Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (53 page)

He sat back,
studying the two men for a time, unhappy that he had not been privy
to their conversations before and after this important meeting. It
would have been invaluable to know what it was they really wanted
from their association with the
Ping Tiao
. But Fischers quick
thinking had at least given him an insight into their apparent
reasons.

He let the film
run again, watching as it cut to a later moment when Fischer had
interrupted the meeting to tell the T'ang about the fire.

The camera
caught the six men squarely in its lens—Wang Sau-leyan to the
left; Hung Mien-lo just behind him; Gesell, Mach and their two
companions to the right. It was an important moment to capture—one
that, if need be, could be used against the T'ang of Africa. But
equally important was the moment just before Fischer had knocked and
thrown the doors open wide, a moment when Wang's voice had boomed out
clearly.

"Then you
understand,
ch'un tzu,
that I cannot provide such backing
without some sign of your good intentions. The smell of burning
wheat, perhaps, or news of a whole crop ruined through the accidental
pollution of a water source. I'm sure I don't have to spell it out
for you."

DeVore smiled.
No, there was no need for Wang Sau-leyan to say anything more. It was
clear what he intended. In exchange for funds he would get the
Ping
Tiao
to do his dirty work—to bum the East European
Plantations and create havoc with City Europe's food supplies, thus
destabilizing Li Shai Tung's City. But would the
Ping Tiao
take
such a radical action? After all, it was their people who would
suffer most from the subsequent food shortages. Would they dare risk
alienating public opinion so soon after they had regained it?

He knew the
answer. They would. Because Mach was quite prepared to see the
Ping
Tiao
discredited. He would be happy to see the
Yu
step
into the gap left by the demise of the
Ping Tiao
. He was tired
of deferring to Gesell. Tired of seeing his advice passed over.

Well, thought
DeVore, pausing the film again, perhaps we can use all these
tensions—redirect them and control them. But not yet. Not quite
yet.

They had broken
up their meeting temporarily while the fire was dealt with; but when
Fischer returned, the
Ping Tiao
had already gone. Even so, the
final forty seconds of the film provided a fascinating little coda on
all that had happened.

Wang Sau-leyan
was sitting in the far corner of the room, turning the gift the
Ping
Tiao
had given him, in his hands, studying it. It was the tiny
jade sculpture of Kuan Yin that DeVore had given Gesell only the week
before.

"It's
astonishing," Wang was saying. "Where do you think they
stole it?"

Hung Mien-lo,
standing several paces away, looked up. "I'm sorry,
Chieh
Hsia
?"

"This."
He held the tiny statue up so that it was in clear view of the
camera. "It's genuine, I'd say. T'ang Dynasty. Where in hell's
name do you think they got their hands on it?"

Hung Mien-lo
shrugged, then moved closer to his T'ang, lowering his voice
marginally. "More to the point,
Chieh Hsia
, how do you
know that they'll do as you ask?"

Wang Sau-leyan
studied the piece a moment longer, then looked back at his
Chancellor, smiling. "Because I ask them to do only what is in
their own interest." He nodded, then looked across, directly
into camera. "Well, Captain Fischer, is it out?"

The film ended
there, as Fischer bowed, but it was enough. It gave DeVore plenty to
consider. Plenty to use.

And that was not
all. The day had been rich with surprises. A sealed package had
arrived from Mars: a copy of the files Karr had taken from
Berdichev's private secretary.

DeVore smiled.
He had been telling his senior officers the story only that
afternoon—the tale of T'sao and the Tanguts. The Tanguts were
northern enemies of the Han; and T'sao, the Han Chief of Staff, had
pardoned a condemned man on the understanding that he would swallow a
ball of wax, dress up as a monk, and enter the kingdom of the
Tanguts. The man did so and was eventually captured and imprisoned by
the Tanguts. Under interrogation he told them about the ball of wax,
and when he finally shat it out, they cut it open and found a letter.
The letter was from T'sao to their own Chief Strategist. The Tangut
King was enraged and ordered the execution both of the false monk and
his own Chief Strategist. Thus did T'sao rid himself of the most able
man in his enemies' camp for no greater price than the life of a
condemned man.

So it was with
the boy. He would be the means through which the Seven would be
destroyed; not from without, as Berdichev had imagined, but from
within. The Seven would be the agents of their own destruction. For
the boy carried within him not a ball of wax but an idea. One single,
all-transforming idea.

DeVore sat back.
Yes, and Li Yuan would fight to preserve the boy, for he honestly
believed that he could control him. But Li Yuan had not the slightest
conception of what the boy represented. No, not even the boy himself
understood that yet. But DeVore had seen it at once, when Berdichev
had first shown him the Aristotle File. The file was a remarkable
achievement, yet it was as nothing beside what the boy was capable
of. His potential was astonishing. Li Yuan might as well try to
harness Change itself as try to force the boy's talents to conform to
the needs of State.

Li Shai Tung had
been right to sign the boys death warrant. The old man's gut
instincts had always been good. It was fortunate that the War had
undermined his certainty. The old Li Shai Tung would have acted
without hesitation. But the old T'ang was effectively dead—murdered
along with his son Han Ch'in, eight years earlier.

DeVore nodded to
himself, then cleared his mind of it, coming to the final matter. The
report was brief, no more than a single line of coded message; yet it
was significant. It was what he had been waiting for.

He took the tiny
piece of crumpled paper from his top pocket and unfolded it. It had
been passed from hand to hand along a chain of trusted men until it
came into his own, its message comprehensible only to his eyes. "The
tiger is restless," it read. He smiled. The tiger was his code
word for Hans Ebert, the handwriting on the paper that of his man
Auden.

He had recruited
Auden long ago—years before he had had the man appointed
sergeant under Ebert—but Hammerfest had been a heavensent
opportunity. Auden had saved Ebert's life that day, eight years ago,
and Ebert had never forgotten it. Hans Ebert was a selfish young man
but curiously loyal to those about him. At least, to those he felt
deserved his loyalty, and Auden was one such. But it did not do to
use all one's pieces at once. Life was like
wei chi
in that
respect; the master chose to play a waiting game, to plan ahead. So
he with Auden. But now he was capitalizing upon his long and patient
preparation. It had been easy, for instance, for Auden to persuade
Ebert to launch the premature attack on the
Ping Tiao
cell; an
attack that had prevented Karr from discovering the links between the
terrorists and himself. But that had been only the start: a test of
the young man's potential. Now he would take things much further and
see whether he could translate Ebert's restlessness into something
more useful. Something more constructive.

Yes, but not
through Auden. He would keep Auden dark, his true nature masked from
Ebert. There were other ways of getting to Ebert; other men he
trusted, if not as much. His uncle Lutz, for instance.

DeVore folded
the paper and tucked it back into the pocket. No, Auden was part of a
much longer game; part of a shape that, as yet, existed in his head
alone.

He smiled, then
stood, stretching, his sense of well-being brimming over, making him
laugh softly. Then he checked himself. Have a care, Howard DeVore, he
thought. And don't relax. It's only a shape you've glimpsed. It isn't
real. Not yet. Not until you make it real.

"But I
will," he said softly, allowing himself the smallest of smiles.
"Just see if I don't."

* *
*

THE PIMP WAS
SLEEPING, a girl on either side of him. The room was in semidarkness,
a wall-mounted flat-lamp beside the door casting a faint green shadow
across the sleeping forms. It was after fourth bell and the last of
the evening's guests had left an hour before. Now only the snores of
the sleepers broke the silence of the house.

Chen slid the
door back quietly and slipped into the room. At once he seemed to
merge with the green-black forms of the room. He hesitated a moment,
his eyes growing accustomed to the subtle change in lighting, then
crossed the room, quickly, silently, and stood beside the bed.

The pimp was
lying on his back, his head tipped to one side, his mouth open. A
strong scent of wine and onions wafted up from him; a tart, sickly
smell that mixed with the heavy mustiness of the room.

Yes, thought
Chen. It's him, all right. I'd know that ugly face anywhere.

He took the
strip of plaster from the pouch at his belt and peeled off two short
lengths, taping them loosely to his upper arm. He threw the strip
down, then drew his gun. Leaning across one of the girls, he placed
it firmly against the pimp's right temple.

"Liu Chang
. . ." he said softly, as the pimp stirred. "Liu Chang,
listen to me very carefully. Do exactly as I say or I'll cover the
mattress with your brains, understand me?"

Liu Chang had
gone very still. His eyes flicked open, straining to see the gun,
then focusing on the masked figure above him. He swallowed, then gave
a tiny, fearful nod.

"What do
you want?" he began, his voice a whisper, then fell silent, as
Chen increased the pressure of the gun against the side of his head.

Chen scowled at
him. "Shut up, Liu Chang," he said, quietly but firmly.
"I'll tell you when to speak."

The pimp nodded
again, his eyes wide now, his whole body tensed, cowering before the
gunman.

"Good. This
is what you'll do. You'll sit up very slowly.
Very
slowly,
understand? Make a sudden move and you're dead." Chen smiled
cruelly. "I'm not playing games, Liu Chang. I'd as soon see you
dead as let you go. But my people want answers. Understand?"

Liu Chang's
mouth opened as if to form a question, then clicked shut. He
swallowed deeply, sweat running down his neck, and nodded.

"Good. Now
up."

The pimp raised
himself slowly on his elbows, Chen's gun pressed all the while
against his right temple.

Chen nodded,
satisfied, then thrust his right arm closer to the pimp. "Take
one of the strips of plaster from my arm and put it over this girl's
mouth. Then do the same with the other. And get no ideas about
wrestling with me, Liu Chang. Your only chance of living is if you do
what I say."

Again there was
that slight movement in the pimp's face—the sign of a question
unasked—before he nodded.

As he leaned
forward, Chen pushed slightly with the gun, reminding the pimp of its
presence, but it was only a precaution. If the file was correct, he
should have little bother with the man. Liu Chang had been an actor
in the Han opera before he became a pimp, more noted for his prowess
in bed than his ability with a knife. Even so, it was wise to take
care.

Liu Chang moved
back from Chen, then leaned forward again, placing the strip across
the sleeping girl's mouth. It woke her and for a moment she
struggled, her hands coming up as if to tear it away. Then she saw
Chen and the gun and grew still, her eyes wide with fear.

"Now the
other."

He noted the
slight hesitation in Liu Chang and pressed harder with the gun.

"Do it!"

The pimp took
the strip and placed it over the other girl's mouth. She, too, woke
and, after a moment's struggle, lay still.

Good, Chen
thought. Now to business.

"You're
wondering what I want, aren't you, Liu Chang?"

Liu Chang
nodded, twice.

"Yes, well
it's simple. A girl of yours was killed here, a month or two ago. I'm
sure you remember it. There was a young officer here when it
happened. He thinks he did it. But you know better than that, don't
you, Liu Chang? You know what really happened."

Liu Chang looked
down, then away; anything but meet Chen's gaze. He began to shake his
head in denial, but Chen jabbed the gun hard against his head,
drawing blood.

"This is no
fake I'm holding here, Liu Chang. You'll discover that if you try to
lie to me. I
know
you set Lieutenant Haavikko up. I even know
how. But I want to know the precise details. And I want to know who
gave the orders."

Liu Chang looked
down miserably. His heart was beating wildly now and the sweat was
running from him. For a moment longer he hesitated, then he looked up
again, meeting Chen's eyes.

"Okay, Liu
Chang. Speak. Tell me what happened."

The pimp
swallowed, then found his voice. "And if I tell you?"

"Then you
live. But only if you tell me everything."

Liu Chang
shuddered. "All right." But from the way he glanced at the
girls, Chen knew what he was thinking. If he lived, the girls would
have to die. Because they had heard. And because Liu Chang could not
risk them saying anything to anyone. In case it got back.

But it
doesn't matter,
Chen thought, listening as the pimp began his
tale;
because you're dead already, Liu Chang. For what you did.
And for what you would do, if I let you live.

* *
*

herrick's WAS
forty
li
east of Liu Chang's, a tiny, crowded place at the
very bottom of the City, below the Net.