Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (10 page)

Li Shai Tung
inclined his head slightly. "It would not do for a T'ang to
break the Edict."

Tsu Ma smiled.
"Quite so. But rest assured, Shai Tung, in this as in other
things, you have my full support in Council." He drained his
glass and set it down. "And the rest of your scheme?"

Li Shai Tung
smiled. "For now, enough. But if you would honor me by being my
guest at Tongjiang this Autumn, we might talk some more. Things will
be more advanced by then, and Li Yuan, I know, would be delighted to
tell you about his scheme."

Tsu Ma smiled.
"It would be my great honor and delight. But come, talking of Li
Yuan, we have neglected your son and his new wife far too much
already. I have yet to congratulate him on his choice."

Both men
pretended not to see the flicker of doubt that crossed the old
T'ang's face.

"And you,
Hal?" Li Shai Tung turned to face his old friend. "Will you
come through?"

Shepherd smiled.
"Later, perhaps. Just now I feel a little tired. Too much Yang
Sen, I guess."

"Ah. Maybe
so." And, turning sadly away, Li Shai Tung took Tsu Ma's arm and
led him out into the gathering in the great hall.

* *
*

KARR LEANED
across the desk and with one hand pulled the man up out of his seat,
the front of his powder-blue silk tunic bunched tightly in his fist.

"What do
you mean, can't? I'm leaving today. By the first craft available. And
I'm taking those files with me."

For a moment the
man's left hand struggled to reach the summons pad on his desk, then
desisted. He had heard what a maniac Karr was, but he'd never
believed the man would storm into his office and physically attack
him.

"Don't you
know who I am?" he screeched, his voice half-strangled. "I'm
Governor of Mars. You can't do this to me!"

Karr dragged the
man across the desk until he was eye to eye with him. "You're a
fine one to lecture me on what can and can't be done, Governor
Schenck. You were ordered to give me full assistance, but you've been
nothing but obstructive since I came back to Tian Men K'ou City."

The Governor
swallowed painfully. "But . . . the investigation . . . Feng
Shou Station destroyed, the pipeline badly damaged."

"That's
your concern. Mine is to report back to my T'ang at the earliest
opportunity, and to take back with me all relevant information. You
knew that. You had your orders."

"But. . ."

Karr leaned back
across the desk, and threw Schenck down into his chair, then slammed
his fist down on the summons pad.

"Do you
want war with the Seven?"

"What?"
Schenck's face blanched.

"Because
that's what you'll get if you take any further measures to keep me
here. By a special Edict of the Seven I was authorized to do as I saw
fit to bring the traitor Berdichev to justice and to reclaim any
files or documents relating to that same person. That I have done.
Now, tell me,
Shih
Schenck, what has your investigation to do
with me?"

"I . . ."
he began, then saw the door open behind Karr.

Karr turned at
once. "Bring the Berdichev files. At once."

The underling
looked past Karr at Governor Schenck. "Excellency?"

Karr turned back
to Schenck. "Well? Will you defy the Seven and sign your own
death warrant, or will you do as I request?"

Schenck
swallowed again, then bowed his head. "Do as he says. And while
you're at it, prepare Major Karr's clearance for the Tientsin. He
leaves us this afternoon."

"At once,
Excellency."

"Good,"
said Karr, settling his huge frame into the tiny chair facing
Schenck. "Now tell me, Governor, who ordered you to keep me
here?"

* *
*

back ON chung
KUO, DeVore looked up from the files and stared hard at his
lieutenant. "Is this all?"

Wiegand bowed
his head. "For now, Excellency. But our contacts have promised
us more. You'll know all you need to know about these scum before you
meet with them again."

"Good.
Because I want to know who's good at what, and who's responsible for
what. I want to know where they came from and what they ultimately
want. And I want no guesses. I want facts."

"Of course,
Excellency. I'll see to it at once."

Wiegand bowed
low, then turned and left. A good man, thought DeVore, watching him
go. Intelligent and reliable, despite that business with Lehmann and
the Notice.

He got up and
walked around his desk, then stood there, studying the huge blown-up
photograph of the five Ping Two leaders that Wiegand had pinned to
the wall.

The simple black
and white image was clear and sharp, the lifesize faces of the five
terrorists standing out perfectly, Gesell in their center. It had
been taken ten or fifteen seconds into the meeting, the tiny lens
cameras activated when he'd nodded to indicate the half-map on the
table in front of Gesell. His intention had been merely to get images
of the other four
Ping Tiao
leaders so they could be traced
through his contacts in Security, yet what the picture captured most
clearly was the intense, almost insane suspicion. DeVore smiled. He
had sensed something of it at the time, but had been too engrossed in
his own scheme to make anything of it.

Now, seeing it
so vividly—so physically—expressed, he realized he had
missed something of real importance.

They were
scared, yes; but it was more than that. They were on the run. Their
cockiness was merely a front. Gesell's bluster masked a general fear
that someone would come along and simply wipe them out. Them and
everything they stood for. They had suffered too many setbacks, too
many betrayals by their own kind. They were paranoid, afraid of their
own shadows.

But that was
good. He could use that. It would give him the whip hand when they
met in two days time.

He went through
what he knew. The Han male to the far left of the picture was Shen Lu
Chua, a computer systems expert, trained as a mathematician. He was
in his mid-thirties, his clean-shaven face long and drawn. Beside him
was a rather pretty-looking woman with finely chiseled features—a
Hung Moo, though her dark, fine hair was cut like a Han's. Her name
was Emily Ascher and she was an economist, though of more interest to
DeVore was the fact that she was Gesell's lover. On the other side of
Gesell—second from the right in the photo—was the Han
female, Mao Liang. She was an interesting one. The fourth daughter of
a quite prominent Minor Family, she had been raised and educated at
First Level but had rebelled against her upbringing in her late
teens; after a year of arguments at home, she had vanished into the
lower levels, surfacing only now, five years later, among the
Ping
Tiao
.

Last of the
five—on the far right of the photo—was Jan Mach. He was a
tall broad-shouldered man of thirty-three with dark shoulder-length
braided hair and a thick growth of beard. He worked for the Ministry
of Waste Recycling as a maintenance official. It was a good job for a
Ping Tiao
member, allowing him quick and legitimate passage
between the levels; but Mach had the further advantage of being a
volunteer in the Security Reserve Corps, licensed to carry a firearm.
In the circles in which he operated it provided the perfect cover for
his
Ko Ming
activities.

Mach alone of
the five was looking away from DeVore in the picture, his eyes
lowered to a writing pad on the desk before him. On the pad—in
neatly formed pictograms that could be read quite clearly—was
written Jen to
chiu luan lung to chiu han:
"Too many
people bring chaos; too many dragons bring drought."

The detail was
interesting. If Gesell was the leader, Mach was the power behind the
throne. He was the one to watch, to influence, the ideologue of the
group.

There was a
sharp knock on the door.

"Come in!"

Lehmann stood
there in the doorway. "Our guests are here, sir."

DeVore
hesitated, noting how well the albino looked in uniform, then nodded.
"Good. I'll be down in a short while. Take them to the dining
room, and make sure they're well looked after."

Lehmann bowed
and left.

DeVore turned
and had one last brief look at the lifesize picture of the five
terrorists. "As one door closes, so another opens."

He laughed
softly, then went across to his desk and pressed out the code to link
him to the landing dome. His man there, Kubinyi, answered at once.

"Is
everything in hand?"

"As you
ordered, Excellency."

"Good. I
want no foul-ups. Understand me?"

He cut contact
before Kubinyi could answer, then reached across and took the file
from the drawer. He paused, looking about his office, conscious of
the significance of the moment. Then, with a sharp laugh of
enjoyment, he slammed the drawer shut and went out.

New
directions,
he told himself as he marched briskly down the
corridor toward the elevator.
The wise man always follows new
directions.

They turned as
he entered the room. Seven of them. First Level businessmen, dressed
in light-colored silk
pan.

"Gentlemen,"
he said, deliberately—ironically—avoiding the normal Han
term,
ch'un tzu.
"How good to see you all again."

He saw at once
how tense they were, how they looked to each other for support. They
were afraid of him. Afraid how he might react to the news they
brought. News they thought he was unaware of. But he saw also how
resigned they were. A spent force. The Seven had routed them
thoroughly. The confiscations, the arrests and executions—these
had shaken them badly. They saw now the true cost of their
involvement.

So it is
,
he thought.
And now your time has passed.

He went among
them, shaking hands, making small talk, his style and manner putting
them at ease. He left Douglas until last, taking the old man's hand
firmly, warmly, holding his shoulder a moment, as if greeting the
best of friends. Douglas was leader of the Dispersionists now that
Berdichev was dead. Leader of a broken party, unwilling even to
whisper its own name in public.

The news of
Berdichev's death had been broken publicly only two hours before.

While they were
meeting, no doubt, finalizing what they would say to him this
afternoon. The shock of that lay on them too. He could see it in
Douglas's eyes.

"It's a sad
business," he said, pre-empting Douglas. "I had nothing but
respect for Soren Berdichev. He was a great man."

Douglas lowered
his head slightly. The news had affected him badly. His voice was
bitter and angry, but also broken. "They killed him," he
said. "Like a common criminal. One of their animal-men—some
GenSyn brute—did it, I'm told. Snapped his back like a twig. No
trial. Nothing." He raised his eyes again and met DeVore's. "I
never imagined . . ."

"Nor I,"
said DeVore sympathetically, placing an arm about his shoulders.
"Anyway . . . Come. Let's have something to eat. I'm sure you're
all hungry after your flight here. Then we'll sit and talk."

Douglas bowed
his head slightly, a wistful smile on his lips softening the hurt and
anger in his eyes. "You're a good man, Howard."

Little was said
during the meal, but afterward, with the plates cleared and fresh
drinks poured all round, Douglas came to the point, "The war is
over, Howard. The Seven have won. We must plan for the long peace."

The outer-blast
shutters had been drawn back, and through the thick clear glass of
the wall-length window could be seen the sunlit valley and the
cloud-wreathed mountains beyond. The late afternoon light gave the
room a strangely melancholy atmosphere. DeVore sat at the head of the
table, his back to the window, facing them, his face in partial
shadow. "
Ai mo ta yu hsin ssu.
"

Douglas gave a
slow nod of agreement. "So it is. Nothing is more sorrowful than
the death of the heart. And that is how we feel, Howard. Weary.
Heartbroken. More so now that Soren is not with us."

"And?"
DeVore looked from one to another, noting how hard they found it to
look at him at this moment of surrender. They were ashamed. Deeply,
bitterly ashamed. But of what? Of their failure to dislodge the
Seven? Or was it because of their betrayal of him? Only Douglas was
looking at him.

When no one
spoke DeVore stood and turned his back to them, staring out at the
mountains. "I'm disappointed," he said. "I can't help
it, but I am. I thought better of you than this. I thought you had
more . . ." He turned, looking at them. "More guts."

"We've
lost." Douglas said, sitting back, suddenly defensive. "It's
an unpleasant fact to face, but it's true. Things have changed
drastically, even in the last few months. It would be suicide to
carry on."

"I see."
DeVore seemed surprised. He turned slightly aside, as if considering
something unexpected.

"Surely you
must have thought about it, Howard? You must have seen how things
are. The arrests. The confiscations. The Seven are riding high.
Anyone who shows even the slightest sign of opposing them is crushed.
And no half-measures." He paused, looking about him for support.
"That's how it is. I can't change that, Howard. None of us can
change it. We failed. Now it's time to call it a day."

"And that's
how you all feel?"

There was a
murmur of agreement from around the table.

DeVore sighed
heavily. "I thought as we'd come so far ..."

They were
watching him now. Wondering what he would do.

DeVore tapped
the file, suddenly more animated, his voice holding the slightest
trace of anger. "I had plans. Schemes for new campaigns. Ways to
finish what we had so successfully begun."