Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (16 page)

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 was
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 A.D. 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.

With a shudder
he turned back, making his way through, his role in things suddenly
clear to him. Yes, 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 now. 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,
he put his head around the comer, 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 mustaches 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 toward
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 and 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 comer, 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 knifes 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 the 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."

Hung Mien-lo
raised his head and stared at Sun, then laughed and turned the screen
about so that it faced the man.

"Do you
recognize these figures, Master Sun?"

Sun raised his
head for the first time, studying the screen. Then he looked back at
Hung, his expression unchanged. "Those look like the household
accounts, Chancellor."

"And so
they are. But they're wrong. They've been tampered with. And not just
once but consistently, from what I can make out." He touched the
pad to clear the screen, then sat back, smiling. "Someone has
been milking them of quite considerable sums these last four years."

Sun met his gaze
openly. "And?"

Hung nodded,
admiring the man's coolness. "And there are only three men who
could have done it. I've questioned the other two, and it's clear
that they are innocent. Which leaves you, Master Sun. Your family has
prospered greatly these past four years."

"Are you
accusing me of embezzlement, Chancellor Hung?"

Hung Mien-lo
smiled. "I am."

Sun stared back
at him a while, then laughed. "Is that all? Why, if every
official who had massaged his accounts were to be arrested, the Seven
would quickly find themselves short of servants."

"Maybe so.
But
you
have been caught, Master Sun. I've evidence enough to
have you demoted to the Net."

Sun looked back
at him, untroubled, his smile intact. He recognized the big squeeze
when he saw it. "What do you want, Chancellor? What's the real
reason for this meeting?"

"You think
I have an ulterior motive, is that it, Master Sun?"

There was
movement in Sun's squat face; then, uninvited, he sat down, his
features set in a more serious expression. "We are realists, you
and I. We know how the wind blows."

"What do
you mean?"

Sun sat back,
relaxing, his face filled with sudden calculation. "We have been
fortunate, you and I. Events have moved strongly in our favor this
last year. We have risen while others have fallen away. Our families
are strong, our kin powerful."

"So?"

Sun's lips were
smiling now, but his eyes were still cold and sharp. "What I
mean is this. We should be allies, Hung Mien-lo. Allies, not
enemies."

Hung Mien-lo
leaned toward him, his expression suddenly hard, uncompromising. "And
if I say no?"

For the first
time a flicker of uncertainty crossed Sun Li Hua's face. Then,
reassuring himself, he laughed. "You would not be talking to me
if you had already decided. You would have had me arrested. But
that's not your purpose, is it? You want something from me."

But Hung was
glaring at him, angry now. "Have you no ears, man? No
understanding of the situation you are in?" He shook his head,
astonished. "You have dared the ultimate, Sun Li Hua. You have
killed a T'ang. And even the merest whisper in some ears of your
involvement would bring about your certain death."

"You have
no proof. . ." Sun began, then saw that what Hung had said was
true. Such a thing needed no proving; it was enough that suspicion
existed. And then he understood what Hung Mien-lo had been getting
at, why he had raised the matter of the embezzled funds. Demotion to
the Net would make him vulnerable. Would place him beyond the
protection of law and kin. He stared at his hands a moment, sobered.
There was nothing he could do. Hung Mien-lo held all the cards.

He bowed his
head. "What do you want?"

Hung Mien-lo
studied Sun Li Hua a moment, savoring his victory. For some time now
he had wanted to humble the man, to pull him down from his high
horse. Today, forced by the Prince to act, he had taken a gamble, had
wagered that what he'd guessed about Sun and the old T'ang was true.
And had won. But that was only the start. The next step raised the
stakes considerably. This time he gambled with his life.

Thus far his
hands had been clean. Thus far others had accomplished all he had
wished for, as if on his behalf. But now . . .

He took a deep
breath, studying the man, making certain in his own mind that this
was what he wanted. Then, calmly, his voice controlled, he answered
Sun.

"I'll tell
you what I want. I want you to kill again. I want you to kill the new
T'ang, Wang Ta-hung."

* *
*

emily ascher's
face was dark with anger, her nostrils flared, her eyes wide, glaring
at Gesell. She stood face on to him, her hands on her hips, her chin
tilted back challengingly.

"Go on!
Confront him with it! I bet the bastard denies it!"

Gesell's chest
rose and fell violently. The news of Shen's death had shaken him
badly. Things had been going so well. . . "You're sure?"

She made a
sharp, bitter sound of disgust. "It was his knife. The blade
with the pearled handle. The one we confiscated from him when he came
to see us that time."