The White Mountain (42 page)

‘Where is Iron Mu?'

Wong turned, facing the old man seated at the table's end. ‘Forgive me, General Feng, but I will come to that.'

The Big Boss of the 14K stared back at him humourlessly. ‘The Council has seven members, Wong Yi-sun, but I see only six about this table.'

‘Hear Wong out, Feng Shang-pao,' the short, shaven-headed man seated
two along from him said, leaning forward to take a cashew from the bowl. ‘I am sure all your questions will be answered.'

Feng sat back, glaring at his interrupter. ‘We must have laws amongst us, Li Chin. Ways of conducting ourselves.'

Li Chin – Li the Lidless – turned his bony head and looked at Feng, his over-large eyes fixing on the older man. ‘I do not dispute it, Feng Shang-pao. But the Wo Shih Wo would like to know what Fat Wong has to say, and unless you let him say it…'

Feng looked down, his huge chest rising and falling, then he nodded.

‘Good,' Wong said. ‘Then let me explain. This afternoon, I received a letter.'

Whiskers Lu, Boss of the Kuei Chuan, leaned forward, the melted mask of his face turned towards Wong, his one good eye glittering. ‘A letter, Wong Yi-sun?'

‘Yes.' Wong took the letter from within his silks and threw it down in front of Lu. ‘But before you open it, let me say a few words.'

Wong drew himself up, his eyes moving from face to face. ‘We of the
Hung Mun
are proud of our heritage. Rightly so. Since the time of our founding by the five monks of the Fu Chou monastery, we have always settled our disputes amicably. And that is good, neh? After all, it is better to make money than make war.' He smiled, then let the smile fade. ‘This once, however, the threat was too great. Iron Mu sought more than simple profit. He sought to build a power base – a base from which to overthrow this Council. To replace it.' He nodded, his face stern. ‘Let us not hide behind words any longer. Iron Mu sought to destroy us.'

Dead Man Yun of the Red Gang cleared his throat. ‘I hear your words, Wong Yi-sun, but I find them strange. You speak of things we all know, yet you speak of them in the past. Why is this?'

Wong smiled, then turned, going across to the tiny pool. For a moment he stood there, watching the seven golden fish swim lazily in the crystal waters, then, with a quicksilver motion, he scooped one up and turned, holding it up for the others to see. For a moment it flapped in the air, then Wong threw it down on to the dry stone flags.

There was a murmur of understanding from about the table.

‘So Iron Mu is dead. But how?' Three Finger Ho asked, eyeing Wong warily.

Wong came closer, a trace of self-satisfaction at the corners of his
mouth. ‘I will tell you how. All thirty-seven decks of the Big Circle heartland were hit simultaneously, thirty minutes back. A force of one hundred and twenty thousand
Hei
went in, with a back-up of fifteen hundred regular guards.'

Hei
… That single word sent a ripple of fear through the seated men. They had seen the
Hei
in action on their screens, the big GenSyn half-men clearing decks of rioters with a ruthlessness even their most fanatical runners could not match. For a moment they were silent, looking amongst themselves, wondering what this meant, then Li the Lidless leaned across Whiskers Lu and took the letter. He unfolded it and began to read aloud, then stopped, his face filled with a sudden understanding.

This letter from Li Yuan – this brief note of agreement – changed everything. Never before had one of their number received such a favour from Above. Never had the
Hung Mun
worked hand in glove with the Seven. Today Fat Wong had gained great face. Had re-established his position as Great Father of the brotherhoods. Li turned his head, looking about him, seeing the look of understanding in every face, then turned back, facing Wong, his head lowered in a gesture of respect.

The tapestries were burning. Flames licked the ancient thread, consuming mountain and forest, turning the huntsmen to ashes in the flicker of an eye. The air was dark with smoke, rent with the cries of dying men.
Hei
ran through the choking darkness, their long swords flashing, their deep set eyes searching out anything that ran or walked or crawled.

The door to Iron Mu's Mansion had been breached ten minutes back, but still a small group of Mu's élite held out.
Hei
swarmed at the final barricade, throwing themselves at the barrier without thought of self-preservation. Facing them, Yao Tzu, Red Pole to the Big Circle, urged his men to one last effort. He was bleeding from wounds to the head and chest, but still he fought on, slashing at whatever appeared above the barricade. For a moment longer the great pile held, then, with a shudder, it began to slide. There was a bellowing, and then the
Hei
broke through. Yao Tzu backed away, his knife gone, three of his men falling in the first charge. As the first of the
Hei
came at him, he leaped forward, screeching shrilly, meeting the brute with a flying kick that shattered the great chestbone of the half-man.
Encouraged, his men attacked in a blur of flying feet and fists, but it was not enough. The first wave of
Hei
went down, but then there was the deafening roar of gunfire as the
Hei
commander opened up with a big automatic from the top of the collapsed barricade.

There was a moment's silence, smoke swirled, and then they moved on, into the inner sanctum.

His wives were dead, his three sons missing. From outside he could hear the screams of his men as they died. It would be only moments before they broke into his rooms. Even so, he could not rush this thing.

Iron Mu had washed and prepared himself. Now he sat, his legs folded under him, his robe open, the ritual knife before him on the mat. Behind him his servant waited, the specially sharpened sword raised, ready for the final stroke.

He leaned forward, taking the knife, then turned it, holding the needle-sharp point towards his naked stomach. His head was strangely clear, his thoughts lucid. It was the merchant Novacek who had done this. It had to be. No one else had known enough. Even so, it did not matter. He would die well. That was all that was important now.

As he tensed, the door shuddered then fell open, the great locks smashed. Two
Hei
stood there, panting, looking in at him. A moment later a man stepped through, wearing the powder-blue uniform and chest patch of a Colonel. A filter-mask covered his lower face.

Iron Mu met the Colonel's eyes, holding them defiantly. In this, his last moment, he felt no fear, no regret, only a clarity of purpose that was close to the sublime.

Nothing, not even the watching
Hei
, could distract him now.

A breath, a second, longer breath, and then…

The Colonel's eyes dilated, his jaw tensed, and then he turned away, letting his
Hei
finish in the room. He shivered, impressed despite himself, feeling new respect for the man. Iron Mu had died well. Very well. Even so, it could not be known how Iron Mu had died. No. The story would be put out that he had cried and begged for mercy, hiding behind his wives. Because that was what the
T'ing Wei
wanted. And what the
T'ing Wei
wanted, they got.

Yes, but while he lived, Iron Mu's death would live in his memory. And one day, when the
T'ing Wei
were no more, he would tell his story. Of how one of the great lords of the underworld had died, with dignity, meeting the darkness without fear.

Fat Wong stood by the door, bringing things to a close, thanking his fellow Bosses for coming. And as they left, he made each stoop and kiss the ancient banner.

It should have been enough. Yet when they were gone it was not elation he felt but a sudden sense of hollowness. This victory was not his. Not
really
his. It was like something bought.

He went across and stood there over the tiny pool, staring down into the water, trying to see things clearly. For a moment he was still, as if meditating, then, taking the letter from his pocket, he tore it slowly in half and then in half again, letting it fall. No. He would be beholden to no man, not even a Son of Heaven. He saw it now with opened eyes. Why had Li Yuan agreed to act, if not out of fear? And if that were so…

He took a long, deep breath, then, drawing back his sleeve, reached in, plucking the fish from the water until five of the bloated golden creatures lay there on the ledge, flapping helplessly in the hostile air.

His way was clear. He must unite the underworld. Must destroy his brothers one by one, until only he remained. And then, when that was done, he might lift his head again and stare into the light.

He looked down, watching the dying gasps of the fish, then turned away, smiling. His way was clear. He would not rest now until it was his. Until he had it all.

Li Yuan stood on the terrace, beneath the bright full circle of the moon, looking out across the palace grounds, conscious of how quiet, how empty the palace seemed at this late hour. No gardeners knelt in the dark earth beneath the trellises of the lower garden, no maids walked the dark and narrow path that led to the palace laundry. He turned, looking towards the stables. There, a single lamp threw its pale amber light across the empty exercise circle.

He shivered and looked up at the moon, staring at that great white stone a while, thinking of what Karr had said.

Standing there in the wavering lamplight, listening to the big man's account, he had been deeply moved. He had not known – had genuinely not known – what was being done at Kibwezi, and, touched by the rawness of the man's appeal, had given his promise to close Kibwezi and review the treatment of convicted terrorists.

He had returned to the reception, distracted by Karr's words, disturbed by the questions they raised. And as he went amongst his cousins, smiling, offering bland politenesses, it had seemed suddenly a great pretence, a nothingness, like walking in a hall of holograms. The more he smiled and talked, the more he felt the weight of Karr's words bearing down on him.

But now, at last, he could face the matter squarely, beneath the unseeing eye of the moon.

Until this moment he had denied that there was a moral problem with the Wiring Project. Had argued that it was merely a question of attitude. But there was a problem, for – as Tolonen had argued from the first – freedom was no illusion, and even the freedom to rebel ought – no,
needed
– to be preserved somehow, if only for the sake of balance.

Were it simply a matter of philosophy – of
words
– it might have been all right. But it was not. The population problem was real. It could not be simply wished away.

He looked down, staring at his hands – at the great iron ring on the first finger of his right hand. For men such as Kao Chen, a common phrase like ‘We are our masters' hands' had a far greater literal truth than he had ever imagined. And a far greater significance. For what was a man? Was he a choosing being, forging his own destiny, or was he simply a piece on the board, there to be played by another, greater than himself?

And maybe that was what had troubled him, more than the fate of the woman. That deeper question of choice.

He turned, looking back into his room, seeing Minister Heng's report there on the desk where he had left it.

It was a full report on the ‘police action' against the Big Circle Triad, a report that differed radically from the
T'ing Wei's
official account. He sighed, the deep unease he had felt at reading the report returning. The
Hei
riot
squads had gone mad down there. More than two hundred thousand had been killed, including many women and children.

Yes, and that was another argument in favour of wiring. If only to prevent such massacres, as ‘necessary' as this one might have been.

He turned back, standing there a moment, the night breeze cool on his face.

The moon was high. He looked up at it, surprised, his perception of it suddenly reversed, such that it seemed to burn like a vast shining hole in the blackness of the sky. A big circle of death. He shivered violently and looked down, noting how its light silvered the gardens like a fall of dust.

Before today he had striven always to do the right thing, to be a good man – the benevolent ruler that Confucius bade him be – but now he saw it clearly. In this there was no right course of action, no pure solution, only degrees of wrongness.

And so he would make the hard choice. He would keep his word to Karr, of course. Kibwezi Station would be closed. As for the other thing, he had no choice. No real choice, anyway. The Wiring Project had to continue, and so it would, elsewhere, hidden from prying eyes. Until the job was done, the system perfected.

He sighed, turning his back on the darkness, returning inside. Yes. Because the time was fast coming when it would be needed.

Broken glass littered the terrace outside the guardhouse, glistening like frosted leaves in the moonlight. Nearby, the first of the bodies lay like a discarded doll, its face a pulp, the ragged tunic of its uniform soaked with blood. Through the empty window a second body could be seen, slumped forward in a chair, its head twisted at an unusual angle, the unblemished face staring vacantly at a broken screen.

Behind it, on the far side of the room, a door led through. There, on a bed in the rest room, the last of the bodies lay, naked and broken, its eyes bulging from its face, its tongue poking obscenely from between its teeth.

At the end of the unlit corridor, in the still silence of the signal room, the morph stood at the transmitter, its neutered body naked in the half-light. To one side, a hand lay on the desk like a stranded crab, the fingers upturned.

The morph tensed, the severed wrist of its left hand pressed against the
input socket, the delicate wires seeking their counterparts, making their connections to the board, then it relaxed, a soft amber light glowing on the eye-level panel in front of it. There was a moment's stillness and then a faint tremor ran through the creature. At the count of twelve it stopped, as abruptly as it had begun. The message had been sent.