?’
‘You want the job, Hans?’
There was a ripple of good-humoured laughter, Ebert’s own amongst it.
Nocenzi smiled. ‘Then it’s yours.’
Ebert bowed his head, pleased to be given the chance to take on something as big as this at last. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Nocenzi was about to speak again when the doors at the far end of the room swung open and Marshal Tolonen strode into the room. As one the officers stood and came to sharp attention, their heads bowed.
‘Ch’un tzu!’ Tolonen said, throwing his uniform cap down on to the desk and turning to face them, peeling off his gloves as he did so. ‘Please, be seated.’
Nocenzi moved to one side as the Marshal stepped forward.
‘I’ve just come from the T’ang. He has been apprised of the situation and has given orders that we are to make this matter our first priority over the coming days.’ He tapped his wrist, indicating the tiny screen set into his flesh. ‘I have been listening in to your meeting and am pleased to see that you understand the seriousness of the situation. However, if we’re to crack this one we’ve got to act quickly. That’s why I’ve decided to overrule General Nocenzi and assign each of you two of the murder victims.’
Hoffmann raised his hand. ‘Why the change, sir?’
‘Because if there’s any pattern behind things, it ought to be discernible by looking at the facts of two very different murders. And with thirteen of you looking at the matter, we ought to come up with something pretty quickly, don’t you think?’
Hoffmann bowed his head.
‘Good. And, Hans... I appreciate your keenness. It’s no less than I’d expect from you. But I’m afraid I’ll have to tie your hands somewhat on this one. That’s not to say you won’t be Co-ordinator, but I want you to work closely with me on this. The T’ang wants answers and I’ve promised him that he’ll have them before the week’s out. So don’t let me down.’
Ebert met the Marshal’s eyes and bowed his head, accepting the old man’s decision, but inside he was deeply disappointed. So he was to be tied to the old man’s apron strings yet again! He took a deep breath, calming himself, then smiled, remembering suddenly how Chuang Lian had taken his penis between her tiny, delicate toes and caressed it, as if she were holding it in her hands. Such a neat little trick. And then there was her mui tsai... what was her name...? Sweet Flute. Ah, yes, how he’d like to play that one!
He raised his eyes and looked across at Tolonen as General Nocenzi began to allocate the case files. Maybe the Marshal would be ‘in command’ nominally, but that was not to say he would be running things. Russ, Scott, Fest, Auden – these were his men. He had only to say to them...
The thought made him smile. And Tolonen, glancing across at him at that moment, saw his smile and returned it strongly.
It was well after ten when Chen arrived back at the apartment. Wang Ti and the children were in bed, asleep. He looked in on them, smiling broadly as he saw how all four of them were crowded into the same bed, the two-year-old, Ch’iang Hsin, cuddled against Wang Ti’s chest, her hair covering her plump little face, the two boys to her right, young Wu pressed close against his elder brother’s back.
He stood there a moment, moved, as he always was, by the sight of them, then went back through to the kitchen and made himself a small chung of ch’a.
It had been a long day, but there was still much to do before he could rest. He carried the porcelain chung through to the living-room and set it down on the table, then moved the lamp close, adjusting its glow so that it illuminated only a tight circle about the steaming bowl. He looked about him a moment, frowning, then went across to the shelves, searching until he found the old lacquered box he kept his brushes and ink block in.
He set the box down beside the chung, then went out into the hall and retrieved the files from the narrow table by the door, beneath his tunic.
He paused, then went back and hung his tunic on the peg, smiling, knowing Wang Ti would only scold him in the morning if he forgot.
Switching off the main light, he went back to the table and pulled up a chair. Setting the files down to his right, he sat back a moment, yawning, stretching his arms out to the sides, feeling weary. He gave a soft laugh then leaned forward again, reaching for the chung. Lifting the lid, he took a long sip of the hot ch’a.
‘Hmm... that’s good,’ he said quietly, nodding to himself. It was one of Karr’s. A gift he had brought with him last time he had come to dinner. Well, my friend, he thought; now I’ve a gift for you.
He reached across and drew the box closer, unfastening the two tiny catches, then flipped the lid back.
‘Damn it...’ he said, making to get up, realizing he had forgotten water to mix the ink, then reached for the chung again and dipped his finger, using the hot ch’a as a substitute. He had heard tell that the great poet, Li Po, had used wine to mix his ink, so why not ch’a? Particularly one as fine as this.
He smiled, then, wiping his finger on his sleeve, reached across and drew the first of the files closer.
Today he had called in all the favours owed him; had pestered friend and acquaintance alike until he’d got what he wanted. And here they were. Personnel files. Income statements. Training records. Complete files on each of the six men who had died at Helmstadt. The so-called Ping Tiao he had checked up on. Their files and two others.
He had gone down to Central Records, the nerve-centre of Security Personnel at Bremen. There, in Personnel Queries, he had called upon Wolfgang Lautner. Lautner, one of the four senior officers in charge of the department, was an old friend. They had been in officer training together and had been promoted to captain within a month of each other. Several times in the past Chen had helped Lautner out, mainly in the matter of gambling debts.
Lautner had been only too happy to help Chen, giving him full access to whatever files he wanted – even to several that were, strictly speaking, ‘off limits’. All had gone smoothly until Chen, checking up on a personnel number that had appeared on several of the files, came up against a computer block.
He could see it even now, the words pulsing red against the black of the screen.
INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED.
Not knowing what else to do, he had taken his query direct to Lautner. Had sat there beside him in his office as he keyed in the Level-A code. He remembered how Lautner had looked at him, smiling, his eyebrows raised inquisitively, before he had turned to face the screen.
‘Shit...’ Lautner had jerked forward, clearing the screen, then had turned abruptly, looking at Chen angrily, his whole manner changed completely. ‘What in f*ck’s name are you doing, Kao Chen?’
‘I didn’t know...’ Chen had begun, as surprised as his friend by the face that had come up on the screen, but Lautner had cut him off sharply.
‘Didn’t know? You expect me to believe that? Kuan Yin preserve us! He’s the last bastard I want to find out I’ve been tapping into his file. He’d have our balls!’
Chen swallowed, remembering. Yes, he could still feel Ebert’s spittle on his cheek, burning there like a badge of shame. And there, suddenly, he was, a face on a screen, a personnel coding on the files of three dead ex-Security men. It was too much of a coincidence.
Chen drew the chung closer, comforted by its warmth against his hands. He could still recall what Ebert had said to him, that time when they had raided the Overseer’s House – the time young Pavel had died. Could remember vividly how Ebert had stood there, looking towards the west where Lodz Garrison was burning in the darkness, and said how much he admired DeVore.
Yes, it all made sense now. But the knowledge had cost him Lautner’s friendship.
He lifted the lid from the chung and drank deeply, as if to wash away the bitter taste that had risen to his mouth.
If he was right, then Ebert was DeVore’s inside man. It would certainly explain how the Ping Tiao had got into Helmstadt Armoury and stripped it of a billion yuan’s worth of equipment. But he had to prove that, and prove it conclusively. As yet it was mere coincidence.
He began working through the files again, checking the details exhaustively, page by page, looking for something – anything – that might point him in the right direction.
He had almost finished when he heard a movement on the far side of the room. He looked up and saw young Wu in the darkness of the doorway. Smiling, he got up and went across, lifting the five-year-old and hugging him to his chest.
‘Can’t you sleep, Kao Wu?’
Wu snuggled into his father’s shoulder. ‘I want a drink,’ he said sleepily, his eyes already closed.
‘Come... I’ll make you one.’
He carried him through, dimming the kitchen light. Then, one-handed, he took a mug from the rack and squeezed a bulb of juice into it.
‘Here...’ he said, holding it to the child’s lips.
Wu took two sips, then snuggled down again. In a moment he was asleep again, his breathing regular, relaxed.
Chen set the mug down, smiling. The warm weight of his son against his shoulder was a pleasant, deeply reassuring sensation. He went back out, into the hallway, and looked across to where he had been working. The files lay at the edge of the circle of light, face down beside the empty chung.
It was no good; he would have to go back. He had hoped to avoid it, but it was the only way. He would have to risk making direct enquiries on Ebert’s file.
He looked down, beginning to understand the danger he was in. And not just himself. If Ebert were DeVore’s man, then none of them was safe. Not here, nor anywhere. Not if Ebert discovered what he was doing. And yet, what choice was there? To do nothing? To forget his humiliation and his silent vow of vengeance? No. Even so, it made him heavy of heart to think, even for a moment, of losing all of this. He shivered, holding Kao Wu closer, his hand gently stroking the sleeping boy’s neck.
And what if Lautner had taken steps to cover himself? What if he had already gone to Ebert?
No. Knowing Lautner he would do nothing. And he would assume that Chen would do nothing, too. Would gamble on him not taking any further risks.
Achh, thought Chen bitterly; you really didn’t know me, did you?
He took Wu through to his bed and tucked him in, then he went through to the other bedroom. Wang Ti was awake, looking back at him, Ch’iang Hsin’s tiny figure cuddled in against her side.
‘It’s late, Chen,’ she said softly. ‘You should get some sleep.’
He smiled. ‘I should, but there’s something I have to do.’
‘At this hour?’
He nodded. ‘Trust me. I’ll be all right.’
Something about the way he said it made her get up on to one elbow. ‘What is it, Chen? What are you up to?’
He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. Really, Wang Ti. Now go to sleep. I’ll be back before morning.’
She narrowed her eyes, then, yawning, settled down again. ‘All right, my husband. But take care, neh?’
He smiled, watching her a moment longer, filled with the warmth of his love for her, then turned away, suddenly determined.
It was time to make connections. To find out whether Ebert really was in DeVore’s pay.
Outside it was dark, the evening chill, but in the stables at Tongjiang it was warm in the glow of the lanterns. The scents of hay and animal sweat were strong in the long, high-ceilinged barn, the soft snorting of the animals in their stalls the only sound to disturb the evening’s silence. Li Yuan stood in the end stall, feeding the Arab from his hand.
‘Excellency...’
Li Yuan turned, smiling, at ease here with his beloved horses. ‘Ah... Master Nan. How did it go? Are my girls well?’
Nan Ho had pulled a cloak about his shoulders before venturing outdoors. Even so, he was hunched into himself, shivering from the cold.
‘They are well, my lord. I have arranged everything as you requested.’
Li Yuan studied him a moment, conscious of the hesitation. ‘Good.’ He looked back at the horse, smiling, reaching up to smooth its broad, black face, his fingers combing the fine dark hair. ‘It would be best, perhaps, if we kept this discreet, Master Nan. I would not like the Lady Fei to be troubled. You understand?’
He looked back at Nan Ho. ‘Perhaps when she’s out riding, neh?’
‘Of course, my lord.’
‘And, Nan Ho...’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘I know what you think. You find me unfeeling in this matter. Unnatural, even. But it isn’t so. I love Fei Yen. You understand that?’ Li Yuan bent and took another handful of barley from the sack beside him, then offered it to the Arab, who nibbled contentedly at it. ‘And if that’s unnatural, then this too is unnatural...’
He looked down at his hand, the horse’s muzzle pressed close to his palm, warm and moist, then laughed. ‘You know, my father has always argued that good horsemanship is like good government. And good government like a good marriage. What do you think, Nan Ho?’
Master Nan laughed. ‘What would I know of that, my lord? I am but a tiny part of the great harness of State. A mere stirrup.’
‘So much?’ Li Yuan wiped his hand on his trouser leg, then laughed heartily. ‘No, I jest with you, Master Nan. You are a whole saddle in yourself. And do not forget I said it.’ He grew quieter. ‘I am not ungrateful. Never think that, Master Nan. The day will come...’
Nan Ho bowed low. ‘My lord...’
When he had gone, Li Yuan went outside, into the chill evening air, and stood there, staring up into the blackness overhead. The moon was low and bright and cold. A pale crescent, like an eyelid on the darkness.
And then?
The two words came to him, strong and clear, like two flares in the darkness. Nonsense words. And yet, somehow, significant. But what did they mean? Unaccountably, he found himself filled with sudden doubts. He thought of what he had said to Nan Ho of horsemanship and wondered if it were really so. Could one master one’s emotions as one controlled a horse? Was it that easy? He loved Fei Yen – he was certain of it – but he also loved Pearl Heart and her sister, Sweet Rose. Could he simply shut out what he felt for them as if it had never been?
He walked to the bridge and stood there, holding the rail tightly, suddenly, absurdly obsessed with the words that had come unbidden to him. And then?
He shivered. And then what? He gritted his teeth against the pain he suddenly felt. ‘No!’ he said sharply, his breath pluming out from him. No. He would not succumb. He would ride out the pain he felt. Would deny that part of him. For Fei Yen. Because he loved her. Because...
The moon was an eyelid on the darkness. And if he closed his eyes he could see it, dark against the brightness inside his head.
But the pain remained. And then he knew. He missed them. Missed them terribly. He had never admitted it before, but now he knew. It was as if he had killed part of himself to have Fei Yen.
He shuddered, then pushed back, away from the rail, angry with himself.
‘You are a prince. A prince!’
But it made no difference. The pain remained. Sharp, bitter, like the image of the moon against his inner lid, dark against the brightness there.
Chen sat there, hunched over the screen, his pulse racing as he waited to see whether the access code would take.
Thus far it had been easy. He had simply logged that he was investigating illicit Triad connections. A junior officer had shown him to the screen then left him there, unsupervised. After all, it was late, and hardly anyone used the facilities of Personnel Enquiries at that hour. Chen was almost the only figure in the great wheel of desks that stretched out from the central podium.
The screen filled. Ebert’s face stared out at him a moment, life-size, then shrank to a quarter-size, relocating at the top right of the screen. Chen gave a small sigh of relief. It worked!
The file began: page after page of detailed service records.
Chen scrolled through, surprised to find how highly Ebert was rated by his superiors. Did he know what they thought of him? Had he had access to this file? Knowing Ebert, it was likely. Even so, there was nothing sinister here. Nothing to link him to DeVore. No, if anything, it was exemplary. Maybe it was simple coincidence, then, that Ebert had served with three of the dead men. But Chen’s instinct ruled that out. He scrolled to the end of the file, then keyed for access to Ebert’s accounts.
A few minutes later he sat back, shaking his head. Nothing. Sighing, he keyed to look at the last of the sub-files: Ebert’s expenses. He flicked through quickly, noting nothing unusual, then stopped.
Of course! It was an expenses account. Which meant that all the payments on it ought to be irregular. So what was this monthly payment doing on it? The amount differed, but the date was the same each month. The fifteenth. It wasn’t a bar invoice, for those were met from Ebert’s other account. And there was a number noted against each payment. A Security Forces service number, unless he was mistaken.
Chen scrolled back, checking he’d not been mistaken, then jotted the number down. Yes, here it was, the link. He closed the file and sat back, looking across at the central desk. It was quiet over there. Good. Then he would make this one last query.
He keyed the service number, then tapped in the access code. For a moment the screen was blank and Chen wondered if it would come up as before – INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED. But then a face appeared.
Chen stared at it a moment, then frowned. For some reason he had expected to recognize it, but it was just a face, like any other young officer’s face; smooth-shaven and handsome in its strange, Hung Mao fashion.
For a time he looked through the file, but there was nothing there. Only that Ebert had worked with the man some years before – in Tolonen’s office, when they were both cadets. Then why the payments? Again he almost missed it: was slow to recognize what was staring him in the face, there on the very first page of the file. It was a number. The reference coding of the senior officer the young cadet had reported to while he had been stationed in Bremen ten years earlier. Chen drew in his breath sharply.
DeVore!
He shut the screen down and stood, feeling almost light-headed now that he had made the connection. I’ve got you now, Hans Ebert, he thought. Yes, and I’ll make you pay for your insult.
Chen picked up his papers and returned them to his pocket, then looked across at the central desk again, remembering how his friend Lautner had reacted – the sourness of that moment tainting his triumph. Then, swallowing his bitterness, he shook his head. So it was in this world. It was no use expecting otherwise.
He smiled grimly, unconsciously wiping at his cheek, then turned and began to make his way back through the web of gangways to the exit.
Yes, he thought. I’ve got you now, you bastard. I’ll pin your balls to the f*cking floor for what you’ve done. But first you, Axel Haavikko. First you.