DeVore braced himself as the lift fell rapidly, one hand gripping the brass and leather handle overhead, the other cradling the severed head against his hip. They had quick-frozen the neck to stop blood seeping against his uniform and peeled away the eyelids. In time the retinal pattern would decay, but for now it was good enough to fool the cameras.
As the lift slowed he prepared himself, lifting the head up in front of his face. When it stopped, he put the right eye against the indentation in the wall before him, then moved it away, tapping in the code. Three seconds, then the door would hiss open. He tucked the head beneath his arm and drew his gun.
‘What’s happening up top?’
The guard at the desk was turning towards him, smiling, expecting Sanders, but he had barely uttered the words when DeVore opened fire, blowing him from his seat. The second guard was coming out of a side room, balancing a tray with three bowls of ch’a between his hands. He thrust the tray away and went for his sidearm, but DeVore was too quick for him. He staggered back, then fell and lay still.
DeVore walked across to the desk and set the head down, then looked about him. Nothing had changed. It was all how he remembered it. In eleven years they had not even thought of changing their procedures. Creatures of habit, they were – men of tradition. DeVore laughed scornfully. It was their greatest weakness and the reason why he would win.
He went to the safe. It was a high-security design with a specially strengthened form of ice for its walls and a blank front that could be opened only by the correct sequence of light pulses on the appropriate light-sensitive panels. That too was unchanged. It won’t help you – that’s what Sanders had said. Well, Sanders and his like didn’t think the way he thought. They approached things head on. But he…
DeVore laughed, then took the four tiny packets from the tunic and, taking out their contents, attached them to the ice on each side of the safe’s rectangular front. They looked like tiny hoops, like snakes eating their own tails. Four similar hoops – much larger, their destructive capacity a thousand times that of these tiny, ring-like versions – had begun it all, ten years earlier, when they had ripped the Imperial Solarium apart, killing the T’ang’s Minister Lwo Kang and his advisors. Now their smaller brothers would provide him with the means to continue that War.
He smiled, then went across to one of the side rooms and lay down on the floor. A moment later the explosion juddered the room about him. He waited a few seconds then got up and went back inside. The guardroom was a mess. Dust filled the air; machinery and bits of human flesh and bone littered the walls and floor. Where the safe had been the wall was ripped apart, while the safe itself, unharmed by the explosion, had tumbled forward and now lay there in the centre of the room, covered by debris.
He took off his tunic and wrapped it about the safe, then slowly dragged it across the floor and into the lift. He looked back into the room, then reached across and activated the lift. He had no need for the head this time – there were no checks on who left the room, or on who used the lift to ascend. Again, that was a flaw in their thinking. He would have designed it otherwise: would have made it easier to break in, harder to get out. That way one trapped one’s opponent – surrounded him. As in wei chi.
At the top Lehmann was waiting for him, a fresh one-piece over his arm.
‘How are things?’ DeVore asked, stripping off quickly and slipping into the dark green maintenance overalls.
Lehmann stared at the safe. ‘The Ping Tiao have held their end. We’ve begun shipping the armaments out through the top east gate. Wiegand reports that the Security channels are buzzing with news of the attack. We should expect a counter-attack any time now.’
DeVore looked up sharply. ‘Then we’d best get this out quick, neh?’
‘I’ve four men waiting outside, and another two holding the west transit lift. I’ve told the Ping Tiao it’s out of order.’
‘Excellent. Anything else?’
‘Good news. The rioting in Braunschweig has spilled over into neighbouring hsien. It seems our friends were right. It’s a powder keg down there.’
‘Maybe…’ DeVore looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. ‘Right. Get those men in here. I want this out of here before the Ping Tiao find out what we’ve done. Then we’ll blow the bridges.’
Li Yuan went at once, not waiting for the T’ang to resolve their dispute. He went out on to the broad balcony and stood there at the balustrade, looking out across the blue expanse of the Caspian towards the distant shoreline. Wei Feng’s son, Wei Chan Yin, joined him there a moment later, tense with anger.
For a time neither of them spoke, then Wei Chan Yin lifted his chin. His voice was cold and clear – the voice of reason itself.
‘The trouble is, Wang Sau-leyan is right. We have not adapted to the times.’
Li Yuan turned his head, looking at the older man’s profile. ‘Maybe so. But there are ways of saying such things.’
Wei Chan Yin relaxed slightly, then gave a small laugh. ‘His manners are appalling, aren’t they? Perhaps it has something to do with his exile as a child.’
Their eyes met and they laughed.
Li Yuan turned, facing Wei Chan Yin. Wei Feng’s eldest son was thirty-six, a tall, well-built man with a high forehead and handsome features. His eyes were smiling, yet at times they could be penetrating, almost frightening in their intensity. Li Yuan had known him since birth and had always looked up to him, but now they were equals in power. Differences in age meant nothing beside their roles as future T’ang.
‘What does he want, do you think?’
Wei Chan Yin’s features formed into a kind of facial shrug. He stared out past Li Yuan a moment, considering things, then looked back at him.
‘My father thinks he’s a troublemaker.’
‘But you think otherwise.’
‘I think he’s a clever young man. Colder, far more controlled than he appears. That display back there – I think he was play-acting.’
Li Yuan smiled. It was what he himself had been thinking. Yet it was a superb act. He had seen the outrage on the faces of his father and the older T’ang. If Wang Sau-leyan’s purpose had been merely to upset them, he had succeeded marvellously. But why? What could he gain by such tactics?
‘I agree. But my question remains. What does he want?’
‘Change.’
Li Yuan hesitated, waiting for Wei Chan Yin to say more. But Chan Yin had finished.
‘Change?’ Li Yuan’s laughter was an expression of disbelief. Then, with a tiny shudder of revulsion, he saw what his cousin’s words implied. ‘You mean…’
It was left unstated, yet Wei Chan Yin nodded. They were talking of the murder of Wang Hsien. Chan Yin’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘It is common knowledge that he hated his father. It would make a kind of sense if his hatred extended to all that his father held dear.’
‘The Seven?’
‘And Chung Kuo itself.’
Li Yuan shook his head slowly. Was it possible? If so… He swallowed, then looked away, appalled. ‘Then he must never become a T’ang.’
Wei Chan Yin laughed sourly. ‘Would that it were so easy, cousin. But be careful what you say. The young Wang has ears in unexpected places. Between ourselves there are no secrets, but there are some, even amongst our own, who do not understand when to speak and when to remain silent.’
Again there was no need to say more. Li Yuan understood at once who Wei Chan Yin was talking of. Hou Tung-po, the young T’ang of South America, had spent much time recently with Wang Sau-leyan on his estates.
He shivered again, as if the sunlight suddenly had no strength to warm him, then reached out and laid his hand on Wei Chan Yin’s arm.
‘My father was right. These are evil times. Yet we are Seven. Even if some prove weak, if the greater part remain strong…’
Wei covered Li Yuan’s hand with his own. ‘As you say, good cousin. But I must go. There is much to be done.’
Li Yuan smiled. ‘Your father’s business?’
‘Of course. We are our fathers’ hands, neh?’
Li Yuan watched him go, then turned back and leaned across the balustrade, staring outward. But this time his thoughts went back to the day when his father had summoned him and introduced him to the sharp-faced official, Ssu Lu Shan. That afternoon had changed his life, for it had been then that he had learned of the Great Deception, and of the Ministry that had been set up to administer it.
History had it that Pan Chao’s great fleet had landed here on the shores of Astrakhan in ad 98. He had trapped the Ta Ts’in garrison between his sea forces and a second great, land-based army and, after a battle lasting three days, had set up the yellow dragon banner of the Emperor above the old town’s walls. But history lied. Pan Chao had, indeed, crossed the Caspian to meet representatives of the Ta Ts’in – consuls of Trajan’s mighty Roman Empire. But no vast Han army had ever landed on this desolate shore, no Han had crossed the great range of the Urals and entered Europe as conquerors. Not until the great dictator, Tsao Ch’un, had come, little more than a century past.
Li Yuan shivered, then turned away, angry with himself. Lies or not, it was the world they had inherited; it did no good to dwell upon alternatives. He had done so for a time and it had almost destroyed him. Now he had come to terms with it: had made his peace with the world of appearances. And yet sometimes – as now – the veil would slip and he would find himself wishing it would fly apart, and that he could say, just once, This is the truth of things. But that was impossible. Heaven itself would fall before the words could leave his lips. He stared back at the doorway, his anger finding its focus once more in the upstart, Wang Sau-leyan.
Change… Was Prince Wei right? Was it Change Wang Sau-leyan wanted? Did he hunger to set the Great Wheel turning once again – whatever the cost? If so, they must act to stop him. Because Change was impossible. Inconceivable.
Or was it?
Li Yuan hesitated. No, he thought, not inconceivable. Not now. Even so, it could not be. They could not let it be. His father was right: Change was the great destroyer. The turning Wheel crushed all beneath it, indiscriminately. It had always been so. If there was a single reason for the existence of the Seven it was this – to keep the Wheel from turning.
He turned back, making his way through, his role in things suddenly clear to him. He would be the brake, the block that kept the Wheel from turning.
At the turn DeVore stopped and flattened himself against the wall of the corridor, listening. Behind him the four men rested, taking their breath, the safe nestled in the net between them. Ahead there were noises – footsteps, the muffled sound of voices. But whose? These levels were supposed to be empty, the path to the bridge clear.
DeVore turned and pointed to a doorway to their right. Without needing to be told they crossed the space and went inside. Satisfied, DeVore went to the left, moving down the corridor quickly, silently, conscious of the voices growing louder as he approached the junction. Before the turn he stopped and slipped into a side room, then waited, his ear pressed to the door. When they had gone by, he slipped out again, taking the right-hand turn, following them.
Ping Tiao. He was certain of it. But why were they here? And what were they doing?
Ten of them. Maybe more. Unless…
There was no reason for his hunch, yet he knew, even as he had it, that he was right. They were Ping Tiao. But not all of them. They had taken prisoners. High-ranking Security officers, perhaps. But why? For their ransom value? Or was there some other reason?
He frowned and ran on silently, knowing that he had to get closer to them, to make sure he was right, because if they had taken prisoners it was something he should know. Something he could use. He had agreed with Gesell beforehand that there would be no prisoners, but Gesell wasn’t to be trusted.
The bridge was up ahead, the corridor on the far side of it cleared by his men earlier. But how had they found out about it? He had told Gesell nothing. Which meant they had a man inside his organization. Or had paid someone close to him for the information. Even so, they didn’t know about the safe. Only he knew about that.
They were much closer now. He could hear them clearly. Three – no, four – voices. They had slowed down as they came near the bridge, cautious now, suspicious of some kind of trap. The next turn was only twenty ch’i ahead. From there he would be able to see them clearly. But it was risky. If they saw him...
DeVore slowed, then stopped just before the junction, hunched down, listening again. They had paused, perhaps to send one of their number ahead of them across the bridge. He waited, then, when he heard the call come back, put his head round the corner, keeping low, where they’d not expect to see anyone.
He took it all in at a glance, then moved back sharply. Five Ping Tiao and eight bound prisoners. As he’d thought. They weren’t in uniform, but he could tell by their moustaches and the way they tied their hair that they were officers. Such things were a sign of rank as unmistakable as the patches on the chests of their dress uniforms.
So. Gesell was taking prisoners. He would find out why, then confront the man with the fact. It would be fun to hear what excuse he would give. Meanwhile, his man on the far side of the bridge could follow them, find out where they took their captives.
He smiled and was about to turn away when he heard footsteps coming back towards him.
‘Go on across!’ a voice called out, closer than before. ‘Quick now! I’ll meet up with you later.’
DeVore took a deep breath, then drew his gun. He looked at it a moment, then slipped it back into its holster. No. He would need to be quiet. Anyway, a knife was just as effective when it came to killing a man.
He looked about him quickly, wondering whether he should hide and let the man pass, then decided against it. He was almost certain he hadn’t been seen, so he would have the element of surprise.
As the footsteps came on, he flattened himself against the wall. Then, as the man turned the corner, he reached out and pulled him close, whirling him about and pinning him against his chest, his right hand going to the man’s throat, the knife’s blade pressed tight against the skin.
‘Cry out and you’re dead,’ he said softly in his ear.
‘Turner!’ It was a whisper of surprise.
‘Shen Lu Chua,’ he answered quietly, tightening his grip on the Han. ‘What a surprise to meet you here.’
The Ping Tiao leader swallowed painfully, but he held his head proudly, showing no sign of fear. ‘What are you doing here?’
DeVore laughed softly. ‘You forget who holds the knife, Shen Lu Chua. Why is Gesell taking prisoners?’
‘You saw... ? Of course.’
‘Well?’
‘You think I’d tell you?’ Shen sniffed.
‘It doesn’t matter. I know what Gesell intends.’
Shen’s mocking laughter confirmed it. This was his idea. And Gesell knew nothing of it. Which in itself was interesting. It meant there were splits in their ranks – divisions he could capitalize upon. But why be surprised? They were human, after all.
‘You know nothing...’
But DeVore had stopped listening. Hugging Shen closer he thrust the tip of the knife up through the Han’s neck, into the cavern of his mouth, then let him fall. For a moment he watched Shen lie there, struggling to remove the blade, small croaking noises coming from his ruined larynx, then he stepped forward and, kneeling over the man, tugged the head back sharply, breaking his neck.
Hung Mien-lo sat at his desk in his office, the small, desk-mounted screen at his side lit with figures. Standing before him, his head bowed, was the Master of the Inner Chamber, Sun Li Hua.
‘You summoned me, Chancellor Hung?’
Hung Mien-lo glanced at Sun, then continued to tap in figures on the keyboard.
‘You took your time, Master Sun.’
Sun kept his head lowered. ‘I am a busy man. There was much to organize for my master.’
Hung sniffed. ‘And which master is that, Sun?’
Sun smiled faintly. ‘The same master we both serve.’
Hung Mien-lo raised his head and stared at Sun, then laughed and, reaching across, turned the screen about so that it faced the man.
‘Do you recognize these figures, Master Sun?’
Sun raised his head for the first time, studying the screen. Then he looked back at Hung, his expression unchanged. ‘Those look like the household accounts, Chancellor.’
‘And so they are. But they’re wrong. They’ve been tampered with. And not just once, but consistently, from what I can make out.’ He touched the pad to clear the screen, then sat back, smiling. ‘Someone has been milking them of quite considerable sums these last four years.’
Sun met his gaze openly. ‘And?’
Hung nodded, admiring the man’s coolness. ‘And there are only three men who could have done it. I’ve questioned the other two, and it’s clear that they are innocent. Which leaves you, Master Sun. Your family has prospered greatly these past four years.’
‘Are you accusing me of embezzlement, Chancellor Hung?’
Hung Mien-lo smiled. ‘I am.’
Sun stared back at him a while, then laughed. ‘Is that all? Why, if every official who had massaged his accounts were to be arrested, the Seven would quickly find themselves short of servants.’
‘Maybe so. But you have been caught, Master Sun. I’ve evidence enough to have you demoted to the Net.’
Sun looked back at him, untroubled, his smile intact. He recognized the big squeeze when he saw it. ‘What do you want, Chancellor? What’s the real reason for this meeting?’
‘You think I have an ulterior motive, is that it, Master Sun?’
There was movement in Sun’s squat face, then, uninvited, he sat down, his features set in a more serious expression. ‘We are realists, you and I. We know how the wind blows.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sun sat back, relaxing, his face filled with sudden calculation. ‘We have been fortunate, you and I. Events have moved strongly in our favour this last year. We have risen while others have fallen away. Our families are strong, our kin powerful.’
‘So?’
Sun’s lips were smiling now, but his eyes were still cold and sharp. ‘What I mean is this. We should be allies, Hung Mien-lo. Allies, not enemies.’
Hung Mien-lo leaned towards him, his expression suddenly hard, uncompromising. ‘And if I say no?’
For the first time a flicker of uncertainty crossed Sun Li Hua’s face. Then, reassuring himself, he laughed. ‘You would not be talking to me if you had already decided. You would have had me arrested. But that’s not your purpose, is it? You want something from me.’
But Hung was glaring at him, angry now. ‘Have you no ears, man? No understanding of the situation you are in?’ He shook his head, astonished. ‘You have dared the ultimate, Sun Li Hua. You have killed a T’ang. And even the merest whisper in some ears of your involvement would bring about your certain death.’
‘You have no proof...’ Sun began, then saw that what Hung had said was true. Such a thing needed no proving: it was enough that suspicion existed. And then he understood what Hung Mien-lo had been getting at – why he had raised the matter of the embezzled funds. Demotion to the Net would make him vulnerable. Would place him beyond the protection of law and kin. He stared at his hands a moment, sobered. There was nothing he could do. Hung Mien-lo held all the cards.
He bowed his head. ‘What do you want?’
Hung Mien-lo studied Sun Li Hua a moment, savouring his victory. For some time now he had wanted to humble the man, to pull him down from his high horse. Today, forced by the Prince to act, he had taken a gamble: had wagered that what he’d guessed about Sun and the old T’ang was true. And had won. But that was only the start. The next step raised the stakes considerably. This time he gambled with his life.
Thus far his hands had been clean. Thus far others had accomplished all he had wished for, as if on his behalf. But now...
He took a deep breath, studying the man, making certain in his own mind that this was what he wanted. Then, calmly, his voice controlled, he answered Sun.
‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to kill again. I want you to kill the new T’ang, Wang Ta-hung.’
Emily Ascher’s face was dark with anger, her nostrils flared, her eyes wide, glaring at Gesell. She stood face on to him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted back challengingly.
‘Go on! Confront him with it! I bet the bastard denies it!’
Gesell’s chest rose and fell violently. The news of Shen’s death had shaken him badly. Things had been going so well...
‘You’re sure?’
She made a sharp, bitter sound of disgust. ‘It was his knife. The blade with the pearled handle. The one we confiscated from him when he came to see us that time.’
‘I see...’
She leaned closer, her voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Then you’ll kill him, neh? As you said you would if he double-crossed us?’
Gesell shuddered involuntarily, then nodded. ‘If it’s true,’ he said softly. ‘But he’ll deny it.’
‘Then you’ll know it’s true.’
‘Yes...’ He turned and looked across to where the albino was standing, watching their exchange. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded, his voice raised for the first time since they had come up in the lift.
‘He’ll be here,’ Lehmann answered coldly.
‘And if he’s not?’ Ascher asked.
‘Then we die here,’ Gesell said, not looking at her, returning the albino’s cold stare.
In the distance there was the stutter of small arms fire, then a muffled explosion that made the floor shudder beneath their feet. The armaments had been shipped out more than fifteen minutes back. It was time to get out. But they couldn’t. Not until Turner was here.
Gesell spat then turned away, pacing up and down slowly, looking about him at the men and women gathered in the corridors nearby. ‘What’s keeping him?’ he muttered angrily. He could see how tense his people were, how quickly they had caught his mood. Under his breath he cursed Turner. Emily was right. They should never have got into this.
Then, as he turned back, he saw him.
‘Well,’ he said quietly, glancing at Ascher. ‘Here he is now.’
DeVore spoke briefly to the albino, then came across. ‘You’re ready?’
Gesell shook his head. ‘Not yet. I want some answers.’
‘About Shen Lu Chua?’
Gesell laughed briefly, surprised by his audacity. ‘You’re a cool one, Turner. What happened?’
DeVore was staring back at him, his whole manner candid, open. ‘I killed him. I had to. He attacked me.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I tried to explain to him why I was there, but he gave me no chance.’
‘No...’ Gesell looked at Ascher, then back at DeVore. ‘I knew Shen. He wouldn’t do such a thing.’
‘You knew him?’ DeVore laughed. ‘Then I guess you knew he was smuggling out eight prisoners? Senior Security officers.’
Gesell felt Ascher touch his elbow. ‘He’s lying...’
DeVore shook his head. ‘No. Ask your man Mach to check on it. Shen’s sidekick, Yun Ch’o, has taken them to an apartment in Ottersleben. Level Thirty-four. I think you know the place.’
Gesell tensed. Maybe Turner was bluffing, stalling for time. But that made no sense. As he said, it was easy for Mach to check. In any case, something else was bothering him. Something Turner hadn’t yet explained.
‘They tell me they found the body down at One-twenty. Even if it’s as you say and Shen was double-crossing us, why were you down there?’
He stepped back sharply as DeVore reached into his uniform jacket. But it wasn’t a weapon DeVore drew from his inner pocket. It was a map. Another map. DeVore handed it across to him.
‘It was too good an opportunity to miss. I knew it was down there. I’d seen it, you see. Years ago.’
Gesell looked up at him again, his mouth open with surprise. ‘Bremen... Gods! It’s a Security diagram of Bremen.’
‘A part of it. The rest I’ve sent on.’
‘Sent on?’ He was about to ask what Turner meant when one of his messengers pushed through the crowded corridor behind him and came up to him, almost breathless. He made the man repeat the message, then whirled about, facing Turner.
‘There’s a problem.’
‘A problem?’ DeVore raised his eyebrows.
‘It seems we’re trapped. The last of the bridges has been blown.’
‘I know. I ordered it.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard. We’re not going out that way. That’s what they’re waiting for, don’t you see? They’ll have worked out what we’ve done and they’ll be sitting there, waiting to pick us off in the side corridors on the other side of the bridge. But I’m not going to give them the opportunity. I’ve a craft waiting for us on the roof.’ DeVore glanced at the timer inset into his wrist. ‘We’ve less than five minutes, however, so we’d best get moving.’
Gesell glanced at the map, then looked back at DeVore, astonished, the business with Shen forgotten. ‘You’ve transporters?’
‘That’s what I said. But let’s go. Before they work out what we’re up to.’
‘But where? Where are we going?’
DeVore smiled. ‘South. To the mountains.’