The Middle Kingdom (66 page)

"When will
they be here?"

"They're
here now. Outside. They'll come in when you're ready for them."

DeVore laughed.
"I'm ready now."

"Then I'll
tell Douglas."

DeVore watched
Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more
at ease now than he had ever been; saw, too, how they looked to him
now as a leader, a shaper of events, and noted with irony how
different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what was
different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man
attractive. Even the potentiality of power.

He stood back,
away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely
closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of
them. Seeing how closely Weis was watching him, he made an effort to
be more warm, more friendly, in his greeting there, but all the while
he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.

Then, without
further ado, they went to the table.

The map was of
the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans,
southern Italy, and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant color was
white, though there was a faint, almost ivory tinge to it, caused by
the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City's regular
shape—each tiny hexagon a
hsien;
an administrative
district.

All Security
garrisons were marked in a heavier shade of yellow, Bremen to the
northwest, close to the coast, Kiev to the east, almost off the map,
Bucharest far to the south; these three the most important of the
twenty shown. Weimar, to the southeast of Bremen, was marked with a
golden circle, forming a triangle with the Berlin garrison to the
northeast.

Two large areas
were marked in red, both in the bottom half of the map. One, to the
left, straddled the old geographic areas of Switzerland and Austria;
the other, smaller and to the right, traced the border of old Russia
and cut down into Rumania. In these ancient, mountainous regions—the
Alps and the Carpathians—the City stopped abruptly, edging the
wilderness. They formed great, jagged holes'in its perfect whiteness.

Again in the top
right-hand section of the map the dominant whiteness ceased abruptly
in a line extending down from Danzig
hsien
to Poznan, and
thence to Krakow and across to Lvov, ending on the shores of the
Black Sea, at Odessa. This, shaded the soft green of springtime, was
the great growing area, where the Hundred Plantations—in
reality eighty-seven—were situated; an area which comprised
some twenty-eight percent of the total landmass of City Europe.
DeVore's own plantation was in the northwest of this area, adjoining
the garrison at Lodz.

He let them
study the map a while, accustoming themselves once again to its
details, then drew their attention to the large red-shaded area to
the bottom left of the map.

To him the
outline of the Swiss Wilds always looked the same. That dark red
shape was a giant carp turning in the water, its head facing east,
its tail flicking out toward Marseilles
hsien,
its cruel mouth
open, poised to eat Lake Balaton, which, like a tiny minnow, swam
some three hundred It to the east. Seven of the great Security
garrisons ringed the Wilds—Geneva, Zurich, Munich, and Vienna
to the north, Marseilles, Milan, and Zagreb to the south.
Strategically that made little sense, for the Wilds were almost
empty, yet it was as if the City's architect had known that this
vast, jagged hole—this primitive wilderness at the heart of its
hivelike orderliness—would one day prove its weakest point.

As, indeed, it
would. And all the preparedness of architects would not prevent the
City's fall. He leaned forward and jabbed his finger down into the
red, at a point where the carp's backbone seemed to twist.

"Here!"
he said, looking about him and seeing he had their attention. "This
is where our base will be."

He reached into
the drawer beneath the table and drew out the transparent template,
then laid it down over the shaded area. At once that part of the map
seemed to come alive; was overlaid with a fine web of brilliant gold,
the nodes of which sparkled in the overhead light.

They leaned
closer, attentive, as he outlined the details of his scheme. Three
nerve centers, built deep into the mountainsides, joined to a total
of eighteen other fortresses, each linked by discrete communication
systems to at least two other bases, yet each capable of functioning
independently. The whole thing hidden beneath layers of ice and rock,
untraceable from the air: a flexible and formidable system of
defenses from which they would launch their attack on the Seven. And
the cost?

The cost they
knew already. It was a staggering sum. Far more than any one of them
could contemplate. But together . . .

DeVore looked
from face to face, gauging their response, coming to Weis last of
all.

"Well, Shih
Weis? Do you think your backers would approve?"

He saw the
flicker of uncertainty at the back of Weis's eyes, and smiled
inwardly. The man was still conditioned to think like a loyal subject
of the T'ang. Even so, if he could be pushed to persuade his backers
. . .

DeVore smiled
encouragingly. "You're happy with the way funds will be
channeled through to the project, I assume?"

Weis nodded,
then leaned forward, touching the template.

"This is
hand drawn. Why's that?"

DeVore laughed.
"Tell me, Shih Weis, do you trust all your dealings to the
record?"

Weis smiled and
others about the table laughed. It was a common business procedure to
keep a single written copy of a deal until it was considered safe for
the venture to be announced publicly. It was too easy to gain access
to a company's computer records when everyone used the same
communications web.

"You want
the T'ang to know our scheme beforehand?"

Weis withdrew
his hand, then looked at DeVore again and smiled. "I think my
friends will be pleased enough, Major."

DeVore's face
did not change immediately, but inwardly he tensed. It had been
agreed beforehand that they would refer to him as
Shih
Scott.
Weis, he was certain, had not forgotten that, nor had he mentioned
his former Security rank without some underlying reason.

You're dead,
thought DeVore, smiling pleasantly at the man as if amused by his
remark. As soon as you're expendable, you're dead.

"I'm
delighted, Shih Weis. Like yourself, they will be welcome anytime
they wish to visit. I would not ask them to fund anything they cannot
see with theif own eyes."

He saw the
calculation at the back of Weis's eyes that greeted his comment—saw
how he looked for a trap in every word of his—and smiled
inwardly. At least the man was wise enough to know how dangerous he
was. But his wisdom would not help him in this instance.

DeVore turned to
Barrow. "And you, Under Secretary? Have you anything to add?"

Barrow had
succeeded to Lehmann's old position, and while his contribution to
this scheme was negligible, his role as leader of the Dispersionist
faction in the House made his presence here essential. If he approved
then First Level would approve, for he was their mouthpiece, their
conscience in these times of change.

Barrow smiled
sadly, then looked down. "I wish there were some other way,
Shih
Scott. I wish that pressure in the House would prove enough, but
I am realist enough to know that change—real change—will
only come now if we push from every side." He sighed. "Your
scheme here has my sanction. My only hope is that we shall never have
to use it against the Seven."

"And mine,
Barrow Chen." DeVore assured him, allowing no trace of cynicism
to escape into his voice or face. "Yet as you say, we must be
realists. We must be prepared to use all means to further our cause.
We Europeans have been denied too long."

Afterward, alone
with Berdichev and Douglas, he talked of minor things, concealing his
pleasure that his scheme had their sanction and—more
important—their financial backing. Times have certainly
changed, he thought, admiring a small rose quartz snuff bottle
Douglas had handed him from a cabinet to one side of the study. Three
years ago they would have hesitated before speaking against the
Seven; now—however covertly—they sanction armed
rebellion.

"It's
beautiful," he said. And indeed it was. A crane, the emblem of
long life, stood out from the surface of the quartz, flanked by
magpies, signifying good luck; while encircling the top of the bottle
was a spray of peonies, emblematic of spring and wealth. The whole
thing was delightful, almost a perfect work of art, yet small enough
to enclose in the palm of his hand.

"One last
thing, Howard."

DeVore raised
his head, aware of the slight hesitation in Berdichev's voice. "What
is it? Is there a problem?"

"Yes and
no. That is, there is only if you feel there's one."

DeVore set the
rose quartz bottle down and turned to face his friend. "You're
being unusually cryptic, Soren. Are we in danger?"

Berdichev gave a
short laugh. "No. It's nothing like that. It's ... well, it's
Lehmann's son."

DeVore was
silent a moment. He looked at Douglas, then back at Berdichev.
"Lehmann's son? I didn't know Pietr had a son."

"Few did.
It was one of his best-kept secrets."

Yes, thought
DeVore, it certainly was. I thought I knew everything about you
all—every last tiny little, dirty little thing—but now
you surprise me.

"Illegitimate,
I suppose?"

Berdichev shook
his head. "Not at all. The boy's his legal heir. On Lehmann's
death he inherited the whole estate."

"Really?"

That, too, was
news to him. He had thought Lehmann had died intestate—that his
vast fortune had gone back to the Seven. It changed things
dramatically. Lehmann must have been worth at least two billion
yuan.

"It was all
done quietly, of course, as Lehmann wished."

DeVore nodded,
masking his surprise. There was a whole level of things here that he
had been totally unaware of. "Explain. Lehmann wasn't even
married. How could he have a son and heir?"

Berdichev came
across and stood beside him. "It was a long time ago. Back when
we were at college. Pietr met a girl there. A bright young thing, but
unconnected. His father, who was still alive then, refused to even
let Pietr see her. He threatened to cut him off without a
yuan
if
he did."

"And yet he
did, secretly. And married her."

Berdichev
nodded. "I was one of the witnesses at the ceremony."

DeVore looked
away thoughtfully; looked across at the window wall and at the
gathering in the garden room beyond it. "What happened?"

For a moment
Berdichev was quiet, looking back down the well of years to that
earlier time. Then, strangely, he laughed; a sad, almost weary laugh.
"You know how it is. We were young. Far too young. Pietr's
father was right: the girl wasn't suitable. She ran off with another
man. Pietr divorced her."

"And she
took the child with her?"

The look of pain
on Berdichev's face was unexpected. "No. It wasn't like that.
You see, she was four months pregnant when they divorced. Pietr only
found out by accident, when she applied to have the child aborted. Of
course, the official asked for the father's details, saw there was a
profit to be made from the information, and went straight to
Lehmann."

DeVore smiled.
It was unethical, but then so was the world. "And Pietr made her
have the child?"

Berdichev shook
his head. "She refused. Said she'd kill herself first. But Pietr
hired an advocate. You see, by law the child was his. It was
conceived within wedlock and while she was his wife any child of her
body was legally his property."

"I see. But
how did hiring an advocate help?"

"He had a
restraining order served on her. Had her taken in to hospital and the
fetus removed and placed in a MedFac nurture unit."

"Ah. Even
so, I'm surprised. Why did we never see the child? Pietr's father
died when he was twenty-three. There was no reason after that to keep
things secret."

"No. I
suppose not. But Pietr was strange about it. I tried to talk to him
about it several times, but he would walk out on me. As for the boy,
well, he never lived with his father, never saw him, and Pietr
refused ever to see the child. He thought he would remind him too
much of his mother."

DeVore's mouth
opened slightly. "He loved her, then? Even after what she did?"

"Adored
her. It's why he never married again, never courted female company. I
think her leaving killed something in him."

"How
strange. How very, very strange." DeVore looked down. "I
would never have guessed." He shook his head. "And the son?
How does he feel about his father?"

"I don't
know. He's said nothing, and I feel it impertinent to ask."

DeVore turned
and looked directly at Berdichev. "So what's the problem?"

"For the
last three years the boy has been my ward. As Pietr's executor I've
handled his affairs. But now he's of age."

"So?"

"So I'd
like you to take charge of the boy for a while."

DeVore laughed,
genuinely surprised by Berdichev's request. "Why? What are you
up to, Soren?"

Berdichev shook
his head. "I've nothing to do with this, Howard. It's what the
boy wants."

"The boy. .
. ." DeVore felt uncomfortable. He had been wrong footed too
many times already in this conversation. He was used to being in
control of events, not the victim of circumstance; even so, the
situation intrigued him. What could the boy want? And, more to the
point, how had he heard of him?