Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (64 page)

Haavikko's boot
caught Fest on the shoulder. He fell onto his side, groaning, then
lay there, the pain lancing through his shoulder. For a time he was
still, silent, then he turned his head again, trying to look back at
Haavikko. "You think you'll get away with this?"

It was the Han
who answered him, his face pressed close to Fest's, his breath sour
on Fest's cheek. "See this?" He brought a knife into the
range of Fest's vision—a big vicious-looking knife, longer and
broader than the regulation issue, the edge honed razor-sharp.

"I see it,"
Fest said, fighting down the fear he suddenly felt.

"Good. Then
you'll be polite, my friend, and not tell us what we can or cannot
do."

There was
something coldly fanatical about the Han. Something odd. As if all
his hatred were detached from him. It made him much more dangerous
than Haavikko, for all Haavikko's threats. Fest looked away, a cold
thrill of fear rippling through him.

"What are
you going to do?"

The Han laughed.
Again it was cold, impersonal. "Not us, Fest. You. What are
you
going to do? Are you going to help us nail that bastard Ebert, or
are you going to be difficult?"

Fest went very
still. So that was it. Ebert. They wanted to get at Ebert. He turned
back, meeting the Han's eyes again. "And if I don't help you?"

The Han smiled.
A killer's smile. "If you don't, then you go down with him.
Because we'll get him, be assured of that. And when we do, we'll nail
you at the same time, Captain Fest. For all the shit
you've
done
at his behest."

Fest swallowed.
It was true. His hands were far from clean. But he also sensed the
unstated threat in the Han's words. If he
didn't
help ... He
looked away, certain that the Han would kill him if he said no. And
then, suddenly, something broke in him and he was sobbing, his face
pressed against the floor, the smell of his own vomit foul in his
nostrils.

"I hate
him. Don't you understand that?
Hate
him."

Haavikko snorted
his disgust. "I don't believe you, Fest. You're his creature.
You do his bidding. You forget, old friend, I've seen you at your
work."

But Fest was
shaking his head. He looked up at Haavikko, his face pained, his
voice broken now. "I
had
to. Don't you understand that,
Haavikko? That time before Tolonen—I
had
to lie. Because
if I hadn't. . ."

The Han looked
at Haavikko, something passing between them, then he looked back at
Fest. "Go on," he said, his voice harder than before. "Tell
us. What
could
he have done? You only had to tell the truth."

Fest closed his
eyes, shuddering. "Gods, how I wished I had. But I was scared."

"You're a
disgrace—" Haavikko began, but Fest interrupted him.

"No. You
still don't understand. I couldn't. I ..." He looked down
hopelessly, then shook his head again. "You see, I killed a
girl—"

Haavikko started
forward angrily. "You lying bastard!"

Fest stared back
at him, wide-eyed, astonished by his reaction, not understanding what
he meant by it. "But it's true! I killed a girl. It was an
accident—in a singsong house—and Ebert found out about
it—"

Haavikko turned,
outraged. "He's lying, Chen! Mocking me!"

"No!"
Chen put his hand on Haavikko's arm, restraining him. "Hear him
out. And think, Axel. Think. Ebert's not that imaginative a man. What
he did to you—where would he have got that idea if not from
Fest here? And what better guarantee that it would work than having
seen it done once before?"

Haavikko stared
back at him openmouthed, then nodded. He turned, looking back at
Fest, sobered. "Go on," he said, almost gently this time.
"Tell us, Fest. Tell us what happened."

Fest shivered,
looking from man to man, then, lowering his eyes, he began.

* *
*

THE DOORMAN
BOWED low, then stepped back, his ringers nimbly tucking the folded
note into his back pocket as he did so.

"If the
gentleman would care to wait, I'll let
Shih
Ebert know he's
here." DeVore went inside and took a seat, looking about him.
The lobby of the Abacus Club was a big high-ceilinged room, dimly lit
and furnished with low heavy-looking armchairs. In the center of the
room a tiny pool was set into a raised platform, a fountain playing
musically in its midst, while here and there huge bronze urns stood
like pot'bellied wrestlers, their arms transformed to ornately curved
handles, their heads to bluntly flattened lids.

Across from him
the wall space was taken up by a single huge tapestry. It depicted an
ancient trading hall, the space beneath its rafters overflowing with
human life, busy with frenetic activity, each trader's table piled
high with coins and notes and scrolled documents. In the foreground a
clearly prosperous merchant haggled with a customer while his harried
clerk sat at the table behind him, his fingers nimbly working the
beads of his abacus. The whole thing was no doubt meant to illustrate
the principles of honest trade and sturdy self-reliance, but to the
eye of an impartial observer the impression was merely one of greed.

DeVore smiled to
himself, then looked up as Lutz Ebert appeared at the far end of the
lobby. He stood and walked across, meeting Ebert halfway.

Lutz Ebert was
very different from his brother, Klaus. Ten years his brother's
junior, he had inherited little of his father's vast fortune and even
less, it seemed, of his distinctive personal traits. Lutz was a tall,
slim, dark-haired man, more sauve in his manner than his brother —
the product of his father's second marriage to an opera star. Years
before, DeVore had heard someone describe Lutz as honey-tongued, and
it was true. Unlike his brother he had had to make his own way in the
world and the experience had marked him. He was wont to look away
when he talked to people or to press one's hand overzealously, as if
to emphasize his friendship. The blunt, no-nonsense aloofness that
was his brother's way was not allowed him, and he knew it. He was not
his brother — neither in power nor personality — though
he was not averse to using the connection, letting others make what
they would of his relationship with, and his possible influence over,
one of Chung Kuo's most powerful men. He had swung many deals that
way, deals that the force of his own personality and limited
circumstances might have put outside his grasp. Here, in the Abacus
Club, however, he was in his element, among his own kind.

Lutz smiled
warmly, greeting him, then gave a small, respectful bow.

"What an
unexpected pleasure,
Shih
Loehr. You'll dine with me, I hope.
My private rooms are at the back. We can talk there undisturbed."

"Of
course."

The rooms were
small but sumptuously furnished in the latest First Level fashion.
DeVore unbuttoned his tunic, looking about him, noting the bedroom
off to one side. No doubt much of Lutz Ebert's business was
transacted thus, in shared debauchery with others of his kind. DeVore
smiled to himself again, then raised a hand, politely refusing the
drink Ebert had poured for him.

"I won't,
thanks. I've had a tiring journey and I've a few other visits to make
before the day's over. But if you've a fruit juice or something . .
."

"Of
course." Ebert turned away and busied himself at the drinks
cabinet again.

"This is
very nice, my friend. Very nice indeed. Might I ask what kind of
rental you pay on these rooms?"

Ebert laughed,
then turned, offering DeVore the glass. "Nominally it's only
twenty thousand a year, but in reality it works out to three or four
times that."

DeVore nodded,
raising his glass in a silent toast. He understood. There were two
prices for everything in this world. One was the official, regulated
price: the price you'd pay if things were fair and there were no
officials to pay squeeze to, no queues to jump. The other was the
actual price—the cost of oiling palms to get what a thousand
others wanted.

Ebert sat down,
opposite him. "However, I'm sure that's not why you came to see
me."

"No. I came
about your nephew."

Ebert smiled. "I
thought as much."

"You've
written to him?"

"In the
terms you suggested, proposing that he call on me tomorrow evening
for supper."

"And will
he come?"

Ebert smiled,
then took an envelope from his top pocket and handed it to DeVore.
Inside was a brief handwritten note from Hans Ebert, saying he would
be delighted to dine with his uncle. DeVore handed the letter back.
"You know what to say?"

"Don't
worry, Howard. I know how to draw out a man. You say you've gauged
his mood already. Well, fair enough, but I know my nephew. He's a
proud one. What if he doesn't want this meeting?"

DeVore sat back,
smiling. "He'll want it, Lutz, I guarantee it. But you must make
it clear that there's no pressure on him, no obligation. I'd like to
meet him, that's all—to have the opportunity of talking with
him."

He saw Ebert's
hesitation and smiled inwardly. Ebert knew what risks he was taking
simply in being here, but really he'd had no option. His last
business venture had failed miserably, leaving him heavily indebted.
To clear those debts Ebert had to work with him, whether he wished it
or not. In any case, he was being paid very well for his services as
go-between—a quarter of a million
yuan
—with the
promise, if things worked out, of further payments.

There was a
knock at the door. It was the steward, come to take their orders for
dinner. Ebert dealt with him, then turned back to DeVore, smiling,
more relaxed now the matter had been raised and handled.

"Are you
sure there's nothing else I can do for you, Howard? Nothing I can
arrange?"

DeVore sat back,
then nodded. "Now you mention it, Lutz, there is one small thing
you can do for me. There's something I want to find a buyer for. A
statuette . . ."

* *
*

IN THE
TranSPORTER returning to the Wilds, DeVore lay back, his eyes closed,
thinking over his days work. He had started early, going down beneath
the Net to meet with Gesell and Mach. It had been a hard session, but
he had emerged triumphant. As he'd suspected, Wang Sau-leyan had
convinced them—Gesell particularly—that they ought to
attack Li Shai Tung's Plantations in Eastern Europe. Once implanted,
this notion had been hard to dislodge, but eventually he had
succeeded, persuading Mach that an attack on Bremen would strike a
far more damaging blow against the T'ang while damaging his own
people less. His agreement to hand over the remaining maps and to
fund and train the special
Ping Tiao
squads had further
clinched it. He could still see how they had looked at each other at
the end of the meeting, as if they'd pulled a stroke on him, when it
had been he who had called the tune.

From there he
had gone on to dine with Ebert's uncle, and then to his final meeting
of the day. He smiled. If life were a great game of
wei chi,
what
he had done today could be summarized thus. In his negotiations with
the
Ping Tiao
he had extended his line and turned a defensive
shape into an offensive one. In making advances to Hans Ebert through
his uncle he sought to surround and thus remove one of his opponent's
potentially strongest groups. These two were perfections of plays he
had begun long ago, but the last was a brand-new play—the first
stone set down on a different part of the board, the first shadowing
of a wholly new shape. The scientist had been easy to deal with. It
was as his informer had said: the man was discontented and corrupt.
The first made it possible to deal with him, the second to buy him.
And bought him he had, spelling out precisely what he wanted for his
money.

"Do this
for me," he'd said, "and I'll make you rich beyond your
dreams." And in token of that promise he had given the man a
chip for twenty thousand
-yuan.
"Fail me, however, and
you had better have eyes in your back and a friend to guard your
sleep. Likewise if you breathe but a single word of what I've asked
you to do today."

He had leaned
forward threateningly. "I'm a generous man,
Shih
Barycz,
but I'm also deadly if I'm crossed."

He had seen the
effect his words had had on the scientist and was satisfied it would
be enough. But just to make sure he had bought a second man to watch
the first. Because it never hurt to make sure.

And so he had
laid his stone down where his opponents least expected it, at the
heart of their own formation—the Wiring Project. For the boy
Kim was to be his own, when he was ready for him. Meanwhile he would
keep an eye on him and ensure he came to no harm. Barycz would be his
eyes and ears and report back to him.

When the time
came he would take the boy off-planet. To Mars. And there he would
begin a new campaign against the Seven. A campaign of such
imaginative scope as would make their defensive measures seem like
the ignorant posturings of cavemen.

He laughed and
sat up, glimpsing the mountains through the portal to his left as the
craft banked, circling the base.

But first he
would undermine them. First he would smash their confidence, break
the
Ywe Lung,
the great wheel of dragons, and make them
question every act they undertook. Would set them one against
another, until. . .

Again he
laughed. Until the final dragon ate its own tail. And then there
would be nothing. Nothing but himself.

* *
*

HANS EBERT
smiled and placed his arm about Fest's shoulders. "Don't worry,
Edgar. The matter's closed. Now, what will you drink? I've a bottle
of the T'ang's own finest
Shen,
if you'd like. It would be
good to renew our friendship over such a good wine, don't you think?"