The Middle Kingdom Read online

  ‘No better place in the Net,’ he answered, saying nothing of the excellent Mu Chua’s, where he and others from the Above usually spent their time when they were here, or of his loathing of the place and of the types, like Jyan, with whom he had to deal. ‘You’d best say what you want, Kao Jyan. I’ve business to attend to.’

  Jyan looked up at him, a sly, knowing expression in his eyes. ‘I’ll not keep you long, mister contact man. What I have to say is simple and direct enough.’

  Cho Hsiang stiffened slightly, bristling at the insult Kao Jyan had offered him in using the anglicized form of Hsien Sheng, but his mind was already working on the question of what it was Jyan wanted. As yet he saw no danger in it for himself, even when Jyan leaned forward and said in a whisper, ‘I know who you work for, Cho Hsiang. I found it out.’

  Jyan leaned back, watching him hawkishly, the fingers of his right hand pulling at the fingers of the left. ‘That should be worth something, don’t you think?’

  Cho Hsiang sat back, his mind working quickly. Did he mean Hong Cao? If so, how had Jyan found out? Who, of Hsiang’s contacts, had traced the connection back? Or was Jyan just guessing? Trying to squeeze him for a little extra? He looked at the hireling again, noting just how closely the other was watching him, then shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I am my own man. I’m not a filthy hireling.’

  He made the insult pointed, but Jyan just waved it aside. ‘You forget what you hired me for this time, mister contact man. It was way beyond your level. I knew at once you were working for someone else. And not just anyone. This one had power. Real power. Power to make deals with Security, to trade with other, powerful men. With money to oil the cogs and sweep away the traces. That’s not your level, Cho Hsiang. Such people would not deign to sit at table with such as you and I.’

  Cho Hsiang was quiet a moment, then, ‘Give me a name.’

  Jyan laughed shortly, then leaned forward, his face now hard and humourless. ‘First I want a guarantee. Understand? I want to make certain that I’m safe. That they’ll not be able to come for me and make sure of my silence.’

  He made to speak, but Jyan shook his head tersely. ‘No, Cho Hsiang. Listen. I’ve made a tape of all I know. It makes interesting listening. But tapes can go missing. So I’ve made a copy and secured it in a computer time-lock. Never mind where. But that time-lock needs to be reset by me every two days. If it isn’t, then the copy goes directly to Security.

  Cho Hsiang took a deep breath. ‘I see. And what do you want in return for your silence?’

  In answer, Jyan took the tape from the pocket of his one-piece and pushed it across the table to him. ‘I think they’ll find a price that suits us both.’

  Smiling, Jyan refilled his cup from the bottle, then, sitting back again, raised it in salute. ‘You said you wanted a name.’

  Cho Hsiang hesitated, his stomach tightening, then shook his head. He hadn’t seen it at first, but now he saw it clearly. Jyan’s talk of safeguards had brought it home to him. It was best he knew nothing. Or, if not nothing, then as little as possible. Such knowledge as Jyan had was dangerous.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Jyan, laughing, seeing the apprehension in Cho Hsiang’s face. When he spoke again his voice was harsh; no longer the voice of a hireling, but that of a superior. ‘Arrange a meeting. Tomorrow. Here, at Big White’s.’

  Cho Hsiang leaned forward, angered by Jyan’s sudden change of tone, then sat back, realizing that things had changed. He picked up the tape and pocketed it, then got up from his chair and went to the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Jyan smiled again. ‘Oh, and, Cho Hsiang… pay Big White for me on your way out.’

  Lehmann turned sharply, the low, urgent buzzing of the desk alarm sending his heart into his mouth. Four symbols had appeared on the screen of his personal comset, Han pictograms that spelt Yen Ching – Eye – the codeword for his Mid-Level contact, Hong Cao.

  That it had appeared on his personal screen indicated its urgency. No computer line, however well protected, could be guaranteed discreet. For that reason, Hong Cao had been instructed to use the personal code only as a last resort.

  Placing his right forefinger to the screen, Lehmann drew an oval, then dotted the centre of it. At once the message began to spill out onto the screen.

  It was brief and to the point. Lehmann read it through once, then a second time. Satisfied he had it memorized, he pressed CLEAR and held the tab down for a minute – time enough to remove all memory of the transmission. Only then did he sit back, stunned by the import of the message.

  ‘Shit!’ he said softly, then leaned forward to tap in DeVore’s personal contact code.

  Someone knew. Someone had figured out how it all connected.

  DeVore was out on patrol. Part of his face appeared on the screen, overlarge, the signal hazed, distorted. Lehmann realized at once that DeVore was staring down into a wrist set.

  ‘Pietr! What is it?’

  Lehmann swallowed. ‘Howard. Look, it’s nothing really. Just that you… you left your gloves. Okay? I thought you might want to pick them up. And maybe have a drink.’

  DeVore’s face moved back, coming into clearer focus. There was a moment’s hesitation, then he nodded. ‘I’ll be off duty in an hour. I’ll come collect them then. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Lehmann cut contact at once.

  The package from Hong Cao containing the tape and a sealed message card arrived a half bell later by special courier. Lehmann stared at it a moment, then put it unopened in the top drawer of his desk and locked it.

  His first instinct had been right. They should have erased all traces that led back to them. Killed the killers. Killed the agents and the contact men. Killed everyone who knew. DeVore had argued against this, saying that to do so would only draw attention, but he, Lehmann had been right. And now they would have to do it anyway. If they still could.

  When DeVore arrived they took the package straight through to Lehmann’s Secure Room and listened to the tape through headphones. Afterwards they sat there looking at each other.

  DeVore was first to speak. ‘He may have got it wrong, but he was close enough to do us damage. If Security investigate Berdichev at any depth they’ll uncover the links with you. And then the whole structure comes crashing down.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘We kill him.’

  ‘What about the copy tape?’

  ‘Leave that to me.’ DeVore reached across and took the message card. He looked at it, then handed it to Lehmann.

  Lehmann activated the card, read it, then handed it back across to DeVore.

  ‘Good. This Kao Jyan wants a meeting. I’ll see to that myself. Meanwhile I’ve something you can do.’

  Lehmann frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Yang Lai’s alive. He tried to make contact with Wyatt. My men have found out where he is, but he’ll only speak to you or Wyatt. It seems you’re the only ones he trusts.’

  Lehmann felt his stomach flip over for the second time that morning. Yang Lai had been one of the Ministers of the Edict, Lwo Kang’s chief officials. They had thought he was among the dead.

  ‘Then he wasn’t in the dome when it went up?’

  DeVore shook his head. ‘I only heard two hours back. All of the internal Security films were destroyed in the explosion, but the door tally survived. The body count for the solarium came out two short. It seems Junior Minister Yang is one.’

  ‘Then who’s the other?’

  DeVore shrugged. ‘We don’t know yet. But Yang Lai might. Go see him. Do what you must.’

  Lehmann nodded. This time he would act on his instincts. ‘Okay. I’ll deal with him.’

  DeVore stood up. ‘And don’t worry, Pietr. We can handle this.’ He glanced down at the tape and card, then back at Lehmann. ‘Destroy those. I’ll see to the rest. Oh, and, Pietr…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My gloves…’

  Jyan had spent two h
ours at Big White’s after Cho Hsiang had gone. A meal of real pork and vegetables, a bottle of good wine and a long session with two of the house’s filthiest girls – all on Cho Hsiang’s bill – had put him in a good mood. It was all going his way at last. Things were happening for him. About time, he thought, turning the corner and entering the corridor that led to his apartment.

  In the noise and crush of the corridor he almost missed it. Almost went straight in. But something – some sense he had developed over the years – stopped him. He drew his hand back from the palm-lock and bent down, examining it. There was no doubt about it. The lock had been tampered with.

  He put his ear to the door. Nothing. At least, nothing unusual. He could hear a soft machine purr coming from within, but that was normal. Or almost normal…

  He turned and looked back down the busy corridor, ignoring the passers-by, trying to think. Had he left any of his machines on? Had he? He scratched at his neck nervously, unable to remember, then looked back at the marks on the lock, frowning. They looked new, but they might have been there some while. It might just have been kids.

  It might have. But he’d best take no chances. Not in the circumstances.

  He placed his palm flat against the lock, then, as the lock hissed open, drew back against the wall, away from the opening.

  As the door slid back slowly, he looked into the room for some sign of an intruder. Then, drawing his knife with one swift movement, he stepped into the room.

  The knife was knocked from his hand. He saw it flip through the air. Then a hand was clamped roughly about his mouth.

  Jyan struggled to turn and face his assailant, one arm going up instinctively to ward off a blow, but the man was strong and had a tight grip on him.

  Then, suddenly, he was falling backward.

  He looked up, gasping. Kuan Yin, goddess of mercy! It was Chen!

  Chen glared down at him angrily. ‘Where have you been?’

  Two or three faces appeared in the doorway behind Chen. Jyan waved them away, then got up and moved past Chen to close the door. Getting his breath again, he turned to face the kwai, a faint smile returning to his lips. ‘I’ve been arranging things. Making deals.’

  He went to move past him again, but Chen caught his arm and sniffed at him. ‘You’ve been whoring, more like. I can smell the stink of them on you.’

  Jyan laughed. ‘A little pleasure after business, that’s all.’ He moved into the room, then sat down heavily on the bed, facing Chen. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  Chen sheathed his big hunting knife and crossed the room. There, in a corner recess, was an old-fashioned games machine. Turning his back on Jyan, he stared at the screen. ‘I thought I’d come and find out what was happening. You were gone a long time.’

  Jyan laughed, then pulled off his left slipper. ‘As I said, I was making deals. Working for both of us.’

  Chen toyed with the keys of the games machine a moment longer, then turned back. ‘And?’

  Jyan smiled and kicked off the other slipper, then began to peel off his onepiece. ‘We’ve another meet. Tomorrow, at Big White’s. We fix the price then.’

  Oblivious of the other man, Jyan stripped naked, then went over to the corner shower and fed five ten fen tokens into the meter beside it. Drawing back the curtain, he stepped inside and, as the lukewarm water began to run, started to soap himself down.

  Chen watched Jyan’s outline through the plastic a moment, then turned back to the machine.

  It was an ancient thing that had three standard games programmed into it; T’iao Chi, Hsiang Chi and Wei Chi. Jyan had set it up for a low level game of Wei Chi, and the nineteen by nineteen grid filled the screen. He was playing black and had made only twenty or so moves, but white was already in a strong position.

  Chen looked about him once again. He had never been in Jyan’s room before today – had, in truth, never been interested in Jyan’s homelife – but now the situation was getting deep. It had seemed best to know how things stood.

  Cheap tapestries hung on the walls. Standard works by Tung Yuan and Li Ch’eng; scenes of mountains and valleys, tall pine trees and gentle-flowing rivers. The sort of crap one saw everywhere in the Net. On the bedside table was a small shrine to Wen Ti, the evidence of burnt candles in the tray revealing a side of Jyan he would never have guessed. A small rug covered part of the bare ice floor at the end of the single bed, but otherwise the only furnishings were a pair of cheap fold-up chairs that weighed nothing.

  Some of the things there had surprised him. In a box under the bed he had found a recent generation SimFic HeadStim: a direct-input job that linked up to wires implanted in the brain. That alone must have cost Jyan at least five hundred yuan at current black market prices – maybe even the full thousand he had borrowed from Whiskers Lu – but unlike the two wrap-arounds he had, it was a useless item – a status symbol only – because Jyan, like most in the Net, hadn’t had the operation.

  A huge blue and gold er-silk eiderdown covered the bed. Underneath it, two bright red cotton blankets were spread out over the normal ice-cloth sheets of the bed – as if for a wedding night. For some reason it had reminded Chen of that moment on the mountainside when Jyan had pulled the wine bottle and the glasses from his sack. There was something dangerously impractical about that side of Jyan. Something hideously self-indulgent. It was a flaw in him. The kind of thing that could kill a man.

  Chen cleared the board and switched off the machine, his sense of disenchantment coming to a head. All this – it was so ostentatious. So false. Jyan ached to be better than he was. Richer. More powerful. More cultured. Yet his attempts at mimicry were painful to observe. He was a cockroach imitating a turtle. And this latest scheme… Chen shuddered. It was doomed to failure. He knew that in his bones. You could not make deals with these people; could not be partner to them, only their hireling.

  He looked about him one last time, watching the thinly fleshed shape of Jyan bend and stretch behind the plastic curtaining. Then, his mind made up, he left quietly. It wasn’t toys he wanted. He wanted something real. A new life. Better than this. More real than this. A child, maybe. A son.

  He was tired of being wang pen – rootless, his origins forgotten. It was time he was connected. If not to the past, then to the future. He sighed, knowing he could do nothing about the past. But the future – that was unwritten…

  As he walked back to his own apartment the thought went through his mind like a chant, filling his head, obsessing him – A child. A son. A child. A son – the words coursing through him like the sound of his feet as they pounded the bare ice flooring of the corridors. A child. A son.

  Yang Lai knelt at Lehmann’s feet, his head bowed low, his hands gripping the hem of Lehmann’s pau tightly.

  ‘You’re a good man, Pietr Lehmann. A fine man. I’ve been so scared. So frightened that they would find me before you or Edmund came.’

  Lehmann looked about him. The room was filthy. It looked as if no one had tidied it in years. Had Yang Lai fallen this low? Had he no friends of higher rank to help him in his need? He drew the man to his feet and freed his hand, then reached across to lift his chin, making Yang Lai look at him.

  ‘I’m glad you called, Yang Lai. Things are difficult. If Security had found you…’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Lehmann noted the undertone of suspicion in Yang Lai’s voice. The man had had time enough to work it out. Yet he wasn’t certain. His trust in Wyatt had acted like a barrier against the truth. It had prevented him from piecing things together. Well, that was good. It meant things would be easier.

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all. But anyway…’ He feigned indifference, changing tack at once, moving past Yang Lai as he spoke. ‘The Minister’s assassination. It wasn’t us. Someone pre-empted us.’ He turned and looked back at the Han. ‘Do you understand me, Yang Lai? Do you see what I’m saying? Whoever it was, they
almost killed you.’

  ‘No!’ Yang Lai shook his head. ‘That’s not how it was. They…warned me. Told me to get out of there.’

  Yang Lai shuddered violently and looked away. He was red-eyed and haggard from lack of sleep, and his clothes smelt. Even so, there was something in his manner that spoke of his former authority.

  For a moment Yang Lai seemed lost in thought. Then, like someone suddenly waking, he looked up at Lehmann again, a smile lighting his face. ‘Then Edmund had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ This time it was the truth.

  Lehmann pondered the connection between Wyatt and the Han. Why did Yang Lai trust Edmund so explicitly? Was it only friendship? Or was it deeper than that? Were they lovers?

  ‘Who warned you?’ he asked, moving closer. ‘You have to tell me, Yang Lai. It’s very important.’

  Yang Lai glanced up at him, then looked down sharply, his shame like something physical. ‘A messenger came. My Third Secretary, Pi Ch’ien.’

  Pi Ch’ien. Lehmann caught his breath. Pi Ch’ien hadn’t been on the list of names DeVore had given him. Which meant he was probably still alive. Lehmann turned away, pressing his left hand to his brow, trying to think. ‘This Pi Ch’ien… where is he?’

  Yang Lai shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I assume he was killed.’ He looked away, his voice going very quiet. ‘I think I was the last to get out.’

  Lehmann was still a moment, then, abruptly, he turned and made to go.

  Yang Lai rushed after him and caught him at the door, holding tightly to his arm.

  ‘What’s happening? Please, Pietr, tell me what’s happening!’

  Lehmann turned back, taking Yang Lai’s hands in his own. ‘It’s all okay, Yang Lai. It will all be all right. Trust me. Trust Edmund. But there are things we have to do. For all our sakes.’

  Yang Lai studied his face intently for a moment. Then he looked down. ‘All right. Do what you must.’

  Outside, Lehmann paused and glanced across at the two men standing against the far side of the corridor. Behind him he heard the door slide shut and the lock click into place.