Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (20 page)

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 bam, 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 Nan Ho 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?

And then?

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?
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.

So 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 Inquiries 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, lifesize, 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 subfiles—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 Moo 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 momentarily. 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 fucking
floor for what you've done. But first you, Axel Haavikko. First you.

DEVORE
stood there on the mountainside, the lifeless bodies of the two
alpine foxes dangling from leather thongs at his back, their fur
smeared with blood. In his left hand he held the crossbow he had
killed them with, in his right the two blood-caked bolts he had
pulled from their flesh.

It was an hour
after dawn and the mountains below him were wreathed in mist. He was
high up where he stood, well above the snow line. To his left, below
him, the mountainside was densely wooded, the tall pines covering
most of the lower slopes, stretching down into the mist. He laughed,
enjoying the freshness of the morning, his breath pluming away from
him. Surely there was no better sight in the world than the Alps in
high summer? He looked about him; then, slipping the bolts into the
deep pocket of his furs, he began to make his way down, heading for
the ruins of the castle.

He was halfway
down when he stopped, suddenly alert. There had been movement down
below, among the ruins. He moved quickly to his right, his hand
reaching for one of the bolts, hurriedly placing it into the stock
and winding the handle.

He scrambled
behind some low rocks and knelt, the crossbow aimed at the slopes
below. His heart was beating fast. No one was supposed to be out here
at this hour . . . not even his own patrols.

He tensed. A
figure had come out and now stood there, one hand up to its eyes,
searching the mountainside. A tall, thin figure, its angular frame
strangely familiar. Then it turned, looking up the slope, its
predatory gaze coming to rest on the rocks behind which DeVore was
crouching.

Lehmann . . .
DeVore lowered the crossbow and stood, then went down the slope,
stopping some ten or fifteen
ch'i
from the albino, the
crossbow held loosely in his left hand.

"Stefan!
What in the gods' names are you doing here?"
-

Lehmann looked
past him a moment, then looked back, meeting his eyes. "Our
friends are getting restless. They wondered where you were."

DeVore laughed.
"They're up already, eh?" He moved closer, handing the
foxes over to the albino. "Here . . . hold these for me."

Lehmann took
them, barely glancing at the dead animals. "I wondered where you
went to in the mornings. It's beautiful, neh?"

DeVore turned,
surprised, but if he hoped to find some expression of wonder in the
albino's face, he was disappointed. Those pale pink eyes stared out
coldly at the slopes, the distant peaks, as if beauty were merely a
form of words, as meaningless as the rest.

"Yes,"
he answered. "It is. And never more so than at this hour.
Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm the last man. The very last. It's
a good feeling, that. A pure, clean feeling."

Lehmann nodded.
"We'd best get back."

DeVore laughed
coldly. "Let them wait a little longer. It'll do that bastard
Gesell good."

Lehmann was
silent a moment, his cold eyes watching the slow, sweeping movements
of a circling eagle, high up above one of the nearer peaks. For a
while he seemed lost in the sight, then he turned his head and stared
at DeVore penetratingly. "I thought he was going to kill you
over that Shen Lu Chua business."

DeVore looked
back at him, surprised. "Did you?" He seemed to consider it
a moment, then shook his head. "No. Gesell's far too cautious.
You know the Han saying
p'eng che luan tzu kuo ch'iao?"

Lehmann shook
his head.

DeVore laughed.
"Well, let's just say he's the kind of man who holds on to his
testicles when crossing a bridge."

"Ah . . ."

DeVore studied
the albino a moment, wondering what it would take to penetrate that
cold exterior and force a smile, a grimace of anger, a tear. He
looked down. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he
was
as empty of
emotions as he seemed. But that could not be. He was human, after
all. There had to be something he wanted. Something that kept him
from simply throwing himself from the cliff onto the rocks below.

But what?

DeVore smiled
faintly, detaching himself from the problem, and looked up to find
Lehmann still staring at him. He let his smile broaden as if to make
connection with something behind—far back from—the
unsmiling surface of that unnaturally pallid face.

Then, shaking
his head, he turned, making his way across to the tower and the
tunnels beneath.

* *
*

THE
PING TIAO
LEADERS were waiting in the conference room, the great window wall
giving a clear view of the slopes. Outside the light was crisp and
clear, but a layer of mist covered the upper slopes. Even so, the
view was impressive. One had a sense of great walls of rock climbing
the sky.

DeVore stood in
the doorway a moment, looking in. Six of them were gathered in the
far left corner of the room, seated about the end of the great table,
as far from the window as they could get. He smiled, then turned,
looking across. Only one of them was standing by the window, looking
out. It was the woman—Gesell's lover—Emily Ascher.

He went in.