‘Who else knows of this, Knut?’
Ebert’s voice was soft. His eyes held no hatred of his old friend, no blame, only a deep, unfathomable hurt.
Tolonen swallowed. ‘Three of us now.’
‘And Li Yuan? Does he know yet?’
Tolonen shook his head. ‘This is Family, Klaus. Your son.’
The man behind the desk considered that, then nodded slowly, a small sad smile forming on his lips. ‘I thank you, Knut. I…’ The trembling in his hands and arms returned. Then something broke in the old man and his face crumpled, his mouth opening in a silent howl of pain, the lower jaw drawn back. He pressed his palms into the desk’s surface, trying to still the shaking, to control the pain that threatened to tear him apart. ‘Why?’ he said at last, looking up at the Marshal, his eyes beseeching him. ‘What could he possibly have wanted that he didn’t have?’
Tolonen shrugged. He had no answer to that. No understanding of it.
At that moment the door at the far end of the study opened. One of the goat-creatures stood there, a tray of drinks in one hand. For a second or two Klaus Ebert did nothing, then he turned in his seat and yelled at the beast.
‘Get out, you bloody thing! Get out!’
It blanched, then turned and left hurriedly. There was the sound of breaking glass in the hallway outside.
Ebert turned back to face the Marshal, breathing deeply, his face a deep red. ‘How long have I, Knut? How long before Li Yuan has to know?’
Tolonen shivered. They both knew what had to be done. ‘Two days,’ he said quietly. ‘I can give you two days.’
Ebert nodded, then sat back in his chair, clasping his hands together tightly. ‘Two days,’ he repeated, as if to himself, and looked up at Tolonen again. ‘I’m sorry, Knut. Sorry for Jelka’s sake.’
‘And I.’
Tolonen watched him a moment longer, then turned and left, knowing that there was nothing more to be said. His part in this was ended, his duty discharged, but for once he felt anything but satisfaction.
There were fires on the hillside. Bodies lay unmoving on the snow. In the skies above the mountains the dark, knife-like shapes of Security battleships moved slowly eastward, searching out any trace of warmth in the icy wasteland.
In the control room of the flagship sat Hans Ebert, Li Yuan’s General. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. His uniform was undone at the collar and he had his feet up on the console in front of him. Above him a bank of nine screens showed the landscape down below. Over the image on the central screen ran bright red lines of data. From time to time a map would flash up, showing the current extent of the sweep.
Hans watched the screens vacantly, tired to the core. There were drugs he might have taken to ameliorate his condition, but he had chosen to ignore them, feeding his bitter disappointment.
There were five others in the low-ceilinged room with him, but all were silent, wary of their commander’s dark mood. They went about their tasks deftly, quietly, careful not to draw his attention.
Eight strongholds had been taken. Another five had been found abandoned. DeVore’s network was in tatters, more than three thousand of his men dead. What Karr had begun, he, in the space of six short hours, had finished. Moreover, Jelka was gone, probably dead, and all his dreams with her. His dreams of being king. King of the world.
‘The lodge is up ahead, sir!’
He looked up sharply, then took his feet down from the desk. ‘Good!’ He bit the word out savagely, then relented. He turned, looking at the young officer who had reported it to him. ‘Thanks…’
The officer saluted and turned smartly away. Ebert sat there a moment longer then hauled himself up on to his feet and went down the narrow corridor and out into the cockpit. Staring out through the broad, thickly slatted screen, he could see the mountain up ahead, the lodge high up on its western slopes.
It was a mere twelve months since he had met DeVore here, and now he was forced to return, the architect of his own undoing, following his T’ang’s explicit orders. Silently he cursed Li Yuan. Cursed the whole damn business, his irritation and frustration rising to fever pitch as he stood there, watching the lodge draw closer.
They touched down less than half a li away, the twin turrets of the battleship pointed towards the lodge. Hans suited up then went down, on to the snow. He crossed the space slowly, a lonely figure in black, holding the bulky gun with both hands, the stock tucked into his shoulder. Fifty paces from the veranda he stopped, balancing the gun’s barrel across his left forearm and flicking off the safety. Then, without a word, he emptied the cartridge into the side of the lodge.
The explosions were deafening. In seconds the lodge was a burning ruin, debris falling everywhere, sizzling in the snow as it fell, the concussions echoing back and forth between the mountains, starting small slides. He waited a moment longer, the weapon lowered, watching the flames, then turned and walked back, the heavy gun resting loosely on his shoulder.
Chapter 70
THE SHATTERED LAND
Klaus Ebert waited in his study for his son. He had dismissed his servants and was alone in the huge, dimly lit room, his face expressionless. The file lay on the desk behind him, the only object on the big leather-topped desk. It had been fifteen hours since Tolonen’s visit and he had done much in that time; but they had been long, dreadful hours, filled with foul anticipation.
Hans had been summoned twice. The first time he had sent word that he was on the T’ang’s business and could not come, the second that he would be there within the hour. Between the two had been the old man’s curtly worded message: ‘Come now, or be nothing to me.’
A bell rang in the corridor outside, the signal that his son had arrived. Ebert waited, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He was the picture of strength, of authority, his short grey hair combed back severely from his high forehead, but his grey-green eyes were lifeless.
There were footsteps on the tiled floor outside then a knock on the great oak door. Hans entered, followed by two young lieutenants. He crossed the room and stood there, only an arm’s length from his father. The two officers stood by the door, at ease.
‘Well, Father?’ There was a trace of impatience, almost of insolence in the young man’s tone.
Klaus Ebert narrowed his eyes and looked past his son at the two lieutenants. ‘This is Family business,’ he said to them. ‘Please leave us.’
There was a moment’s uncertainty in their faces. They looked at each other but made no move to go. Ebert stared at them a moment then looked at his son for explanation.
‘They’re under my direct orders, Father. They’re not to leave me. Not for a moment.’ His voice was condescending now, as if he were explaining something to an inferior.
Ebert looked at his son, seeing things he had never noticed before: the arrogance of his bearing; the slight surliness in the shapes his mouth formed; the lack of real depth in his clear blue eyes. It was as if he looked at you, but not into you. He saw only surfaces: only himself, reflected in others.
He felt something harden at the core of him. This was his son. This… creature. He hissed out a long breath, his chest feeling tight, then started forward, shouting at the two officers. ‘Get out, damn you! Now! Before I throw you out!’
There was no hesitation this time. They jerked as if struck then turned, hurrying from the room. Klaus stared at the closed door a moment before turning to look at his son.
‘There was no need for that…’
‘There was every need!’ he barked, and saw his son flinch slightly. ‘I summon you and you excuse yourself. And then you have the nerve to bring your popinjay friends—’
‘They’re officers…’ Hans began, interrupting, but the old man cut him off with a sharp gesture of his hand.
‘Your… friends.’ He turned to face his son, no longer concealing his anger. He bit the words out. ‘To bring them here, Hans.’ He pointed at the floor. ‘Here, where only we com
e.’ He took a breath, calming himself, then moved away, back to the desk. From there he turned and looked back at his son.
Hans was looking away from him, his irritation barely masked. ‘Well? What is it, Father?’
The words were sharp, abrasive. Hans glanced at his father then resumed his rigid stance, his whole manner sullen, insolent, as if answering to a superior officer he detested.
So it has come to this? Ebert thought, growing still, studying his son. He looked down at the file and gritted his teeth. But he didn’t need the Marshal’s carefully documented evidence. All that he needed was there, before him, for his own eyes to read.
‘Well?’ the young man insisted. ‘You’ve summoned me from my duties, threatened to withhold from me what is mine by right and insulted my officers. I want to know why, Father. What have I done to warrant this treatment?’
Ebert laughed bitterly. ‘My son,’ he said, weighting the second word with all the irony he could muster, but what he felt was hurt – a deep, almost overwhelming feeling of hurt – and a sense of disillusionment that threatened to unhinge his mind. He stood up, then moved away from the desk, circling his son until he stood there with his back to the door.
‘What have you done, Hans? What have you done?’
The young man turned, facing his father, his fists clenched at his sides. He seemed barely in control of himself. ‘Yes, what have I done?’
Ebert pointed across at the desk. ‘See that file?’
‘So?’ Hans made no move to look. ‘You could have sent it to me. I would have read it.’
Ebert shook his head. ‘No, Hans. I want you to read it now.’
There was a small movement in the young man’s face, a moment’s doubt, and then it cleared. He nodded and turned, taking his father’s seat.
Ebert went across and locked the door, slipping the key into his pocket.
Hans was reading the first page, all colour drained from his face.
Why? the old man asked himself for the thousandth time that day. But in reality he knew. Selfishness. Greed. A cold self-interest. These things were deeply rooted in his son. He looked at him, his vision doubled, seeing both his son and the stranger who sat there wearing the T’ang’s uniform. And, bitterly, he recognized the source.
Berta, he thought. You’re Berta’s child.
Hans closed the file. For a moment he was silent, staring down at the unmarked cover of the folder, then he looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. ‘So…’ he said. There was sober calculation in his eyes: no guilt or regret, only simple cunning. ‘What now, Father?’
Ebert kept the disgust he felt from his voice. ‘You make no denial?’
‘Would you believe me if I did?’ Hans sat back, at ease now.
The old man shook his head.
Hans glanced at the file then looked back at his father. ‘Who else knows, besides Tolonen?’
‘His one-time lieutenant, Haavikko.’ Ebert moved slowly, crossing the room in a half-circle that would bring him behind his son.
‘Then Li Yuan has yet to be told?’
He nodded.
Hans seemed reassured. ‘That’s good. Then I could leave here this evening.’ He turned in his seat, watching his father’s slow progress across the room towards him. ‘I could take a ship and hide out amongst the Colony planets.’
Ebert stopped. He was only paces from his son. ‘That’s what you want, is it? Exile? A safe passage?’
Hans laughed. ‘What else? I can’t argue with this.’ He brushed the file with the fingertips of his left hand. ‘Li Yuan would have me killed if I stayed.’
Ebert took another step. He was almost on top of his son now. ‘And what if I said that that wasn’t good enough? What if I said no? What would you do?’
The young man laughed uncomfortably. ‘Why should you?’ He leaned back, staring up at his father, puzzled now.
Ebert reached out, placing his hand gently on his son’s shoulder.
‘As a child I cradled you in my arms, saw you learn to walk and utter your first, stumbling words. As a boy you were more to me than all of this. You were my joy. My delight. As a man I was proud of you. You seemed the thing I’d always dreamed of.’
Hans licked at his top lip, then looked down. But there was no apology. ‘Shall I go?’
The old man ignored the words. The pressure of his hand increased. His fingers gripped and held. Reaching out, he placed his other hand against Hans’s neck, his thumb beneath the chin. Savagely, he pushed Hans’s head up, forcing him to look into his face. When he spoke the words were sour, jagged-edged. ‘But now all that means nothing.’ He shook his head, his face brutal, pitiless. ‘Nothing! Do you hear me, Hans?’
Hans reached up to free himself from his father’s grip, but the old man was unrelenting. His left hand slipped from the shoulder to join the other about his son’s neck. At the same time he leaned forward, bearing down on the younger man, his big hands tightening their grip, his shoulder muscles straining.
Too late, the young man realized what was happening. He made a small, choked sound in his throat and began to struggle in the chair, his legs kicking out wildly, his hands beating then tearing at his father’s arms and hands, trying to break the vice-like grip. Suddenly the chair went backwards. For a moment Hans was free, sprawled on the floor beneath his father’s body, but then the old man had him again, his hands about his throat, his full weight pressing down on him, pushing the air from the young man’s lungs.
For one frozen moment the old man’s face filled the younger man’s vision, the mouth gasping as it strained, spittle flecking the lips. The eyes were wide with horror, the cheeks suffused with blood. Sweat beaded the brow. Then, like a vast, dark wave, the pain became immense. His lungs burned in his chest and his eyes seemed about to burst.
And then release. Blackness…
He gasped air into his raw throat, coughing and wheezing, the pain in his neck so fierce that it made him groan aloud; a hoarse, animal sound.
After a moment he opened his eyes again and pulled himself up on to one elbow. His father lay beside him, dead, blood gouting from the hole in the back of his head.
He looked about, expecting to see his lieutenants, but they were not in the room. The door to his father’s private suite was open, however, and there was movement inside. He called out – or tried to – then struggled up into a sitting position, feeling giddy, nauseous.
At the far end of the room a figure stepped into the doorway: tall as a man, but not a man. Its white silk jacket was spattered with blood, as were its trousers. It looked at the sitting man with half-lidded eyes, eyes that were as red as the blood on its clothes. Over one arm was a suit of Hans’s father’s clothes.
‘Here, put these on,’ said the goat-creature in its soft, animal voice. It crossed the room and stood there over him, offering the clothes.
He took them, staring at the beast, not understanding yet, letting it help him up and across the study to his father’s room. There, in the doorway, he turned and looked back.
His father lay face down beside the fallen chair, the wound at the back of his head still wet and glistening in the half-light.
‘We must go now,’ said the beast, handing him a key, its breath like old malt.
He turned and met its eyes. It was smiling at him, showing its fine, straight teeth. He could sense the satisfaction it was feeling. Years of resentment had culminated in this act. He shuddered and closed his eyes, feeling faint.
‘We have an hour, two at most,’ it said, its three-toed hand moving to the side of Ebert’s neck, tracing but not touching the welt-like bruise there. For a moment its eyes seemed almost tender.
He nodded and let it take him through. There was nothing for him here now. Nothing at all.
Karr looked up over his glass and met the young officer’s eyes. ‘What is it, Captain?’
‘Forgive me, sir. I wouldn’t normally come to you on a matter of this kind, but I think this will interest you.’
; He held out a slender dossier. Karr stared at it a moment, then took it from him. Setting down his glass, he opened it. A moment later, he started forward, suddenly alert.
‘When did this come in?’
‘Twenty minutes back. Someone said you were down here in the Mess, sir, so I thought…’
Karr grinned at him fiercely. ‘You did well, Captain. But what put you on to this?’
‘The name sir. Mikhail Boden. It was one of the names we had as a suspect for the murder of a Fu jen Maitland six years ago. It seems she was Under-Secretary Lehmann’s wife at one time. She was burned to death in her rooms. An incendiary device. Boden was there shortly before she died. His retinal print was in the door camera, which survived the blaze. When it appeared again, I thought I’d have a look at the visual image and see if it was the same man. As you can see, it wasn’t.’
‘No…’ Karr got to his feet. The camera stills were of two quite different men, yet the retinal print was the same.
‘How come the computer allowed the match?’
‘It seems that the only detail it has to have a one hundred per cent mapping on is the retinal pattern. That’s unchanging. The rest – facial hair, proportion of muscle and fat in the face – changes over the years. The computer is programmed to ignore those variations. As long as the underlying bone structure is roughly the same the computer will recognize it as being the same face.’
Karr laughed. ‘And you know who this is?’
The young officer smiled back at Karr. ‘I read my files, sir. It’s DeVore, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. And he entered Salzburg hsien twenty, twenty-five minutes back, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. And you’re tracking him?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve put two of my best men on to the job.’
‘Excellent.’
Karr looked down at the dossier again. The gods knew why DeVore had made such an elementary mistake, but he had, so praise them for it. Taking the handset from his pocket, he tapped in Chen’s combination, then, as Chen came on line, gave a small laugh. ‘It’s DeVore, Chen. I think we’ve got him. This time I really think we’ve got him!’
The White Mountain Page 9