The Art of War (15 page)

He smiled, then went across to one of the side rooms and lay down on the floor. A moment later the explosion juddered the room about him. He waited a few seconds then got up and went back inside. The guardroom was a mess. Dust filled the air; machinery and bits of human flesh and bone littered the walls and floor. Where the safe had been the wall was ripped apart, while the safe itself, unharmed by the explosion, had tumbled forward and now lay there in the centre of the room, covered by debris.

He took off his tunic and wrapped it about the safe, then slowly dragged it across the floor and into the lift. He looked back into the room, then reached across and activated the lift. He had no need for the head this time – there were no checks on who left the room, or on who used the lift to ascend. Again, that was a flaw in their thinking. He would have designed it otherwise: would have made it easier to break in, harder to get out. That way one trapped one’s opponent – surrounded him. As in
wei chi.

At the top Lehmann was waiting for him, a fresh one-piece over his arm.

‘How are things?’ DeVore asked, stripping off quickly and slipping into the dark green maintenance overalls.

Lehmann stared at the safe. ‘The
Ping Tiao
have held their end. We’ve begun shipping the armaments out through the top east gate. Wiegand reports that the Security channels are buzzing with news of the attack. We should expect a counter-attack any time now.’

DeVore looked up sharply. ‘Then we’d best get this out quick, neh?’

‘I’ve four men waiting outside, and another two holding the west transit lift. I’ve told the
Ping Tiao
it’s out of order.’

‘Excellent. Anything else?’

‘Good news. The rioting in Braunschweig has spilled over into neighbouring
hsien.
It seems our friends were right. It’s a powder keg down there.’

‘Maybe…’ DeVore looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. ‘Right. Get those men in here. I want this out of here before the
Ping Tiao
find out what we’ve done. Then we’ll blow the bridges.’

Li Yuan went at once, not waiting for the T’ang to resolve their dispute. He went out on to the broad balcony and stood there at the balustrade, looking out across the blue expanse of the Caspian towards the distant shoreline. Wei Feng’s son, Wei Chan Yin, joined him there a moment later, tense with anger.

For a time neither of them spoke, then Wei Chan Yin lifted his chin. His voice was cold and clear – the voice of reason itself.

‘The trouble is, Wang Sau-leyan is right. We have not adapted to the times.’

Li Yuan turned his head, looking at the older man’s profile. ‘Maybe so. But there are ways of saying such things.’

Wei Chan Yin relaxed slightly, then gave a small laugh. ‘His manners
are
appalling, aren’t they? Perhaps it has something to do with his exile as a child.’

Their eyes met and they laughed.

Li Yuan turned, facing Wei Chan Yin. Wei Feng’s eldest son was thirty-six, a tall, well-built man with a high forehead and handsome features. His eyes were smiling, yet at times they could be penetrating, almost frightening in their intensity. Li Yuan had known him since birth and had always looked up to him, but now they were equals in power. Differences in age meant nothing beside their roles as future T’ang.

‘What does he want, do you think?’

Wei Chan Yin’s features formed into a kind of facial shrug. He stared out past Li Yuan a moment, considering things, then looked back at him.

‘My father thinks he’s a troublemaker.’

‘But you think otherwise.’

‘I think he’s a clever young man. Colder, far more controlled than he appears. That display back there – I think he was play-acting.’

Li Yuan smiled. It was what he himself had been thinking. Yet it was a superb act. He had seen the outrage on the faces of his father and the older T’ang. If Wang Sau-leyan’s purpose had been merely to upset them, he had succeeded marvellously. But why? What could he gain by such tactics?

‘I agree. But my question remains. What does he want?’

‘Change.’

Li Yuan hesitated, waiting for Wei Chan Yin to say more. But Chan Yin had finished.

‘Change?’ Li Yuan’s laughter was an expression of disbelief. Then, with a tiny shudder of revulsion, he saw what his cousin’s words implied. ‘You mean…’

It was left unstated, yet Wei Chan Yin nodded. They were talking of the murder of Wang Hsien. Chan Yin’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘It is common knowledge that he hated his father. It would make a kind of sense if his hatred extended to all that his father held dear.’

‘The Seven?’

‘And Chung Kuo itself.’

Li Yuan shook his head slowly. Was it possible? If so… He swallowed, then looked away, appalled. ‘Then he must never become a T’ang.’

Wei Chan Yin laughed sourly. ‘Would that it were so easy, cousin. But be careful what you say. The young Wang has ears in unexpected places. Between ourselves there are no secrets, but there are some, even amongst our own, who do not understand when to speak and when to remain silent.’

Again there was no need to say more. Li Yuan understood at once who Wei Chan Yin was talking of. Hou Tung-po, the young T’ang of South America, had spent much time recently with Wang Sau-leyan on his estates.

He shivered again, as if the sunlight suddenly had no strength to warm him, then reached out and laid his hand on Wei Chan Yin’s arm.

‘My father was right. These are evil times. Yet we
are
Seven. Even if some prove weak, if the greater part remain strong…’

Wei covered Li Yuan’s hand with his own. ‘As you say, good cousin. But I must go. There is much to be done.’

Li Yuan smiled. ‘Your father’s business?’

‘Of course. We are our fathers’ hands, neh?’

Li Yuan watched him go, then turned back and leaned across the balustrade, staring outward. But this time his thoughts went back to the day when his father had summoned him and introduced him to the sharp-faced official, Ssu Lu Shan. That afternoon had changed his life, for it had been then that he had learned of the Great Deception, and of the Ministry that had been set up to administer it.

History had it that Pan Chao’s great fleet had landed here on the shores of Astrakhan in ad 98. He had trapped the
Ta Ts’in
garrison between his sea forces and a second great, land-based army and, after a battle lasting three days, had set up the yellow dragon banner of the Emperor above the old town’s walls. But history lied. Pan Chao had, indeed, crossed the Caspian to meet representatives of the
Ta Ts’in
– consuls of Trajan’s mighty Roman Empire. But no vast Han army had ever landed on this desolate shore, no Han had crossed the great range of the Urals and entered Europe as conquerors. Not until the great dictator, Tsao Ch’un, had come, little more than a century past.

Li Yuan shivered, then turned away, angry with himself. Lies or not, it was the world they had inherited; it did no good to dwell upon alternatives. He had done so for a time and it had almost destroyed him. Now he had come to terms with it: had made his peace with the world of appearances. And yet sometimes – as now – the veil would slip and he would find himself wishing it would fly apart, and that he could say, just once,
This is the truth of things.
But that was impossible. Heaven itself would fall before the words could leave his lips. He stared back at the doorway, his anger finding its focus once more in the upstart, Wang Sau-leyan.

Change… Was Prince Wei right? Was it Change Wang Sau-leyan wanted? Did he hunger to set the Great Wheel turning once again – whatever the cost? If so, they must act to stop him. Because Change was impossible. Inconceivable.

Or was it?

Li Yuan hesitated.
No
, he thought,
not inconceivable. Not now. Even so, it could not be. They could not let it be. His father was right: Change was the great destroyer. The turning Wheel crushed all beneath it, indiscriminately. It had always been so. If there was a single reason for the existence of the Seven it was this – to keep the Wheel from turning.

He turned back, making his way through, his role in things suddenly clear to him. He would be the brake, the block that kept the Wheel from turning.

At the turn DeVore stopped and flattened himself against the wall of the corridor, listening. Behind him the four men rested, taking their breath, the safe nestled in the net between them. Ahead there were noises – footsteps, the muffled sound of voices. But whose? These levels were supposed to be empty, the path to the bridge clear.

DeVore turned and pointed to a doorway to their right. Without needing to be told they crossed the space and went inside. Satisfied, DeVore went to the left, moving down the corridor quickly, silently, conscious of the voices growing louder as he approached the junction. Before the turn he stopped and slipped into a side room, then waited, his ear pressed to the door. When they had gone by, he slipped out again, taking the right-hand turn, following them.

Ping Tiao.
He was certain of it. But why were they here? And what were they doing?

Ten of them. Maybe more. Unless…

There was no reason for his hunch, yet he knew, even as he had it, that he was right. They were
Ping Tiao.
But not all of them. They had taken prisoners. High-ranking Security officers, perhaps. But why? For their ransom value? Or was there some other reason?

He frowned and ran on silently, knowing that he had to get closer to them, to make sure he was right, because if they
had
taken prisoners it was something he should know. Something he could use. He had agreed with Gesell beforehand that there would be no prisoners, but Gesell wasn’t to be trusted.

The bridge was up ahead, the corridor on the far side of it cleared by his men earlier. But how had they found out about it? He had told Gesell nothing. Which meant they had a man inside his organization. Or had paid someone close to him for the information. Even so, they didn’t know about the safe. Only he knew about that.

They were much closer now. He could hear them clearly. Three – no, four – voices. They had slowed down as they came near the bridge, cautious now, suspicious of some kind of trap. The next turn was only twenty
ch’i
ahead. From there he would be able to see them clearly. But it was risky. If they saw him...

DeVore slowed, then stopped just before the junction, hunched down, listening again. They had paused, perhaps to send one of their number ahead of them across the bridge. He waited, then, when he heard the call come back, put his head round the corner, keeping low, where they’d not expect to see anyone.

He took it all in at a glance, then moved back sharply. Five
Ping Tiao
and eight bound prisoners. As he’d thought. They weren’t in uniform, but he could tell by their moustaches and the way they tied their hair that they were officers. Such things were a sign of rank as unmistakable as the patches on the chests of their dress uniforms.

So. Gesell was taking prisoners. He would find out why, then confront the man with the fact. It would be fun to hear what excuse he would give. Meanwhile, his man on the far side of the bridge could follow them, find out where they took their captives.

He smiled and was about to turn away when he heard footsteps coming back towards him.

‘Go on across!’ a voice called out, closer than before. ‘Quick now! I’ll meet up with you later.’

DeVore took a deep breath, then drew his gun. He looked at it a moment, then slipped it back into its holster. No. He would need to be quiet. Anyway, a knife was just as effective when it came to killing a man.

He looked about him quickly, wondering whether he should hide and let the man pass, then decided against it. He was almost certain he hadn’t been seen, so he would have the element of surprise.

As the footsteps came on, he flattened himself against the wall. Then, as the man turned the corner, he reached out and pulled him close, whirling him about and pinning him against his chest, his right hand going to the man’s throat, the knife’s blade pressed tight against the skin.

‘Cry out and you’re dead,’ he said softly in his ear.

‘
Turner!
’ It was a whisper of surprise.

‘Shen Lu Chua,’ he answered quietly, tightening his grip on the Han. ‘What a surprise to meet
you
here.’

The
Ping Tiao
leader swallowed painfully, but he held his head proudly, showing no sign of fear. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

DeVore laughed softly. ‘You forget who holds the knife, Shen Lu Chua. Why is Gesell taking prisoners?’

‘You saw... ? Of course.’

‘Well?’

‘You think I’d tell you?’ Shen sniffed.

‘It doesn’t matter. I know what Gesell intends.’

Shen’s mocking laughter confirmed it. This was
his
idea. And Gesell knew nothing of it. Which in itself was interesting. It meant there were splits in their ranks – divisions he could capitalize upon. But why be surprised? They were human, after all.

‘You know nothing...’

But DeVore had stopped listening. Hugging Shen closer he thrust the tip of the knife up through the Han’s neck, into the cavern of his mouth, then let him fall. For a moment he watched Shen lie there, struggling to remove the blade, small croaking noises coming from his ruined larynx, then he stepped forward and, kneeling over the man, tugged the head back sharply, breaking his neck.

Hung Mien-lo sat at his desk in his office, the small, desk-mounted screen at his side lit with figures. Standing before him, his head bowed, was the Master of the Inner Chamber, Sun Li Hua.

‘You summoned me, Chancellor Hung?’

Hung Mien-lo glanced at Sun, then continued to tap in figures on the keyboard.

‘You took your time, Master Sun.’

Sun kept his head lowered. ‘I am a busy man. There was much to organize for my master.’

Hung sniffed. ‘And which master is that, Sun?’

Sun smiled faintly. ‘The same master we both serve.’