The Middle Kingdom Read online

  Instinctively, Chen ducked. When he looked up again he couldn’t see Jyan. He took a step forward, then stopped, backing up. There, a half li down the Main, were three Security guards. They were approaching in a widely spaced line across the corridor, moving people out of their way brusquely, almost brutally as they walked towards the lift. Chen cursed beneath his breath and slammed his hand hard against the lift’s control panel.

  Slowly – very slowly – the doors began to slide shut.

  ‘Jyan!’ he screamed. ‘Jyan, where are you?’

  A second shot rang out, ricocheting from the back of the lift. Out in the corridor there was chaos as people threw themselves down. Only the three Security men and the masked chi ch’i were standing now. As Chen watched, one of the electric carts trundled towards the narrowing gap. Angry with Jyan, Chen pulled out his gun and aimed it at the cart, then lowered it again.

  It was Jyan. He was crouched over the cart, making as small a target of himself as possible.

  There were two more shots, closely spaced. The second ricocheted, clipping a crate on its exit from the lift, and flew up into a nest of screens. There was a sharp popping and spluttering and a strong burning smell. Glass and wiring cascaded down amongst the unseeing chi ch’i.

  With a painful slowness the cart edged between the doors. Seeing what was about to happen, Chen slammed his hand against the controls once, then again. The huge doors shuddered, made to open again, then slammed shut. But the delay had been enough. The cart was inside.

  Jyan climbed down quickly and went to the panel.

  Chen’s voice was low and urgent in the sudden silence. ‘Hurry! They’ll bring up burners for the locks!’

  Jyan got to work. Pulling the panel open, he put his fingernails underneath the edges of the thin control plate and popped it out. Behind it was an array of smaller plates, like tiny squares of dark mirror. Only two of them were important. Gingerly, he eased them out, careful not to damage the delicate circuitry behind. At once a voice boomed out from an overhead speaker, warning him not to tamper. Ignoring it, Jyan felt in his pocket for the two replacement panels and carefully fitted them. Then he slipped the top plate back and closed the panel.

  ‘Going down!’

  Jyan hammered the manual override and felt the huge lift shudder. For a moment there was a terrible groaning noise, as if the machine was going to grind itself to bits. Then came the sound of something very big and very solid breaking underneath them. With that the floor beneath the lift floor gave way and the lift plunged a body’s length before jerking to a halt. For a moment there was silence. Then, with a click and a more normal-sounding hum, it continued its descent.

  Across from Jyan, Chen picked himself up. ‘We’re through!’ he said elatedly. ‘We’ve broken through the Net!’

  Jyan turned. ‘That should keep them busy, neh, Chen?’

  Alarms were sounding overhead, back where they had come from. Jyan could almost see what it was like up there. Right now they would be panicking, afraid of the sudden darkness, the blaring sirens; packing the lightless corridors that led to the transit lifts; screaming and fighting one another blindly; trying to get up and out, away from the breach, before the quarantine gates – the Seals – came down.

  Jyan counted. At fifteen the lift juddered again. The sound was like a huge, multiple explosion, muffled and distant, yet powerful enough to shake the foundations of the City. ‘There!’ he said, grinning at Chen. ‘The Seals! They’ve brought down the Seals!’

  Chen stared back at Jyan blankly, the elation draining from him. He was sobered suddenly by the thought of what they had done. ‘That’s it, then,’ he said softly. ‘We’re safe.’ But he was remembering the feel of a small, dirty hand tugging at the sleeve of his one-piece as he walked down Pan Chao Street; the sight of a woman nursing her baby in a doorway; the faces of ordinary men and women going about their lives.

  ‘We did it!’ said Jyan, laughing now. ‘We fucking well did it!’ But Chen just looked away, giving no answer.

  Eight hours later and two hundred and fifty li to the north-west, two Security officers waited outside the huge doors of a First Level mansion. Here, at the very top of the City, there was space and silence. Here the only scent was that of pine from the crescent of miniature trees in the huge, shallow bowl at one end of the long, empty corridor; the only sound the soft, shimmering fall of water from the ornamental fountain in their midst.

  Major DeVore faced his ensign, his eyebrows raised. He had seen the look of surprise on the young officer’s face when they had stepped from the lift.

  ‘You’d like to live here, Haavikko?’

  The ensign turned and looked back at the broad, empty corridor. The floor was richly carpeted, the high walls covered with huge, room-sized tapestries, the colouring subdued yet elegant. Bronze statues of dragons and ancient emperors rested on plinths spaced out the full length of the hallway. At the far end the doors of the lift were lacquered a midnight black. A solitary guard stood there, at attention, a deng ‘lantern gun’ strapped to his shoulder.

  ‘They live well, sir.’

  DeVore smiled. He was a neat, compact-looking man, his jet black hair nearly Han in its fineness, his shoulders broad, almost stocky. On the chest of his azurite-blue, full dress uniform he wore the embroidered patch of a third ranking military officer, the stylized leopard snatching a bird from the air. He was a full head shorter than his ensign and his build gave him the look of a fighter, yet his manners, like his face, seemed to speak of generations of breeding – of culture.

  ‘Yes. They do.’ The smile remained on his face. ‘These are extremely rich men. They would swallow up minnows like us without a thought were the T’ang not behind us. It’s a different life up here, with different rules. Rules of connection and influence. You understand?’

  Haavikko frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What I mean is… I know these people. I know how they think and how they act. And I’ve known Under Secretary Lehmann’s family now for almost twenty years. There are ways of dealing with them.’

  Haavikko puzzled at the words momentarily. ‘I still don’t understand, sir. Do you mean you want to speak to him alone?’

  ‘It would be best.’

  Haavikko hesitated a moment, then, seeing how his Major was watching him, bowed his head.

  ‘Good. I knew you’d understand.’ DeVore smiled again. ‘I’ve harsh words to say to our friend, the Under Secretary. It would be best if I said them to him alone. It’s a question of face.’

  Haavikko nodded. That much he understood. ‘Then I’ll wait here, sir.’

  DeVore shook his head. ‘No, boy. I want you to be a witness, at the very least. You can wait out of earshot. That way you’ll not be breaking orders, neh?’

  Haavikko smiled, more at ease now that a compromise had been made.

  Behind them the huge double doors to the first level apartment swung open. They turned, waiting to enter.

  Inside, the unexpected. A tiny wood. A bridge across a running stream. A path leading upward through the trees. Beside the bridge two servants waited for them, Han, their shaven heads bowed fully to the waist. One led the way before them, the other followed. Both kept their heads lowered, eyes averted out of courtesy. They crossed the bridge, the smell of damp earth and blossom rising to greet them. The path turned, twisted, then came out into a clearing.

  On the far side of the clearing was the house. A big, two-storey mansion in the Han northern style, white-walled, its red tile roof steeply pitched.

  DeVore looked at his ensign. The boy was quiet, thoughtful. He had never seen the like of this. Not surprising. There were few men in the whole of Chung Kuo who could afford to live like this. Eighty, maybe ninety thousand at most outside the circle of the Families. This was what it was to be rich. Rich enough to buy a whole ten-level deck at the very top of the City and landscape it.

  Pietr Lehmann was Under Secretary in the House of Representatives at Weimar. A big man. Fourth in the pecking
order in that seat of World Government. A man to whom a thousand lesser men – giants in their own households – bowed their heads. A power broker, even if that power was said by some to be chimerical and the House itself a sop – a mask to brutal tyranny. DeVore smiled at the thought. Who, after all, would think the Seven brutal or tyrannous? They had no need to be. They had the House between them and the masses of Chung Kuo.

  They went inside.

  The entrance hall was bright, spacious. To the left was a flight of broad, wood-slatted steps; to the right a sunken pool surrounded by a low, wooden handrail. The small, dark shapes of fishes flitted in its depths.

  Their guides bowed, retreated. For a moment they were left alone.

  ‘I thought…’ Haavikko began, then shook his head.

  I know, DeVore mused; you thought he was Hung Mao. Yet all of this is Han. He smiled. Haavikko had seen too little of the world; had mixed only with soldiers. All this was new to him. The luxury of it. The imitation.

  There was a bustle of sound to their right. A moment later a group of servants came into the entrance hall. They stopped a respectful distance from the two visitors. One of them stepped forward, a tall Han who wore on the chest of his pale green one-piece a large black pictogram and the number 1. He was House Steward, Lehmann’s chief servant.

  DeVore made no move to acknowledge the man. He neither bowed nor smiled. ‘Where is the Under Secretary?’ he demanded. ‘I wish to see him.’

  The steward bowed, his eyes downcast. Behind him were lined up almost half of Lehmann’s senior household staff, fifteen in all. They waited, unbowed, letting the steward act for them all.

  ‘Excuse me, Major, but the master is out in the pagoda. He left explicit orders that he was not to be disturbed.’

  DeVore half turned and looked at his ensign, then turned back. ‘I’ve no time to wait, I’m afraid. I come on the T’ang’s business. I’ll tell your master that you did his bidding.’

  The steward nodded, but did not look up, keeping his head down as the Major and his ensign walked past him, out across the terrace and onto the broad back steps that led down to the gardens.

  Lotus lay scattered on the lake, intensely green against the pale, clear water. Huge, cream slabs of rock edged the waterline, forming a perfect oval. To the left a pathway traced the curve of the lake, its flower-strewn canopy ending in a gently arching bridge. Beyond the bridge, amidst a formal garden of rock and shrub and flower, stood a three-tiered pagoda in the classic Palace style, its red-tiled roofs unornamented. Further round, to the right of the lake, was an orchard, the small, broad-crowned trees spreading to the water’s edge. Plum and cherry were in blossom and the still air was heavy with their fragrance.

  It was early morning. From the meadows beyond the pagoda came the harsh, clear cry of a peacock. Overhead, the light of a dozen tiny, artificial suns shone down from a sky of ice painted the pastel blue of summer days.

  Standing on the topmost step, DeVore took it all in at a glance. He smiled, adjusting the tunic of his dress uniform, then turned to his ensign. ‘It’s okay, Haavikko. I’ll make my own way from here.’

  The young officer clicked his heels and bowed. DeVore knew the boy had been ordered by the General to stay close and observe all that passed; but these were his people; he would do it his way. Behind Haavikko the senior servants of the household looked on, not certain what to do. The Major had come upon them unannounced. They had had little chance to warn their master.

  DeVore looked back past Haavikko, addressing them, ‘You! About your business now! Your master will summon you when he needs you!’ Then he turned his back on them.

  He looked out across the artificial lake. On the sheltered gallery of the pagoda, its wooden boards raised on stilts above the lake, stood three men dressed in silk pau. The soft murmur of their voices reached him across the water. Seeing him, one of them raised a hand in greeting, then turned back to his fellows, as if making his excuses.

  Lehmann met him halfway, on the path beside the lake.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Howard. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  DeVore bowed his head respectfully, then met the other’s eyes. ‘I’ve come to investigate you, Pietr. The General wants answers.’

  Lehmann smiled and turned, taking the Major’s arm and walking beside him. ‘Of course.’ Light, filtering through the overhanging vines, turned his face into a patchwork of shadows. ‘Soren Berdichev is here. And Edmund Wyatt. But they’ll understand, I’m sure.’

  Again DeVore gave the slightest nod. ‘You know why I’ve come?’

  Lehmann glanced his way, then looked forward again, towards the pagoda. ‘It’s Lwo Kang’s death, isn’t it? I knew someone would come. As soon as I heard the news, I knew. Rumour flies fast up here. Idle tongues and hungry ears make trouble for us all.’ He sighed, then glanced at DeVore. ‘I understand there are those who are misconstruing words spoken in my audience with the Minister as a threat. Well, I assure you, Howard, nothing was further from my mind. In a strange way I liked Lwo Kang. Admired his stubbornness. Even so, I find myself… unsurprised. It was as I thought. As I warned. There are those for whom impatience has become a killing anger.’

  DeVore paused, turning towards the Under Secretary.

  ‘I understand. But there are things I must ask. Things you might find awkward.’

  Lehmann shrugged good-naturedly. ‘It’s unavoidable. The Minister’s death was a nasty business. Ask what you must. I won’t be offended.’

  DeVore smiled and walked on, letting Lehmann take his arm again. They had come to the bridge. For a moment they paused, looking out across the lake. The peacock cried again.

  ‘It is being said that you had most to gain from Lwo Kang’s death. His refusal to accommodate you in the matter of new licences. His recent investigations into the validity of certain patents. Most of all his rigid implementation of the Edict. That last, particularly, has harmed you and your faction more than most.’

  ‘My faction? You mean the Dispersionists?’ Lehmann was quiet a moment, considering. ‘And by removing him I’d stand to gain?’ He shook his head. ‘I know I’ve many enemies, Howard, but surely even they credit me with more subtlety than that?’

  They walked on in silence. As they reached the pagoda, the two men on the terrace came across and stood at the top of the slatted steps.

  ‘Soren! Edmund!’ DeVore called out to them, mounting the narrow stairway in front of Lehmann. ‘How are you both?’

  They exchanged greetings then went inside, into a large, hexagonal room. Black, lacquered walls were inset with porcelain in intricate and richly coloured designs. The ceiling was a single huge mosaic, a double-helix of tiny, brightly coloured pythons surrounded by a border of vivid blue-white stars. Four simple, backless stools with scrolled, python-headed feet stood on the polished block-tile floor, surrounding a low hexagonal table. On the table was a small green lacquered box.

  Despite the heaviness, the formality of design, the room seemed bright and airy. Long, wide, slatted windows looked out onto the lake, the orchard and the surrounding meadows. The smell of blossom lingered in the air.

  It was almost more Han than the Han, DeVore observed uneasily, taking a seat next to Lehmann. A rootless, unconscious mimicry. Or was it more than that? Was it Han culture that was the real virus in the bloodstream of these Hung Mao, undermining them, slowly assimilating them, ‘as a silkworm devours a mulberry leaf’? He smiled wryly to himself as the words of the ancient historian Ssu Ma Ch’ien came to mind. Ah yes, we know their history, their sayings. These things have usurped our own identity. Well, by such patience shall I, in turn, devour them. I’ll be the silkworm delving in their midst.

  ‘So how’s the Security business?’

  DeVore turned on his stool, meeting Edmund Wyatt’s query with a smile.

  ‘Busy. As ever in this wicked world.’

  Despite long years of acquaintanceship, Wyatt and he had never grown close. There had always been a sense o
f unspoken hostility beneath their surface politeness. It was no different now.

  Wyatt was a slightly built man with an oddly heavy head. Someone had once commented that it was as if he had been grafted together from two very different men, and that impression, once noted, was hard to shake. At a glance his face revealed a strong, unequivocal character: aristocratic, his dark green eyes unflinching in their challenge, his chin firm, defiant. But looking down at the frame of the man it was noticeable at once how frail he seemed, how feminine. His hands were soft and thin and pale, the nails perfectly manicured. Slender tiao tuo, bracelets of gold and jade, hung bunched at both wrists. Such things made him seem a weak man, but he was far from that. His father’s ruin might have destroyed a lesser man, but Wyatt had shown great courage and determination. He had gambled on his own talents and won: rebuilding his father’s empire and regaining his place on First Level.

  DeVore studied him a moment longer, knowing better than to underestimate the intelligence of the man, then gave the slightest bow.

  ‘And you, Edmund – you’re doing well, I see. There’s talk your company will soon be quoted on the Index.’

  Wyatt’s eyes showed a mild surprise. He was unaware how closely DeVore kept himself briefed on such things. ‘You follow the markets, then?’

  ‘It makes sense to. Insurrection and business are close allies in these times. The Hang Seng is an indicator of much more than simple value – it’s an index of power and ruthlessness, a club for like-minded men of similar ambitions.’

  He saw how Wyatt scrutinized him momentarily, trying to make out the meaning behind his words. The Hang Seng Index of Hong Kong’s stock market was the biggest of the world’s seven markets and the most important. But, like the House, it was often a front to other, less open activities.

  DeVore turned slightly in his seat to face Berdichev, a warm smile lighting his features. ‘And how are you, Soren? I see far too little of you these days.’

  Soren Berdichev returned the smile bleakly, the heavy lenses of his small, rounded glasses glinting briefly as he bowed. He was a tall, thin-faced man with pinched lips and long, spatulate fingers; a severe, humourless creature whose steel-grey eyes never settled for long. He was a hard man with few social graces, and because of that he made enemies easily, often without knowing that he did; yet he was also extremely powerful – not a man to be crossed.