The Middle Kingdom (12 page)

"No better
place in the Net," he answered, saying nothing of the excellent
Mu Chua's, where he and others from the Above usually spent their
time here, nor of his loathing of the place and of the types, like
Jyan, with whom he had to deal. "You'd best say what you want,
Kao Jyan. I've business to attend to."

Jyan looked up
at him, a sly, knowing expression in his eyes. "I'll not keep
you long,
mister
contact man. What I have to say is simple and
direct enough."

Cho Hsiang
stiffened slightly, bristling at the insult Kao Jyan had offered him
in using the anglicized form of
hsien sheng,
but his mind was
already working on the question of what it was Jyan wanted. As yet he
saw no danger in it for himself, even when Jyan leaned forward and
said in a whisper, "I know who you work for, Cho Hsiang. I found
it out."

Jyan leaned
back, watching him hawkishly, the fingers of his right hand pulling
at the fingers of the left. "That should be worth something,
don't you think?"

Cho Hsiang sat
back, his mind working quickly. Did he mean Hong Cao? If so, how had
Jyan found out? Who, of Hsiang's contacts, had traced the connection
back? Or was Jyan just guessing? Trying to squeeze him for a little
extra? He looked at the hireling again, noting just how closely the
other was watching him, then shrugged.

"I don't
know what you mean. I am my own man. I'm not a filthy hireling."

He made the
insult pointed, but Jyan just waved it aside. "You forget what
you hired me for this time, mister contact man. It was way beyond
your level. I knew at once you were working for someone else. And not
just anyone. This one had power. Real power. Power to make deals with
Security, to trade with other, powerful men. With money to oil the
cogs and sweep away the traces. That's not your level, Cho Hsiang.
Such people would not deign to sit at table with such as you and I."

Cho Hsiang was
quiet a moment, thoughtful; then, "Give me a name."

Jyan laughed
shortly, then leaned forward, his face now hard and humorless. "First
I want a guarantee. Understand? I want to make certain that I'm safe.
That they'll not be able to come for me and make sure of my silence."

He made to
speak, but Jyan shook his head tersely. "No, Cho Hsiang. Listen.
I've made a tape of all I know. It makes interesting listening. But
tapes can go missing. So I've made a copy and secured it in a
computer time-lock. Never mind where. But that time-lock needs to be
reset by me every two days. If it isn't, then the copy goes directly
to Security."

Cho Hsiang took
a deep breath. "I see. And what do you want in return for your
silence?"

In answer Jyan
took the tape from the pocket of his one-piece and pushed it across
the table to him. "I think they'll find a price that suits us
both."

Smiling, Jyan
refilled his cup from the bottle, then, sitting back again, raised it
in salute. "You said you wanted a name."

Cho Hsiang
hesitated, his stomach tightening, then shook his head. He hadn't
seen it at first, but now he saw it clearly. Jyan's talk of
safeguards had brought it home to him. It was best he knew nothing.
Or, if not nothing, then as little as possible. Such knowledge as
Jyan had was dangerous.

"Suit
yourself," said Jyan, laughing, seeing the apprehension in Cho
Hsiang's face. When he spoke again his voice was harsh; no longer the
voice of a hireling, but that of a superior. "Arrange a meeting.
Tomorrow. Here, at Big White's."

Cho Hsiang
leaned forward, angered by Jyan's sudden change of tone, then sat
back, realizing that things
had
changed. He picked up the tape
and pocketed it, then got up from his chair and went to the door.
"I'll see what I can do."

Jyan smiled
again. "Oh, and Cho Hsiang . . . pay Big White for me on your
way out."

LEHMANN turned
sharply, the low, urgent buzzing of the desk alarm sending his heart
into his mouth. Four symbols had appeared on the screen of his
personal comset, Han pictograms that spelled Yen C/ung—Eye—the
code word for his Midlevel contact, Hong Cao.

That it had
appeared on his personal screen indicated its urgency. No computer
line, however well protected, could be guaranteed discreet. For that
reason Hong Cao had been instructed to use the personal code only as
a last resort.

Placing his
right forefinger to the screen, Lehmann drew an oval, then dotted the
center of it. At once the message began to spill out onto the screen.

It was brief and
to the point. Lehmann read it through once, then a secqnd time.
Satisfied he had it memorized, he pressed CLEAR and held the tab down
for a minute—time enough to remove all memory of the
transmission. Only then did he sit back, stunned by the import of the
message.

"Shit!"
he said softly, then leaned forward to tap in DeVore's personal
contact code.

Someone knew.
Someone had figured out how it all connected. .

DeVore was out
on patrol. Part of his face appeared on the screen, overlarge, the
signal hazed, distorted. Lehmann realized at once that DeVore was
staring down into a wrist set.

"Pietr!
What is it?"

Lehmann
swallowed. "Howard. Look, it's nothing really. Just that you—you
left your gloves. Okay? I thought you might want to pick them up. And
maybe have a drink."

DeVore's face
moved back, coming into clearer focus. There was a moment's
hesitation, then he nodded. "I'll be off duty in an hour. I'll
come collect them then. Okay?"

"Fine."
Lehmann cut contact at once.

The package from
Hong Cao containing the tape and a sealed message card arrived a half
bell later by special courier. Lehmann stared at it a moment, then
put it unopened in the top drawer of his desk and locked it.

His first
instinct had been right. They should have erased all traces that led
back to them. Killed the killers. Killed the agents and the contact
men. Killed everyone who knew. DeVore had argued against this, saying
that to do so would only draw attention, but he, Lehmann, had been
right. And now they would have to do it anyway. If they still could.

When DeVore
arrived they took the package straight through to Lehmann's
secure-room and listened to the tape through headphones. Afterward
they sat there looking at each other.

DeVore was the
first to speak. "He may have got it wrong, but he was close
enough to do us damage. If Security investigates Berdichev at any
depth they'll uncover the links with you. And then the whole
structure comes crashing down."

"So what do
you suggest?"

"We kill
him."

"What about
the copy tape?"

"Leave that
to me." DeVore reached across and took the message card. He
looked at it, then handed it to Lehmann.

Lehmann
activated the card, read it, then handed it back across to DeVore.

"Good. This
Kao Jyan wants a meeting. I'll see to that myself. Meanwhile I've
something you can do." - Lehmann frowned. "What's that?"

"Yang Lai's
alive. He tried to make contact with Wyatt. My men have found out
where he is, but he'll only speak to you or Wyatt. It seems you're
the only ones he trusts."

Lehmann felt his
stomach flip over for the second time that morning. Yang Lai had been
one of the ministers of the Edict, Lwo Kang's chief officials. They
had thought him with Lwo Kang when the Minister and all his principal
men were killed.

"Then he
wasn't in the dome when it went up?"

DeVore shook his
head. "I only heard two hours back. All of the internal Security
films were destroyed in the explosion, but the door tally survived.
The body count for the solarium came out two short. It seems Junior
Minister Yang is one."

"Then who's
the other?"

DeVore shrugged.
"We don't know yet. But Yang Lai might. Go see him. Do what you
must."

Lehmann nodded.
This time he would act on his instincts. "Okay. I'll deal with
him."

DeVore stood up.
"And don't worry, Pietr. We can handle this. You know we can."
He glanced down at the tape and card, then back at Lehmann, "Destroy
those. I'll see to the rest. Oh, and Pietr..."

"What?"

"My gloves.
. . ."

JYAN had spent
two hours at Big White's after Cho Hsiang had gone. A meal of real
pork and vegetables, a bottle of good wine, and a long session with
two of the house's filthiest girls— all on Cho Hsiang's
bill—had put him in a good mood. It was all going his way at
last. Things were happening for him. About time, he thought, turning
the corner and entering the corridor that led to his apartment.

In the noise and
crush of the corridor he almost missed it. Almost went straight in.
But something—some sense he had developed over the
years—stopped him. He drew his hand back from the palm-lock and
bent down, examining it. There was no doubt about it. The lock had
been tampered with.

He put his ear
to the door. Nothing. At least, nothing unusual. He could hear a soft
machine purr coming from within, but that was normal. Or almost
normal. . . .

He turned and
looked back down the busy corridor, ignoring the passersby, trying to
think. Had he left any of his machines on? Had he? He scratched at
his neck nervously, unable to remember, then looked back at the marks
on the lock, frowning. They looked new, but they might have been
there some while. It might just have been kids.

It might have.
But he'd best take no chances. Not in the circumstances.

He placed his
palm flat against the lock, then, as the lock hissed open, drew back
against the wall, away from the opening.

As the door slid
back slowly, he looked into the room for some sign of an intruder.
Then, drawing his knife with one swift movement, he stepped into the
room.

The knife was
knocked from his hand. He saw it flip through the air. Then a hand
was clamped roughly about his mouth.

Jyan struggled
to turn and face his assailant, one arm going up instinctively to
ward off a blow, but the man was strong and had a tight grip on him.

Then, suddenly,
he was falling backward.

He looked up,
gasping. Kuan Yin, goddess of mercy! It was Chen!

Chen glared down
at him angrily. "Where have you been?"

Two or three
faces appeared in the doorway behind Chen. Jyan waved them away, then
got up and moved past Chen to close the door. Getting his breath
again, he turned to face the
kwai,
a faint smile returning to
his lips. "IVe been arranging things. Making deals."

He went to move
past him again, but Chen caught his arm and sniffed at him. "You've
been whoring, more like. I can smell the stink of them on you."

Jyan laughed. "A
little pleasure after business, that's all." He moved into the
room, then sat down heavily on the bed, facing Chen. "Anyway,
what are you doing here?"

Chen sheathed
his big hunting knife and crossed the room. There, in a comer recess,
was an old-fashioned games machine. Turning his back on Jyan, he
stared at the screen. "I thought I'd come and find out what was
happening. You were gone a long time."

Jyan laughed,
then pulled off his left slipper. "As I said, I was making
deals. Working for both of us."

Chen toyed with
the keys of the games machine a moment longer, then turned back.
"And?"

Jyan smiled and
kicked off the other slipper, then began to peel off his one-piece.
"We've another meet. Tomorrow, at Big White's. We fix the price
then."

Oblivious of the
other man, Jyan stripped naked, then went over to the comer shower
and fed five ten-/en tokens into the meter beside it. Drawing back
the curtain, he stepped inside and, as the lukewarm water began to
run, started to soap himself down.

Chen watched
Jyan's outline through the plastic a moment, then tuined back to the
machine.

It was an
ancient thing that had three standard games programed into it;
t'.iao
chi,
hsiang chi, and
wei chi.
He had set it up for a
low-level game of
wei
chi, and the nineteen-by-nineteen grid
filled the screen. He was playing black and had made only twenty or
so moves, but white was already in a strong position.

Chen looked
about him once again. He had never been in Jyan's room before
today—had, in truth, never been interested in Jyan's
homelife—but now the situation was getting deep. It had seemed
best to know how things stood.

Cheap tapestries
hung on the walls. Standard works by Tung Yuan and Li Ch'eng; scenes
of mountains and valleys, tall pine trees and gentle-flowing rivers.
The sort of crap one saw everywhere in the Net. On the bedside table
was a small shrine to Wen Ti, the evidence of burnt candles in the
tray revealing a side of Jyan he would never have guessed. A small
rug covered part of the bare ice floor at the end of the single bed,
but otherwise the only furnishings were a pair of cheap fold-up
chairs.

Some of the
things there had surprised him. In a box under the bed he had found a
recent generation SimFic HeadStim: a direct-input job that linked up
to wires implanted in the brain. That alone must have cost Jyan at
least five hundred
yuan
at current black market prices—maybe
even the full thousand he had borrowed from Whiskers Lu—but
unlike the two wraparounds he had, it was a useless item—a
status symbol only— because Jyan, like most in the Net, hadn't
had the operation.

A huge blue and
gold er-silk eiderdown covered the bed. Underneath it two bright red
cotton blankets were spread out over the normal ice-cloth sheets of
the bed—as if for a wedding night. For some reason it had
reminded Chen of that moment on the mountainside when Jyan had pulled
the wine bottle and the glasses from his sack. There was something
dangerously impractical about that side of Jyan. Something hideously
self-indulgent. It was a flaw in him. The kind of thing that could
kill a man.