The Middle Kingdom (87 page)

"Then why
trust to luck now?"

When Lehmann was
gone, he went upstairs and sat at his desk, beneath the sharp glare
of the single lamp, thinking about what the albino had said. The
unease he felt was understandable. Everything was in flux at
present—
The New Hope,
the fortresses, the recent events
in the House; all these demanded his concentration, night and day.
Little wonder, then, that he should display a little paranoia now and
then. Even so, the boy was right. It was wrong to ignore a hunch
simply because the evidence wasn't there to back it up. Hunches were
signs from the subconscious—reports from a game played deep
down in the darkness.

Normally he
would have had the man killed and thought nothing of it, but there
were good reasons not to kill Tong Chou just now. Reports of unrest
were serious enough as it was, and had brought inquiries from
Duchek's own office. Another death was sure to bring things to a
head. But it was important that things were kept quiet for the next
few days, until his scheme to pay that bastard Duchek back was
finalized and the funds transferred from his accounts.

Yes. And he
wanted to get even with Administrator Duchek. Because Duchek had let
him down badly when he had refused to launder the funds for the Swiss
Wilds fortresses through his accounts. Had let them all down.

Even so, there
was a way that he could deal with Tong Chou. An indirect way that
would cause the very minimum of fuss.

The dead thief
had three brothers. They, certainly, would be keen to know who it was
had put their brother in the ground. And who was to say who had left
the anonymous note?

DeVore smiled,
satisfied that he had found the solution to one of his problems, then
leaned forward and tapped out the combination of the discrete line
that connected him directly with Berdichev.

"Do you
know what time it is, Howard?"

"Two
twenty. Why? Were you sleeping, Soren?"

Berdichev waved
his wife, Ylva, away, then locked the door behind her and came back
to the screen. "What's so urgent?"

"We need to
talk."

"What
about?"

DeVore paused,
conscious of the possibility the call was being traced—especially
after the events of the past few days. "I'll tell you when I see
you."

"Which is
when?"

"In an hour
and a half."

"Ah. . . ."
Berdichev removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then looked up
again and nodded. "Okay." Then he cut contact. There was no
need to say where they would meet. Both knew.

An hour and a
half later they stood there on the mountainside below the landing
dome at Landek Base. The huge valley seemed mysterious and
threatening in the moonlight, the distant mountains strange and
unreal. It was like being on another planet. Berdichev had brought
furs against the cold; even so he felt chilled to the bone, his face
numbed by the thin, frigid air.

He faced DeVore,
noting how little the other man seemed to be wearing.

"So? What
do we need to talk about?"

His voice seemed
small and hollow; dwarfed by the immensity of their surroundings.

"About
everything. But mainly about Duchek. Have you heard from Weis?"

Berdichev
nodded, wishing he could see DeVore's face better. He had expected
DeVore to be angry, maybe even to have had Duchek killed for what he
had done. "I was disappointed in him, Howard."

"Good. I'd
hate to think you were pleased."

Berdichev smiled
tightly. "What did you want to do?"

"Wrong
question, Soren. Try 'What have you done?' "

"So?"

"He's dead.
Two days from now. Next time he visits his favorite singsong house.
But there's something else I want to warn you about. I've got a team
switching funds from the plantation accounts here. At the same time
Duchek greets his ancestors there'll be a big fire in the
Distribution Center at Lodz. It'll spread and destroy the computer
records there. I thought I'd warn you, in case it hurts any of our
investors. It'll be messy and there'll doubtlessly be a few hiccups
before they can reconstruct things from duplicate records."

"Is that
wise, Howard?"

DeVore smiled.
"My experts estimate it'll take them between six and eight weeks
to sort out the bulk of it. By that time I'll be out of there and the
funds will have been tunneled away, so to speak. Then we cut Weis out
of it."

Berdichev
narrowed his eyes. "Cut Weis out?"

"Yes. He's
the weak link. We both know it. Duchek's betrayal gives me the excuse
to deal with them both."

Berdichev
considered a moment, then nodded, seeing the sense in it. With Weis
dead, the trail covered, and the fortresses funded, what did it
matter if they traced the missing plantation funds to Duchek? Because
beyond Duchek there would be a vacuum. And Duchek himself would be
dead.

"How much
is involved?"

"Three
billion. Maybe three and a half."

"Three
billion. Hmm. With that we could take some of the pressure off our
investors."

DeVore shook his
head. "No. That would just alert Weis. I gave him the distinct
impression that we were grabbing for every
fen
we could lay
our hands on. If we start making refunds he'll know weVe got funding
from elsewhere and he'll start looking for it. No, I want you to go
to him with the begging bowl again. Make him think things are working
out over budget."

Berdichev
frowned. "And if he says it can't be done?"

DeVore laughed
and reached out to touch his arm. "Be persuasive."

"Right. You
want me to pressure him?"

DeVore nodded.
"How are things otherwise?"

"Things are
good. Under Secretary Barrow tells me that the tai are to face
impeachment charges next week. Until then they're suspended from the
House. That gives our coalition an effective majority. Lo Yu-Hsiang
read out a strongly worded protest from the Seven yesterday, along
with an announcement that funding in certain areas was to be cut. But
we expected as much. Beyond that they're impotent to act—as we
knew they would be. The House is humming with it, Howard. TheyVe had
a taste of real power for once and they like it. They like it a lot."

"Good. And
the file?"

For a moment
Berdichev thought to play dumb. Then, seeing how things stood, he
shrugged inwardly, making a mental note to find out how DeVore had
come to know of it. It was fortunate that, for once, he had prepared
for such an eventuality. "IVe a copy in my craft for you,
Howard. I'll hand it to you before we go."

"Excellent.
And the boy? Kim, isn't it? Have you sorted out your problems there?"

Berdichev felt
his stomach tighten. Was there anything DeVore hadn't heard about?
"It's no problem," he said defensively.

"Good.
Because we don't wantfiroblems. Not for the next few days, anyway."

Berdichev took a
deep breath, forcing himself to relax. "And how is young Stefan?
How is he settling in?"

DeVore turned
his head away, staring out at the mountains, the moonlight
momentarily revealing his neat, rather handsome features. "Fine.
Absolutely fine. He's quiet, but I rather like that. It shows he has
depths." He looked back, giving Berdichev the briefest glimpse
of a smile.

Yes, thought
Berdichev, recalling the two appalling weeks the boy had spent with
them as a houseguest; he has depths all right—vacuous depths.

"I see. But
has he learned anything from you, Howard? Anything useful?"

DeVore laughed,
then looked away thoughtfully. "Who knows, Soren? Who knows?"

THE HUGE BED was
draped with veils of silk-white voile, -the thin, gauzelike cotton
decorated with butterflies and delicate, tall-stemmed irises. It
filled one end of the large, sumptuously decorated room, like the
cocoon of some vast exotic insect.

The air in the
room was close, the sweet, almost sickly scent of old perfumes,
masking another, darker odor.

The woman lay on
the bed, amid a heap of pale cream and salmon-pink satin cushions
which blended with the colors of the silk shui t'an i camisole she
wore. As he came closer, she raised her head. The simple movement
seemed to cost her dearly, as if her head were weighted down with
bronze.

"Who is
it?"

Her voice had a
slightly brittle edge to it, a huskiness beneath its silken surface.

He stood where
he was, looking about the room, noting with disgust its excesses. "I
am from
Shih
Bergson, Fu
Jen
Maitland."

"You're
new. . . ." she said sleepily, a faintly seductive intonation
entering her voice. "Come here where I can see you, boy."

He went across
and climbed the three small steps that led up to the bed, then drew
the veil aside, looking down at her.

She was a tall,
long-limbed woman with knife-sharp, nervous facial features, their
glasslike fragility accentuated rather than hidden by the heavy
pancake of makeup she was wearing. She looked old before her time,
the web of lines about each eye like the cracked earth of a dried-up
stream, her eyeballs protruding slightly beneath their thin veils of
flesh. The darkness of her hair, he knew at once, had been achieved
artificially, for the skin of her neck and arms had the pallor of
albinism.

Yes, he could
see now where his own coloring came from.

Bracelets of
fine gold wire were bunched about her narrow wrists, jeweled rings
clustered on her long, fragile fingers. About her stretched and bony
neck she wore a garishly large
ying lo,
the fake rubies and
emeralds like pigeons' eggs. Her hair was unkempt from troubled
sleep, her silks creased. She looked what she was—a rich Han's
concubine. A kept woman.

He watched her
turn her head slowly and open her eyes. Pale, watery blue eyes that
had to make an effort before they focused on him.

"Ugh . . .
pale as a worm. Still. . ." She closed her eyes again, letting
her head sink back among the cushions. "What's your name?"

"Mikhail,"
he said, adopting the alias he had stolen from DeVore. "Mikhail
Boden."

She was silent a
moment, then gave a small, shuddering sigh and turned slightly,
raising herself onto her elbows, looking at him again. The movement
made her camisole fall open slightly at the front, exposing her
small, pale breasts.

"Come here.
Sit beside me, boy."

He did as he was
bid, the perfumed reek of her filling his nostrils, sickening him. It
was like her jewelry, her silks and satins, the makeup and nail
polish. All this—this ostentation—offended him deeply. He
himself wore nothing decorative. His belief was in purity. In
essence.

Her hand went to
his face, then moved down until it rested on his shoulder.

"You have
it?"

He took the two
packets from his jacket pocket and threw them down onto the bed
beside her. If she noticed his rudeness, she said nothing, but leaned
forward urgently, scrabbling for the tiny sachets, then tore one open
with her small pointed teeth and swallowed its contents down quickly.

It was as he had
thought. She was an addict.

He watched her
close her eyes again, breathing deeply, letting the drug take hold of
her. When she turned her head and looked at him again she seemed more
human, more animated, a slight playfulness in her eyes revealing how
attractive she must once have been. But it was only a shadow. A
shadow in a darkened room.

"Your
eyes," she said, letting her hand rest on his chest again. "They
seem . . . wrong somehow."

"Yes."
He put a finger to each eye, popping out the contact lenses he had
borrowed from DeVore's drawer, then looked back at her, noting her
surprise.

"Hello,
Mother."

"I have
no..." she began, then laughed strangely, understanding. "So.
You're Pietr's son."

He saw how the
muscles beneath her eyes betrayed her. But there was no love there.
How could there be? She had killed him long ago. Before he was born.

She swallowed.
"What do you want?"

In answer he
leaned forward and held her to him, embracing her. DeVore is right,
he thought. Trust no one. For there's only yourself in the end.

He let her fall
back among the satin cushions, the tiny, poisoned blade left embedded
at the base of her spine. Then he stood and looked at her again. His
mother. A wpman he had never met before today.

Carefully,
almost tenderly, he took the device from his pocket, set it, then
laid it on the bed beside her. In sixty seconds it would catch fire,
kindling the silks and satins, igniting the gauzelike layers of
voile, cleansing the room of every trace of her.

Lehmann moved
back, away, pausing momentarily, wishing he could see it, then turned
and left, locking the door behind him, knowing that no one now had
any hold on him. Especially not DeVore.

LI YUAN LAY
there in the darkness, listening to the rain falling in the garden
beyond the open windows, letting his heartbeat slow, his breathing
return to normal. The dream was fading now and with it the
overwhelming fear which had made him cry out and struggle back to
consciousness, but still he could see its final image, stretching
from horizon to horizon, vast and hideously white.

He shuddered,
then heard the door ease open, a soft tread on the tiled floor.

"Do you
want company, Li Yuan?"

He sighed, then
rolled over and looked across to where she stood, shadowed and naked,
at the foot of his bed.

"Not now,
Sweet Rose. Not now. ..."

He sensed,
rather than saw, her hesitation. Then she was gone and he was alone
again.

He got up,
knowing he would not sleep now, and went to the window, staring out
into the moonlit garden. Then, taking a gown from the side, he
wrapped it about him and went to the double doors that led out into
the garden, pulling them open.