Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (19 page)

"That's so.
But no. At least, I don't think so. Immediate word has it that the
big gang bosses are as surprised as we are by this. Two of the
incidents involved small Triad-like gangs—splinter elements,
possibly trying to make a name for themselves—but we've yet to
discover whether they were working on their own or in the pay of
others."

Ebert raised his
hand, interested despite himself in this new development. He would
much rather have still been between the legs of the Minister's wife,
but if duty called, what was better than this?

"Yes, Major
Ebert?"

"Is there
any discernible pattern in these killings? I mean, were they all Hung
Moo, for instance, or were the killings perhaps limited to a
particular part of the City?"

Nocenzi smiled
tightly. "That's the most disturbing thing about this affair.
You see, the victims are mixed. Han and Hung Moo. Young and old. And
the locations, as you see"—he indicated the map that had
come up on the screen behind him— "are scattered almost
randomly. It makes one think that the choice of victims may have been
random. Designed, perhaps, to create the maximum impact on the Above.
Simply to create an atmosphere of fear."

"
Ping
Tiao
?" Ebert asked, expressing what they had all been
thinking. Before the attack on Helmstadt it would have been
unthinkable, a laughable conclusion, but now . . .

"No."
Nocenzi's certainty surprised them all.

"At least,
if it is
Ping Tiao,
they're slow at claiming it. And in all
previous
Ping Tiao
attacks, they've always left their calling
cards."

That was true.
The
Ping Tiao
were fairly scrupulous about leaving their mark—
the sign of the fish—on all their victims.

"There are
a number of possibilities here," Nocenzi continued, "and I
want to assign each of you to investigate some aspect of this matter.
Is this Triad infiltration? Is it the beginning of some kind of
violent trade war? Is it, in any respect, a continuation of
Dispersionist activity? Is it pure terrorist activity? Or is it—
however unlikely—pure coincidence?"

Captain Russ
laughed, but Nocenzi shook his head. "No, it's not entirely
impossible. Unlikely, yes, even improbable, but not impossible. A
large number of the murders had possible motives. Gambling debts,
company feuds, adultery. And however unlikely it seems, we've got to
investigate the possibility."

Ebert raised his
hand again. "Who'll be coordinating this, sir?"

"You want
the job, Hans?"

There was a
ripple of good-humored laughter, Ebert's own among it.

Nocenzi smiled.
"Then it's yours."

Ebert bowed his
head, pleased to be given the chance to take on something as big as
this at last. "Thank you, sir."

Nocenzi was
about to speak again when the doors at the far end of the room swung
open and Marshal Tolonen strode into the room. As one, the officers
stood and came to sharp attention, their heads bowed.

"
Ch'un
tzu!"
Tolonen said, throwing his uniform cap down onto the
desk and turning to face them, peeling off his gloves as he did so.
"Please, be seated."

Nocenzi moved to
one side as the Marshal stepped forward.

"I've just
come from the T'ang. He has been apprised of the situation and has
given orders that we are to make this matter our first priority over
the coming days." He tapped his wrist, indicating the tiny
screen set into his flesh. "I have been listening to your
meeting and am pleased to see that you understand the seriousness of
the situation. However, if we're to crack this one we've got to act
quickly. That's why I've decided to overrule General Nocenzi and
assign each of you two of the murdered victims."

Hoffmann raised
his hand. "Why the change, sir?"

"Because if
there's any pattern behind things, it ought to be discernible by
looking at the facts of two very different murders. And with thirteen
of you looking at the matter, we ought to come up with
something
pretty quickly, don't you think?"

Hoffmann bowed
his head.

"Good. And
Hans ... I appreciate your keenness. It's no less than I'd expect
from you. But I'm afraid I'll have to tie your hands somewhat on this
one. That's not to say you won't be coordinator, but I want you to
work closely with me on this. The T'ang wants answers and I've
promised him that he'll have them before the week's out. So don't let
me down."

Ebert met the
Marshal's eyes and bowed his head, accepting the old man's decision,
but inside he was deeply disappointed. So he was to be tied to the
old man's apron strings yet again! He took a deep breath, calming
himself, then smiled, remembering suddenly how Chuang Lian had taken
his penis between her tiny delicate toes and caressed it, as if she
were holding it in her hands. Such a neat little trick. And then
there was her
mui tsai
—what was her name?—Sweet
Flute. Ah yes, how he'd like to play that one!

He raised his
eyes and looked across at Tolonen as General Nocenzi began to
allocate the case files. Yes, well, maybe the Marshal would be in
command nominally, but that was not to say he would be running
things. Russ, Scott, Fest, Auden—these were his men. He had
only to say to them . . .

The thought made
him smile. And Tolonen, glancing across at him at that moment, saw
his smile and returned it strongly.

* *
*

IT WAS well
after ten when Chen arrived back at the apartment. Wang Ti and the
children were in bed, asleep. He looked in on them, smiling broadly
as he saw how all four of them were crowded into the same bed, the
two-year-old, Ch'iang Hsin, cuddled against Wang Ti's chest, her hair
covering her plump little face, the two boys to her right, young Wu
pressed close against his older brother's back.

He stood there a
moment, moved, as he always was, by the sight of them; then he went
back through to the kitchen and made himself a small
chung
of
ch'a.

It had been a
long day, but there was still much to do before he could rest. He
carried the porcelain
chung
through to the living room and put
it down on the table, then moved the lamp close, adjusting its glow
so that it illuminated only a tight circle about the steaming bowl.
He looked about him a moment, frowning, then went across to the
shelves, searching until he found the old lacquered box he kept his
bashes and ink block in.

He put the box
down beside the chung, then went out into the hall and retrieved the
files from the narrow table by the door, beneath his tunic. He
paused, then went back and hung his tunic on the peg, smiling,
knowing Wang Ti would only scold him in the morning if he forgot.

Switching off
the main light, he went back to the table and pulled up a chair.
Setting the files down to his right, he sat back a moment, yawning,
stretching his arms out to the sides, feeling weary. He gave a soft
laugh, then leaned forward again, reaching for the chung. Lifting the
lid, he took a long sip of the hot ch'a.

"Hmm . . .
that's good," he said quietly, nodding to himself. It was one of
Karr's. A gift he had brought with him last time he had come to
dinner.
Well, my friend,
he thought;
now I've a gift for
you.

He reached
across and drew the box closer, unfastening the two tiny catches,
flipping the lid back.

"Damn it. .
." he said, starting to get up, realizing he had forgotten water
to mix the ink. Instead, he reached for the
chung
again and
dipped his finger; using the hot ch'a as a substitute. He had heard
that the great poet Li Po had used wine to mix his ink, so why not
ch'a? Particularly one as fine as this.

He smiled, then
wiping his finger on his sleeve, reached across and drew the first of
the files closer.

Today he had
called in all the favors owed him, had pestered friend and
acquaintance alike until he'd got what he wanted. And here they were.
Personnel files. Income statements. Training records. Complete files
on each of the five men who had died at Helmstadt. The so-called
Ping
Tiao
he had checked up on. Their files and two others.

He had gone down
to Central Records, the nerve-center of Security Personnel at Bremen.
There, in Personnel Queries, he had called upon an old friend,
Wolfgang Lautner. Lautner, one of the four senior officers in charge
of the department, was an old friend. They had been in officer
training together and had been promoted to captain within a month of
each other. Several times in the past Chen had helped Lautner out,
mainly in the matter of gambling debts.

Lautner had been
only too happy to help Chen, giving him full access to whatever files
he wanted, even to several that were, strictly speaking, off limits.
All had gone smoothly until Chen, checking up on a personnel number
that had appeared on several of the files, came up against a computer
block.

He could see it
even now, the words pulsing red against the black of the screen.
INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED.

Not knowing what
else to do, he had taken his query direct to Lautner, had sat there
beside him in his office as he keyed in the Level-A code. He
remembered how Lautner had looked at him, smiling, his eyebrows
raised inquisitively, before he had turned to face the screen.

"Shit. . ."
Lautner had jerked forward, clearing the screen; then he had turned
abruptly, looking at Chen angrily, his whole manner changed
completely. "What in fuck's name are you doing, Kao Chen?"

"I didn't
know—" Chen had begun, as surprised as his friend by the
face that had come up on the screen; but Lautner had cut him off
sharply.

"Didn't
know? You expect me to believe that? Kuan Yin, preserve us! He's the
last bastard I want to find out I've been tapping into his file. He'd
have our balls!"

Chen swallowed,
remembering. Yes, he could still feel Ebert's spittle on his cheek,
burning there like a badge of shame. And there, suddenly, he was, a
face on a screen, a personnel coding on the files of three dead
ex-Security men. It was too much of a coincidence.

Chen drew the
chung
closer, comforted by its warmth against his hands. He
could still recall what Ebert had said to him, that time they had
raided the Overseer's House, the time young Pavel had died; could
remember vividly how Ebert had stood there, looking to the west where
Lodz Garrison was burning in the darkness, and said how much he
admired DeVore.

Yes, it all made
sense now. But the knowledge had cost him Lautner's friendship.

He lifted the
lid from the chung and drank deeply, as if to wash away the bitter
taste that had risen to his mouth.

If he was right,
then Ebert was DeVore's inside man. It would certainly explain how
the
Ping Tiao
had got into Helmstadt Armory and stripped it of
a billion
yuan's
worth of equipment. But he had to prove that,
and prove it conclusively. As yet, it was mere coincidence.

He began,
working through the files again, checking the details exhaustively,
page by page, looking for something—anything—that might
point him in the right direction.

He had almost
finished when he heard a movement on the far side of the room. He
looked up and saw young Wu in the darkness of the doorway. Smiling,
he got up and went across, picking up the five-year-old and hugging
him to his chest.

"Can't you
sleep, Kao Wu?"

Wu snuggled into
his father's shoulder. "I want
a
drink," he said
sleepily, his eyes already closed.

"Come . . .
I'll make you one."

He carried him
into the kitchen, dimming the light. Then, one-handed, he took a mug
from the rack and squeezed a bulb of juice into it.

"Here . .
." he said, holding it to the child's lips.

Wu took two
sips, then snuggled down again. In a moment he was asleep again, his
breathing regular, relaxed.

Chen set the mug
down, smiling. The warm weight of his son against his shoulder was a
pleasant, deeply reassuring sensation. He went back out, into the
hallway, and looked across to where he had been working. The files
lay at the edge of the circle of light, facedown beside the empty
chung.

It was no good;
he would have to go back. He had hoped to avoid it, but it was the
only way. He would have to risk making direct inquiries on Ebert's
file.

He looked down,
beginning to understand the danger he was in. And not just himself.
If Ebert
were
DeVore's man, then none of them was safe. Not
here, nor anywhere. Not if Ebert discovered what he was doing. And
yet, what choice was there? To do nothing? To forget his humiliation
and his silent vow of vengeance? No. Even so, it made him heavy of
heart to think, even for a moment, of losing all of this. He
shivered, holding Kao Wu closer, his hand gently stroking the
sleeping boy's neck.

And what if
Lautner had taken steps to cover himself? What if he had already gone
to Ebert?

No. Knowing
Lautner, he would do nothing. And he would assume that Chen would do
nothing, too. Would gamble on him not taking any further risks.

Achh
,
thought Chen bitterly;
you really didn't know me, did you?

He took Wu to
his bed and tucked him in, then went through to the other bedroom.
Wang Ti was awake, looking back at him, Ch'iang Hsin's tiny figure
cuddled in against her side.

"It's late,
Chen," she said softly. "You should get some sleep."

He smiled at her
and nodded. "I should, but there's something I have to do."

"At this
hour?"

Again he nodded.
"Trust me. I'll be all right."

Something about
the way he said it made her get up onto one elbow. "What is it,
Chen? What are you up to?"