Beneath the Tree of Heaven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ministries of Death

CHEN TRAVELED WITH HANNAH as far as Erfut stack, then saw her into the transit, assigning a young guard from the nearby Security post to escort her to her door. It was an hour by fast-bolt to his own stack in West Bremen, but, alone again, he knew that he couldn’t go home—couldn’t face another night like the last. Where to, then? he asked himself, turning away, surprised by how down he felt. Down. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe, for once, he should simply trust to instinct and let go. After all, things couldn’t possibly get worse than they already were.

Very well, he thought, but not here. No. He’d catch a bolt south to Munich Hsien, to his old haunts. But first he’d call in, let his office know he was going off-duty. And off-call? Strictly speaking he wasn’t supposed to do that, but who’d miss him this once? Rheinhardt? No. Rheinhardt would be off socializing somewhere—he and the rest of the senior staff. Only he, Kao Chen, worried about such matters these days, and tonight he felt like letting it all hang. Quickly he made his way back to the Security post and sent the message through, signing off with his personal code. There, he thought, satisfied. Eight hours. Nothing could happen in eight hours. And even if it did, let someone else worry for a change. Let someone else save Chung Kuo from anarchy and old night. He’d had enough.

The bolt terminus was quiet, echoing empty. From the board he saw he’d missed one of the high-speeds by ten minutes, but there was another in an hour. Plenty of time to get himself a drink and a bite to eat. The terminus bar was closed, but a porter directed him to a bar six levels down. It was a big place with a dance floor at one end and a long, curving bar, backed by a wall-length mirror. The lighting was subdued, the place three quarters empty. Music played softly in the background, as if coming from somewhere down below.

Chen pulled out one of the stools and sat, then called the bartender over.

“What’ll you have?”

Normally he didn’t drink, or if he did it was something nonalcoholic, but he was feeling half drunk from the wine he’d had already. “A Yao Fan Te,” he said, recalling as he did that it was all of fourteen years since he’d last tasted a bulb of Yao Fan Te beer. He smiled, remembering. Back then he’d been a wanted man, a criminal, forced into taking a menial job to keep Wang Ti and his baby son. He took a long, deep breath, nodding to himself. Yes, the last time he had tasted Yao Fan Te had been that evening in the bar with Supervisor Lo—the evening of the public execution of Edmund Wyatt. The same evening Tolonen and the big man, Karr, had come for him and changed his life. “You all right?” Chen looked up and smiled. “Sure.” He put a five^yuan note down beside the open bulb, then picked up the drink. After the wine it tasted sour, unpleasant even, but it was cold and after a second swig it didn’t seem so bad.

He looked around, noting how many of the customers sat alone, or silent and subdued in groups of two or three. Maybe it was the place. Maybe it attracted transients like himself. Or maybe it was just the hour. Whatever, it seemed quite dead after the bustling brightness of the Golden Carp. Up there there’d been great shrieks of laughter, a constant buzz of noise, while here . . .

He turned back, facing his reflection in the curving mirror, noting how the image of his face was stretched, as if someone were pulling at his cheeks.

Okay ... So what am I to do?

A more ruthless man might have had his wife committed; would have married again and put it all behind him. But he wasn’t that kind of man. Besides, for all that she was a stranger to him now, he still loved Wang Ti, or at least the memory of what she had been. He could not let that go, however much it hurt him to go on this way. No, nor would his children have forgiven him if he had.

He drained the bulb and called for another. Full circle, he thought, watching the waiter’s back as he bent down and took another bulb from the back of the refrigerated cupboard. 1 have come full circle. Wang Pen, he’d been—rootless and unconnected, his parents unknown, his origins forgotten. Lacking options he had become a hireling, a man whose death would have gone unmourned, unnoticed: a machine of flesh and bone and muscle, used by bigger men for ends he could not guess at. So he might have spent his meager life, so wasted it. But then he had met Wang Ti—Wang Ti, his wife and lover—and his life had been transformed. Children they’d had, and a future. The sun had shone on them. But now? Chen shuddered, the bitterness flooding back. The pain he felt, the sheer disappointment and regret, the anger and frustration, all of it ate at him—impurely mixed into one sour, unhealthy cocktail of bile; a cocktail he was forced to drink each morning when he woke, each evening when he laid his head down on his pillow. Bitterness. Unending bitterness. “Eat bitter,” so the saying went. Endure. Yes, but was there ever an end to such endurance? Was there never a moment’s ease, a moment’s sweetness, to be had?

He turned, suddenly conscious of someone at his shoulder, of the faint, sweet scent of perfume in the air.

“I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean to disturb you.” For a moment he stared into her eyes, then, recollecting himself, he lowered his head. “Forgive me, I...”

“You looked sad,” she said, smiling at him. “I was watching you just now, in the mirror.” She hesitated. “Look, if I’m not wanted . . .” He shook his head, looked back at her again. She seemed young, in her mid-twenties, possibly. Her dark hair was tied back, her shoulders bare in the tight-fitting dark blue dress she wore. Strangely he found himself staring at her shoulders, fascinated by their strength, their roundedness. They glistened in the half light, like something carved from ivory.

She smiled. “You like what you see?”

Chen looked down, blushing furiously. “I—I didn’t mean ...” Her hand covered his where it lay on the surface of the bar. It was a strong hand, the nails a glossy red. The warmth of it pressed down upon his own. Warm, like her voice.

“It’s all right. I like to be looked at.”

He looked at her again and nodded. “You’re very nice.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was open, friendly. There were no conditions to it. It was a simple smile of pleasure, like a child’s. Seeing it Chen found himself warming to her.

“So? What were you thinking about?”

Chen shrugged. “Was I thinking?”

She reached up, tracing the frown lines in his forehead. “These.” He laughed. “I was thinking . . . well, I was thinking about men . . . and women.”

“Ah . . . women. The eternal problem, neh?”

“Not for you.”

“No.”

They both laughed.

“Look,” Chen began, feeling suddenly awkward, “Will you ... sit with me?

Have a drink, perhaps?”

Her smile broadened. “I wondered when you’d ask. My name is Hsin Kao Hsing.”

“Tong Chou,” he said, with a tiny formal bow, conscious that she was still holding his hand, that at no moment had she released him from that simple, warm contact.

“Well, Shih Tong. And what brings you to these parts?”

What did he say? How did he answer that?

“My wife . . .” He fell silent, realizing that he didn’t want to talk about that.

“Ah.” She nodded, as if she understood; as if there were no further need to explain. “I had a husband once. A little man he was.” She put her hand out, as if measuring where the top of his head would come to. Chen smiled. “He must have been very small.”

“Yes, but very strong . . . and big . . . you know, where it matters.”

He narrowed his eyes, then understood. “Ah ...”

“That drink?” she coaxed.

“Ah, right. . .” He turned, summoning the bartender across, then turned back to her. “What will you have?”

She nodded to the bulb beside him. “I’ll have whatever you’re drinking, if that’s all right.”

He nodded, then ordered two more beers.

“Do you live around here?” he asked, an unfamiliar dryness in his mouth. “Down-level,” she answered, leaning toward him, her face only a hand’s width from his own now she was seated facing him. “I’ve my own place. I keep it neat.”

He nodded.

“And you?”

Chen took a breath. “Just passing through,” he answered, not wanting to say too much. “I was ...”

He stopped: suddenly the idea of going all the way to Munich Hsien had

lost its attraction. Why, he might as well stay here—have a few more

beers.

“You were what?” she asked, her smile curious. “Nothing,” he answered, taking one of the bulbs the bartender had set down and handing it to her. Then, taking his own, he snapped the seal and raised it, toasting her.

“Kan pei!”

“Kan pei!” she answered, her eyes sparkling. He sat back slightly, taking a long, deep breath. Her perfume was stronger than Hannah’s. Cheaper too, he thought. But what did that matter? They were alike, he and she, he could see that at a glance— made of the same common flesh: peasant stock, and no frills. He found himself smiling at the thought.

“Well. . .” she said, returning his smile strongly, “here we are.” Then, putting her bulb down on the bar, she leaned in toward him, resting her hands gently on his knees. “So, Tong Chou, why don’t you tell me about yourself. ...”

prince an hsi leaned forward in his chair, looking around at his fellow princes, seated all about him. The door was locked, the servants excluded. For the last hour they had done nothing but talk. “Well, Cousins,” he said, smiling broadly, “I think we are agreed. Our first task is to recruit others of like mind.” There was a murmur of agreement. An Hsi grinned. “Good. But let us be clear on this. We must go about this task with the greatest sensitivity. Like gardeners we must cultivate with patience and extreme care. On no occasion must the first word be ours. No, we must learn to be good at listening and encouraging others to talk. Wine”—he indicated the great spread on the table before them—“and good company . . . these things will serve to loosen many a tongue. Yet beware of those that gabble their thoughts carelessly. We want only those in whom anger is balanced with discretion, only those who—like ourselves—understand the true seriousness of this venture.”

He paused, his voice heavy with significance. “To depose the Seven . . . that is no small thing. And no matter how much Heaven might smile on us, until it is done we are in great peril. Though our anger is hot, our minds must be cool. A ruthless necessity must shape each word, each action, from henceforward.” Again he paused, looking from face to face, his eyes finally alighting on the face of Yin Chan. “One mistake—one tiny error—might undo the great good we seek to achieve.” Yin Chan nodded, his eyes sparkling with a strange fervor. “Well,” An Hsi added, the intensity slowly draining from him, “I think we are done. I, for one, must go. There is much to do, and I would be at it early.”

Yin Chan looked to the other three, who nodded. “I am glad you came, Cousins.” He shivered, tears of gratitude in his eyes. “Until now I could see no end to it... no way to douse the fire of rage that burned in me. But now ...” He clenched his right fist and raised it, his face suddenly hard. “Now we can fulfil the will of Heaven.” Their response was fierce and passionate—a raising of clenched fists. All eyes were tearful now.

“It is so,” An Hsi said, leaning toward them across the table. “We must be as brothers now.”

as they stepped out into the hallway they heard a movement on the stairs above—a brief silken rustling, and then silence. “Who was that?” An Hsi asked quietly, his eyes suspicious.

“It was no one, Cousin. Only my sister.”

“Your sister? You didn’t tell me she was here.” “She wasn’t meant to be, but her son was ill and she decided not to go with my father.”

“But if she heard ...”

Yin Chan leaned close, pressing An Hsi’s hand reassuringly. “I doubt it. But even if she did, she has more reason than most to hate Li Yuan. Why, if it came to it, I am certain she would strike the first blow herself.” An Hsi stared past him briefly, then looked back, smiling faintly, mollified by his words. “She suffered badly, then?” Yin Chan lowered his voice. “She raged, Cousin. The house shook with her anger. Imagine it ... to be cast off, your only son disinherited! A T’ang he would have been! A Son of Heaven! And what is he now? Not even a prince! The special Edict...”

Yin Chan looked down, shuddering with repressed anger. “I understand. ...” An Hsi said softly, sympathetically. “She must hate him, neh?”

Yin Chan looked up, then gave a sharp nod. “Well... I must go. There’s much to do. We’ll meet again, neh, Cousin? Two days from now, at my estate. Until then, take care. And remember what I said. Trust no one, not even your closest servant— only those bonded to us in common hatred.” .

Yin Chan nodded.

“Good.” An Hsi smiled, his hand briefly caressing Yin Chan’s cheek. Then he leaned close, gently kissing his lips. He moved back. “And maybe you’ll stay next time? It’s been too long, dear Chan. Much, much too long. . . .”

fei yen stood just inside her bedroom door, the room dark, moonlight from the open window casting a silver bar upon the far wall, revealing the door to the nursery. She could hear the child coughing in the next room, the soft singing of the nursemaid, but her mind was on what she’d heard downstairs, outside the door to her father’s study. Yin Chan, she thought, her anguish making her twist the silk of her nightdress tightly between her hands. What are you doing? What in the gods’ names are you doing?

Treason, it was. Simple treason. Punishable by death. To the third generation.

My son, she thought, her heart pounding. They’ll kill my son. Quickly she crossed the room. From the window she could see the hangar on the far side of the lake. There was movement there beside the craft as the crew prepared for takeoff. A moment later she saw her brother emerge on the lawn below beside An Hsi, the two men talking quietly. Foolishness, she thought, seeing her brother clasp the older man’s hands and bow his head. An Hsi she could understand, he had lost three brothers when Li Yuan had dealt with the Willow Plum Sickness that time, but Chan .

. .

Fei Yen took a long breath, calming herself, forcing herself to slow down and consider matters properly.

She had never thought—never, even from a look or comment, suspected—that her brother hated Li Yuan so much.

And she herself?

Chan was wrong. She didn’t hate Li Yuan. Not now. If anything, she understood him better now. And if, when she looked back on their days together, it was not with fondness, there was at least some element of regret that she had not tried harder with him. He had loved her. She had no doubt of that now. She had seen it in his eyes that last time he had come to visit her, after the death of his wives. But this—this madness! What could she do to stop Chan’s foolishness? How could she prevent him from bringing retribution down on all their heads? She watched, as Chan handed An Hsi into the boat, then climbed in after him, waving the servants away and taking the oars himself. She knew what had happened between An Hsi and Chan. Oh, she had had no need of spies to see what had been going on there. But she had thought it ended. Now, however, An Hsi was back, dripping his venom in her brother’s ear, fanning old frustrations into fires of vengeance. And for what? She shook her head, suddenly angry. A fool and a villain—it was a fine pairing! It would serve them well if the boat sank and the two were dragged down to the bottom. . . .

She caught her breath, realizing where her thoughts had run. Her brother

dead. Her dear, feeble, foolish brother . . . dead? Was there no other

way?

She closed her eyes, pained by the thought, but frightened by the alternative. She had heard them down there, swearing binding oaths of brotherhood and talking of the death of the T’ang. It was madness, yet it was real. And its reality threatened all their lives. Her brothers, her son, herself...

And father, she thought, horrified suddenly by the idea that that dear and noble man might be sacrificed to her brother’s foolishness. I must tell him. Let him decide.

The thought, once formulated, took hold of her. Her father. He would sort out this mess. After all, that was his task as Head of their great family. It was not for her to decide her brother’s fate. After all, she had not spawned him.

She turned, looking at the moonlit door. It was quiet now. The coughing had stopped, the nursemaid’s singing ceased. There was only the gentle slush of the oars where they dipped into the water of the lake behind her. Sleep softly, Han, she thought, blowing a kiss to her infant son. I’ll let no one harm you. No one.

it was a tiny two-room apartment, sparsely furnished but neat, like she’d said, a single wall lamp throwing a pale orange light over everything. As she closed the door behind them, Chen looked about him, noting the cheap romantic prints that covered the end wall, the ersilk pillows that were plumped up on the single bed. A beaded curtain separated the room from the galley kitchen. He and Wang Ti had lived in such an apartment for a year, when Jyan was three. It had been cramped, but they’d been happy there. He smiled, feeling unsteady, heavy limbed, from the beer he’d drunk. He turned, looking at the woman. She was standing by the low dresser, taking off her earrings. Seeing him watching her in the mirror, she turned and smiled at him.

“So . . . what do you want?

“Want?”

“You want sex? Or maybe something more kinky? Sex is five yuan. Anything else is extra.”

He stared at her, suddenly understanding. “I—I don’t know. I thought...” She smiled and came across. Placing her hand against his chest she began to unbutton his tunic.

“How much have you got?”

He felt in his pocket, then handed her a twenty-yuan note. She whistled softly. “For that you can have me any way you like. But no rough stuff, understand? And if you want it up the ass, you do it gentle, right?”

Her laughter was the same as before—an open, affectionate sound—yet now that he understood, it seemed quite different. He stared at her, at the painted lips, the rouged cheeks, the tight lines about her eyes and mouth, and wondered why he hadn’t clicked before. She was a whore. A bar hustler. And he had thought. . . He let her take his shirt and hang it up, then watched as she went through to the kitchen, no doubt to put the money in a safe place. When she came back he was still standing as she’d left him. “Well?” she said, laughing softly. “Are you going to strip, or do I have to take it all off for you?”

“I. . .” He looked at her and saw how she was watching him, no judgment in those eyes, only a friendliness, the affection of one stranger for another, and shrugged. “If you want.”

She came across. “Sit on the bed. It’ll make things easier.”

He sat, letting her pull off his boots.

“And these,” she said, tugging at his trousers.

He lifted himself up.

“There,” she said, setting them on the chair beside the wall. “That’s better, neh?”

For a moment she knelt there, smiling up at him. Then she moved back slightly and, with a simple little movement, pulled her top up over her head and threw it to one side, leaving her naked from the waist. In the low light her breasts were firm, the nipples prominent. He stared at her, half afraid, half fascinated. Home, he thought, but home was an impossibility. There was nothing at home. He moaned softly. “It’s okay” she said, more gently than before, her eyes reassuring him. “You’re safe here, my love. No wife to come and eat you. Only me.” She moved forward, placing her hands on his thighs, then nuzzled close, against his chest, placing a soft wet kiss against his neck. “You’re in the land of warmth and softness now, Tong Chou, so relax, neh? Just relax.

...”

he woke, wondering where he was. Not my room, he thought, listening to the faint tick of a clock. And the air—the air was different somehow. He remembered. The woman. Shifting slightly he could feel her against his back.

Slowly he turned, until he was facing her. The night light was on in the galley kitchen—the pearled whiteness filtered through the bead curtain in the doorway. In its light he could see the shape of her, the slow rise and fall of her breasts.

He eased himself up, then rested his back against the wall. The woman lay beside him, naked, on her back, her eyes closed, one hand resting on her stomach, the other nestled in her hair. He looked at her, surprised to find himself there, and remembered what had happened between them. The need . . . that had surprised him. The fierceness of his need. That and her warmth. So kind she’d been, so ... gentle with him. Like a lover, he thought, and frowned, because he’d been told you couldn’t buy love, only win it.

Whores . . . They were a staple of his work. He’d seen a thousand of them in his time—in the cells, or in the gaudy rooms of brothels— and never once had he thought what it was like for them: where they lived or what they wanted from their lives.

Comfort probably. And peace of mind. Like anyone. He had seen them dead—murdered or overdosed from drugs— and had never once thought what it must be like for them. Until now. He sighed. And you think you’ve got problems, Kao Chen! But he, at least, had something, whereas she . . . She stirred, then turned and looked up at him, a slow smile forming on her lips.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” He smiled back at her. “I was thinking ...” “You shouldn’t. It’s bad for you.”

“Maybe. . . .” He reached down, taking her hand where it nestled in her long, dark hair, and laced his fingers into hers. “It was nice . . .” Her smile deepened. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “. . . but I ought to go.”

“At this hour? Where? Home to that wife of yours?” She shook her head. “No, Tong Chou. I’ll make us some ch’a. Then we’ll go again.” “Again?” he laughed softly, but the thought of it was enticing and the way she looked at him inflamed him. “Wait there.”

He watched her get up, enjoying the sight of her nakedness, the simple intimacy of it. This room, themselves . . . He let his head drop back against the wall, a long breath soughing from him, then listened to her pottering about in the kitchen. “You hungry?” He gave a grunt of assent. “Here.” She leaned around the door, holding a plate out to him. He looked up, then leaned forward to take the plate from her. “Oat crackers!” He laughed. “It’s years since I had oat crackers!”

“You don’t like them?”

“No, no ... I love them. It’s just...” He huffed out a breath. How explain it? How explain the strange mixture of sadness and contentment he was feeling at that moment? Or did she already know? Was that, perhaps, how she felt, all of the time?

We’re both whores, he thought. The only difference is that one of us is more honest about it than the other.

She came back, offering him a cup, then squatted on the bed beside him. In the light he could see she was much older than he’d first imagined her—more his own age, in fact. Her face was lined and her flesh had lost the firmness of youth. Even so, she was still an attractive woman. She smiled and leaned toward him. “I like you, long Chou. I’m tempted to let you stay the night. Business is bad, so . . .” “You want more money?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Did I soy that? No ... besides, you paid me well, and treated me nicely too. It’s not often . . .” He saw the wistfulness in her eyes and looked away, sipping at his ch’a.

“You like your work?” he asked.

“You like yours?”

He shook his head.

“So what do you do, Brother Chou? You never said.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“That bad, huh?”

He laughed. Then, more seriously, he nodded. “That bad.”

“Tell me. I’m curious.”

He hesitated, tempted to tell her, then reached out and gently touched her cheek. “You don’t want to know.”

hannah closed the door behind her quietly, then went across to her father’s desk.

Sitting in his chair she looked about her at the stacks of papers and reports that filled the desk, and took a long breath. It was here somewhere. She had seen it only the other day. A black, hand-bound file. But which one? There had to be thirty or forty here that fitted that description. That was, if it was still here. If he hadn’t dealt with it and sent it back.

So ... Where to start?

She removed the gold-bound file that rested on the jotter and placed it on the floor beside her, then began, taking the top file from the stack to her left and placing it facedown on the jotter. It was important to keep it all in the proper order—to put it all back exactly as it had been. She knew her father. All of this seemed chaotic, yet he had his own system and knew precisely where everything was. He knew. . . She stopped, interested by something she had glimpsed. It wasn’t the file she was looking for; even so she read on. Half an hour later she looked up, her face pale, her heart racing. Secrets . . . her father was the custodian of secrets, but this! She whistled softly to herself.

Forget Nantes. Forget what had happened there. It was as nothing beside this.

She went back to the first page, studying the list of names to whom the file had been sent. Nine names in all. Seven of them were Dragons—Heads of the Ministry in their own Cities and brothers to her stepmother. The eighth was her father’s. The ninth. . . She frowned, surprised by it. The ninth name was that of An Sheng, Head of the great Minor Family and liege to Li Yuan, the T’ang of Europe.

“Gods ...” she said softly, remembering what her father had said to her only days before. So this was the important matter he had been working on. This.

She sat back, feeling breathless, giddy, for once at a loss what to do. This was not the kind of secret one should know; not the kind one could share with anyone.

No ... not even her father.

For a moment she sat there, her mind a blank, staring straight ahead of her. Then an idea occurred to her. Maybe she should consult her grandfather, Shang Wen Shao. Maybe he would know what to do. Then again, maybe not. Maybe this was too weighty a matter for him. Her great-grandfather, Shang Chu, then?

She sighed. No. She knew what he would say.

Or did she? For once she wasn’t sure.

She frowned, then froze, hearing something. The door. . . the door was open. Not much. Not more than a hand’s width, yet she had taken care to close it after her. “Who is it?” she said, closing the file and putting it aside. “Come out and show yourself.”

The door slowly opened. A boy stood there—a fat-faced little boy with Eurasian features. It was her stepbrother, Ch’iu. “Sneak,” she said, standing and coming around the desk.

He stared back at her, unabashed. “Why are you in Father’s study?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I was,” he said, his pudgy face glaring at her now. “But I heard you creeping down the corridor and wondered what you were up to. When you didn’t come back I thought I’d come and see.” She went right up to him, looking down at him, her hands on her hips.

“Well, now you know. So you can go back to bed, can’t you?”

“Why should I? Besides, you still haven’t answered my question.” She leaned down at him, her face hard, no love lost between them. “Nor am I going to. Now go. Before I kick that fat little bottom of yours from here to the bathroom!”

“I’ll tell Mother.”

“Tell her. See if I care.”

He stared at her a moment longer, defiance in his eyes, then turned and went, pulling the door closed behind him. Hannah stared at the door a moment, then let out her breath.

“Shit!”

She went back across the room again and, putting everything else back where it had been, picked up the file and turned, meaning to return to her room. But she had gone only two paces toward the door when it swung open again.

“Han-A?”

She bowed her head, swallowing, the file held tightly behind her back, concealed from sight. “Mother . . .”

Chih Huang Hui stood there, her pale face staring out from the layers of blood-red silk she wore, her eyes wide with a strange satisfaction. “Can you explain what you are doing here, girl?” “I”—she thought quickly—“I was looking for something Father said he’d left for me.”

“Left for you?” Her stepmother’s face crinkled up in an expression of distaste. “Then why did he not leave it in your room, Han-A? Surely he would not have left it here, among his papers.” She looked up, deciding to brazen it out. “It was exactly what I thought myself. But there was nothing on my desk, so I thought—“ “Does he know you come into his room?”

Hannah looked down again, then shook her head. It was not the moment to reveal how often she had been in here without his knowing. “And if he did, don’t you think”—she smiled, clearly savoring the thought—“don’t you think he might be angry with you, Han-A?” “I—I don’t know.”

Chih Huang Hui straightened up, her whole body taut with triumph. From behind her Shang Ch’iu peered out, his face grinning with malice. “Well, Han-A. I am disappointed in you. Severely disappointed. I’m afraid I shall have to tell your father.” Again she smiled, this time a spark of real savagery lighting her features. “He’ll be most surprised to leam what his darling daughter gets up to while he’s away, don’t you think? Most disappointed.”

chen dressed quickly, his embarrassment beyond words. His lieutenant, Wilson, stood in the corner of the room, his head bowed, his eyes averted, waiting while Chen put on the spare uniform he’d brought. As he buttoned the tunic, Chen glanced at the woman apologetically. She was watching him silently, a strange distance to her suddenly, the spell of intimacy broken. Now he was simply another body, and an unwelcome one at that.

“If I’d known . . .” she’d said, almost brutally. “Security! Fucking Security! And I thought—“ The last button done, he turned, looking to his lieutenant. “Okay. You’d better tell me as we go along.”

He turned back, looking at the woman. She had put her jacket about her shoulders, otherwise she was naked still. He went to say something, then saw the look in her face and fell silent. Shrugging, he turned away. But it was hard simply to walk out on her.

As the door closed behind him, Chen felt a sudden anger. For the first time in ages he had found peace—for one brief moment—and then they had tracked him down, like the lowest of criminals. “How did you find me?” he asked Wilson, conscious of the four guards listening.

Wilson looked down, embarrassed. “When we couldn’t get in touch with you, we thought maybe something had happened. Then we noticed the message from this stack and”—he hesitated—“well, sir, I put a camera trace on you. I wouldn’t have but. . . well, it was the only way. I knew you’d want to know at the very earliest.”

Chen stopped, staring at him. “Know what? Is it my family?”

“No, sir. It’s . . . Song Wei. You know, the sweeper. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir. The whole deck is up in arms. We’ve got our men down there trying to keep a lid on things, but I knew you’d want to deal with it yourself. I mean, in view of what happened. . . .” Chen nodded, realizing that Wilson had probably saved him more embarrassment than he’d caused. Besides which, if Song Wei were dead, then this was a whole new ball game.

“Was he murdered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only him? Or are there others?”

Wilson hesitated. “To be honest, sir, we don’t know yet. It’s chaos down there and . . . well, we’ve searched the deck and we can’t account for four of the men.”

“I see.” Chen nodded, his mind already piecing things together. “Then let’s get there, neh? The quicker this is sorted out, the better.”

guards were everywhere. The whole area surrounding the corridor was cordoned off. As Chen marched through at the head of his escort, he couldn’t help but contrast it with how he had seen it only hours before. Then there had been an air of normality, however tentative. Now it was like a war zone, the tension palpable.

Song Wei was laid out on the kitchen table, the body wrapped in a sheet. As Chen came into the room, one of the special squad medics looked up from where he was examining the head and smiled. “Looks like a professional job, Major Kao. One bullet, behind the right ear. Took the top of his head off.”

Chen took the skintight gloves he was offered and pulled them on, then went across. As the surgeon moved back, he saw the damaged skull for the first time and winced. It didn’t look human. It looked more like a broken bowl, the jellied contents mixed with small fragments of bone. Carefully, he put his hand beneath the neck and turned it slightly. “There,” the medic said, pointing to the hole behind the right ear. “The powder burns show that whoever did it must have placed the gun right up against the neck. It was a large-caliber weapon. What size we’ll know when we’ve found the bullet.”

Chen frowned, then understood. “Where was he killed?” “The other side of the stack, four levels down. They found him in a maintenance room, his brains all over the ceiling. It seems no one heard anything.”

“Who brought him here?”

“Friends of the family. First we heard of it was when the trouble

started.”

“Trouble?” Chen looked to Wilson, who stood behind the sergeant in the doorway.

“They burned a Security post, sir. No one Jiurt. The guards saw what was happening and got out, raised the alarm. That was an hour back.” Chen nodded. An hour back he had been with the woman.

There was a wailing, a sudden violent wailing from the next room.

He looked up, startled. “What the hell. . . ?” “It’s his wife, sir. I thought it best to keep her here. She’s hysterical and the crowd’s already touchy, so ...”

Chen nodded. But the sound was affecting him badly. He looked back at the shattered skull, then gently lowered it and stood back. He held his hands out, letting the medical orderly peel off the gloves and drop them in the sterile sack, then turned, facing the sergeant. “So . . . what else do we know? What do the camera records show?” Wilson answered him. “The area he was killed is a blind spot. There’s a camera on the approach to it, but nothing on the corridor itself. It’s only a small thing ... a maintenance passage. The room’s usually locked.” “So what does the approach camera show?”

Wilson looked to the sergeant. “We’re not sure yet, sir. I’ve got a squad checking faces against the records. It’s a busy corridor and we’re not sure just how long the body was there before it was discovered.” Chen turned to the medic.

“Oh . . . four, five hours at least. Maybe more.”

Chen turned back. “Okay. As soon as you find out anything, let me know. I’ve my own theory as to who’s behind this, and the sooner we get to our killer the better. That is, if he’s still alive—“ He broke off. There had been a scuffling in the next room. Now the door to the kitchen jerked opened. There was shouting. A distraught woman’s face peered out as she struggled to get past the guard, and then the door slammed shut again.

The wailing sounded again, louder than before. Chen sighed. “Okay. I want that trace made a priority. At the same time I want a complete and thorough search of this stack, every room, every cupboard. And we’re not looking for small stuff, okay?—we’re looking only for things pertaining to this killing . . . and for those missing men.” Wilson and the sergeant bowed.

“Good. Now get going. I’ll speak to the woman.” He watched them go, then stood there a moment, considering things. Under normal procedures the camera records would be checked back forty-eight hours at least. It would emerge that he had been down here earlier yesterday, talking to Song Wei’s family. Questions would be asked, his investigation reports scrutinized for the least irregularity, and he would be in trouble. Unless he could tie things up quickly. Unless he could make that crucial connection between the killer and that bastard Cornwell. He knew it was Cornwell—had known it since he’d first heard the news. No one else would have had Song Wei killed. No one else stood to benefit by it. But he had to prove that. The man’s blustering threats about taking things into his own hands weren’t enough to convince a court. He had to make the link. To prove that Cornwell was behind it. Chen shivered. Like a lot of them these days Cornwell thought he was immune, above the rule of law. And the men he killed or destroyed, what were they to him? Scum, he’d called them. Scum. He went to the door, knocked. There was a sudden silence, and then the door slid back.

“Sir!” The guard stood back, letting him pass. Inside, the woman sat on the chair beside the tiny shrine. Behind her stood the old man, Song Wei’s father.

The old man stared at Chen a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “You ...” he whispered. “I should have known.”

Chen turned, dismissing the guard, then went across, standing over the weeping woman. He stared at her a moment, understanding her grief, then looked up, meeting the old man’s eyes.

“This had nothing to do with me,” he said quietly. “I tried to warn your son. Him and his friends. But this . . .” He shuddered. “I’ll get the man who did this. I promise you.”

“You promise me?” The old man’s voice was scornful now. He stared at Chen venomously, then leaned forward and spat on the chest patch of Chen’s uniform. “That for your promises, Major. I know your kind. You stick together to protect your interests. My son”—he drew a breath, trying hard to control himself, then spoke again—“my son was a good man. He worked hard. He was good to his wife, his children. He looked after his father, like a dutiful son should. And what was his reward? To be cast off. To be made to beg for crumbs from the rich man’s table. And, when he protested at his treatment, to be killed. Like the lowest insect.” The old man shuddered with indignation, his gnarled hands resting on his daughter-in-law’s shoulders, the fingers digging into her flesh, as if both to comfort and punish her. His face was fierce now, his eyes staring at Chen with an unrelenting hatred. “Promises . . . Paa! Can you eat promises? Can your promises make my son live again?” He shook his head. “No, Major. Give me none of your promises. I am sick to the heart of eating such bile.”

“I_”

“Just go,” the old man said, his face hard, unforgiving. “Go play your games. Go and pretend you’re doing something.” Chen turned, his face stinging as if he’d been slapped, and left, the man’s words ringing in his ears, the woman’s weeping tearing at his gut. Corn-well, he thought, moving through the kitchen without stopping, barely conscious of the guards bowing and saluting as he passed. I’m going to nail that bastard Comwell, whatever it takes. And if you can’t? a small voice asked.

He stopped, looking about him at the empty corridor, saying the words quietly to himself. “Then I’ll kill him anyway.”

hannah sat at her desk, waiting. Her father had come in some while back, going straight to his study. She had heard the door slam shut, then, less than a minute later, had heard it open again, the sound of voices, quiet at first, then louder. The door had slammed . . . and then nothing. She looked down at the sketches she had been making, noting how the faces seemed to stare back at her, somehow independent, as if she had not made them, merely freed them from the anonymous whiteness of the page. There was one particularly—the face of the hua pen she had seen that day down-level—which seemed to have transcended her simple attempt to capture its physical details. There was something in the depth of the eyes, in the slight twist of that knowing smile, which suggested something shadowed—a secret, hidden self she had not suspected while she had been listening to him.

She looked up, her eyes drawn to the flickering flatscreen on the wall across from her. It was her habit to leave it on when she worked, the sound turned down—a silent window on the world. Images . . . she trusted images more than words. They were less intermediary in their nature, less easily manipulated. Yet images could be faked or wrongly read. They were no different from words in that respect. Between what was shown and what hidden, the truth so often slipped away. Even so, it seemed more important to her to see than to say, though she knew she must do both in future. On the screen image followed image silently. Her world was in chaos—was slowly tearing itself apart—and yet for a large number of people there was no connection between that greater life and their own small private worlds of work and family—only the flickering screen, the official voice which told them what to think. Isolated. The two worlds were isolated. And if they met it was in a blaze of sudden, explosive violence—a violence that inflicted understanding only on its victims, leaving the watching billions unaffected.

Maybe that, then, was her purpose. To be that connecting force. To link the greater world with the small. Maybe it was her role, in this world of walls and levels, of files and secrets, of masked men and ever-watching cameras, to be the one who saw things clearly—who opened files, and looked inside locked rooms—and spoke what she had seen. Yes, but it could not be done openly, for too much was at risk. To speak out was to oppose, to threaten those shadows that controlled their lives. She had no illusions about it. They would kill her to prevent it. A hua pen . . . she must learn to become a new kind of hua pen, telling, not ancient tales, but the story of her age, her place. She stood, her restlessness suddenly something physical, like an itch that needed to be scratched. Turning, she took two paces, then stopped abruptly, staring, her mouth open in surprise. Her father stood in the shadow of the doorway, watching her.

She released her breath. “How long have you been there?” “Not long.” He came closer, looking about him as if he’d never been in her room before. “I...” He sighed, then looked at her again, the slightest admonishment in his voice. “Hannah . . . what have you been doing now?”

“Nothing. I was only—“

You were only what? Spying on him? Stealing things from his rooms?

“Your mother says—“

“She’s not my mother!”

“Hannah . . . Please, my love.”

She stared at him, astonished. His face was crumpled up in pain. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. Agonized, she went across and held him.

“Oh, Papa ... are you all right?”

“I”—he shivered in her arms—“I can’t tell you.”

She helped him sit in her chair, then knelt, looking up into his face.

“It’s okay. 1 know.”

He stared back at her, understanding slowly dawning on him.

“I’ve read it,” she said. “The file. I know what’s happening.”

“And?” His voice was a breath, less than a whisper. She studied his face, seeing how frightened, how confused, he was. “Aiya,” she said softly, taking his hands. “How did you ever get to this point? I mean . . . there’s nothing ruthless in you, is there? So many secrets . . . how did you ever get involved?”

He looked back at her, bewildered. “I don’t know. I—I did only what was asked of me.”

Yes, she thought, and step by step it led to this. “What shall we do?” he asked, like a child asking his mother, his eyes beseeching her. “What in the gods’ names shall we do?” “You must see Li Yuan,” she said, a cold fear gripping her. “You must request an audience. And you must tell him what you know.”