The White Mountain

by David Wingrove

  ‘Tian. Nan Jen. Tu.’

  Heaven. Man. Earth. He turned, then stopped, noticing the figure that stood inside the moon door at the far end of the gallery.

  ‘You walk quietly, Wong Yi-sun. Like a bird.’

  Fat Wong smiled, then came forward, his cloth-clad feet making no sound on the tiles.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you, Major Karr. Your reputation precedes you.’

  Contrary to public expectations, Fat Wong was not fat at all. Quite the contrary – he was a compact, wiry-looking man who, in his peach silks and bound white feet, looked more like a successful First Level businessman than the reputedly savage leader of one of the seven biggest Triads in City Europe. Karr had read the file and seen holos of Wong; even so, he found himself unprepared for the softspokenness of the man, for the air of sophistication that seemed to emanate from him.

  ‘I am honoured that you would see me, Wong Yi-sun. A thousand blessings upon your sons.’

  ‘And yours, Major. I understand you are recently married. A fine, strong woman, I am told.’ Wong’s smile broadened. ‘I am happy for you. Give her my best regards. A man needs a strong wife in these unhappy times, neh?’

  Karr bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Wong Yi-sun. I will pass on your kind words.’

  Fat Wong smiled and let his eyes move from Karr’s figure for the first time since he had entered the room. Released from his gaze, Karr had a better opportunity of studying the man. Seen side on, one began to notice those qualities that had made Wong Yi-sun a 489. There was a certain sharpness to his features, a restrained tautness, that equated with reports on him. When he was younger, it was said, he had gone into a rival’s bedroom and cut off the man’s head with a hatchet, even as he was making love to his wife, then had taken the woman for his own. Later, he had taken the name Fat Wong, because, he claimed, the world was a place where worm ate worm, and only the biggest, fattest worm came out on top. From then on he had worked day and night to be that worm – to be the fattest of them all. And now he was. Or almost.

  ‘I noticed you were admiring the ancient silk, Major. Do you know the history of the banner?’

  Karr smiled. ‘I have heard something of your history, Wong Yi-sun, but of that banner I am quite ignorant. It looks very old.’

  Wong moved past Karr, standing beneath the banner, then turned, smiling up at the big man.

  ‘It is indeed. More than four hundred years old, in fact. You say you know our history, Major Karr, but did you realize just how old we are? Before the City was, we were. When the City no longer is, we shall remain.’

  Wong Yi-sun moved down the row of banners, then turned, facing Karr again.

  ‘People call us criminals. They say we seek to destroy the social fabric of Chung Kuo, but they lie. Our roots are deep. We were founded in the late seventeenth century by the five monks of the Fu Chou monastery – honourable, loyal men, whose only desire was to overthrow the Ch’ing, the Manchu – and replace them with the rightful rulers of Chung Kuo, the Ming. Such was our purpose for a hundred years. Before the Manchu drove us underground, persecuting our members and cutting off our resources. After that we were left with no choice. We had to improvise.’

  Karr smiled inwardly. Improvise. It was a wonderfully subtle euphemism for the crudest of businesses: the business of murder and prostitution, gambling, drugs and protection.

  ‘So you see, Major Karr, we have always been loyal to the traditions of Chung Kuo. Which is why we are always pleased to do business with the Seven. We are not their enemies. All we wish is to maintain order in those lawless regions that have escaped the long grasp of the T’ang.’

  ‘And the banner?’

  Fat Wong smiled. ‘The banner comes from Fu Chou monastery. It is the great ancestor of all such banners. And whoever leads the Great Council holds the banner.’

  Wong turned slightly, his stance suggesting that Karr should join him. Karr hesitated, then went across, his mind racing. Fat Wong wanted something. Something big. But to ask for help directly was impossible for Wong: for to admit to any weakness – to admit that there was something, anything beyond his grasp – would involve him in an enormous loss of face. And face was everything down here. As Above.

  Karr shivered, filled with a sudden certainty. Yes. Something was happening down here. In that veiled allusion to the Triad Council and the banner, Fat Wong had revealed more than he’d intended. Karr looked at him in profile and knew he was right. Fat Wong was under pressure. But from whom? From inside his own Triad, or from without – from another of the 489s?

  He followed Wong through, up a broad flight of steps and out into a huge, subtly lit room.

  Steps led down into a sunken garden, at the centre of which was a tiny, circular pool. Within the pool seven golden fish seemed to float, as if suspended in glass. But the garden and the pool were not the most striking things about the room, for the eye was drawn beyond them to where one whole wall – a wall fifty ch’i in length, ten in height – seemed to look out on to the West Lake at Hang Chou, providing a panoramic view of its pale, lacelike bridges and pagodas, its willow-strewn islands and ancient temples. Here it was perpetually spring, the scent of jasmine and apple blossom heavy in the cool, moist air.

  From somewhere distant, music sounded, carried on the breeze that blew gently through the room. For a moment the illusion was so perfect that Karr held himself still, enthralled by it. Then, realizing Wong was watching him, he went down the steps and stood at the edge of the pool.

  ‘You know why I have come here, Wong Yi-sun?’

  ‘I understand you want some information. About the Ko Ming who assassinated the Hsien L’ing.’

  ‘We thought you might know something about this group – for instance, whether or not they were related to the Ping Tiao.’

  ‘Because they share the same symbol?’ Wong sniffed, his face suddenly ugly. ‘I don’t know what your investigations have thrown up, Major Karr, but let me tell you this, the Hsien L’ing was meddling in things he ought never to have been involved in.’

  Karr kept his face a mask, but behind it he felt an intense curiosity. What had Shou Chen-hai been involved in that could possibly anger Fat Wong? For there was no doubting that Wong Yi-sun was furious.

  ‘And the Ko Ming?’

  Fat Wong gulped savagely at his drink then took a deep breath, calming himself. ‘Your assassins are called the Yu. Beyond that I cannot say. Only that their name echoes throughout the Lowers.’

  Karr nodded thoughtfully. ‘That is unusual, neh?’

  Wong met Karr’s eyes steadily. ‘You are right, Major Karr. They are something different. We have not seen their like for many years. I…’

  Wong paused, looking beyond Karr, towards the arched doorway. ‘Come,’ he said brusquely, one hand waving the servant on.

  The servant handed Wong something, then leaned close, whispering.

  For a moment Wong stared at the three tiny packages, his hand trembling with anger, then he thrust his hand out, offering them to Karr.

  ‘These are yours, I understand.’

  Karr nodded. ‘We found them in the Hsien L’ing’s apartment. I thought they might interest you.’

  Wong narrowed his eyes. ‘You know what was in them?’

  Again Karr nodded. They had had them analysed and knew they were something special. But what did Fat Wong know about them? Karr watched the movement in his face and began to understand. Wong hadn’t been sure. He had only suspected until he had seen the packages. But now he knew.

  Wong turned away and stood there, as if staring out across the lake. A wisp of his jet-black hair moved gently in the breeze. ‘They have overstretched themselves this time. They have sought to destroy the balance…’

  Then, as if he realized he had said too much, he turned back, giving a tiny shrug. But, though Fat Wong smiled, his eyes gave him away. This was what had been worrying him. This was the big something he could not deal with on his own. He had been the biggest, fattest worm until now. The k
eeper of the ancient banner. But now the Big Circle were making their bid to oust him; a bid financed by the revenue from new drugs, new markets.

  But what did Fat Wong want? Did he want help to crush the Big Circle? Or did he want something else – some other arrangement that would keep the Big Circle in their place while keeping him supreme? And, beyond that, what would his own master, Li Yuan, want from such a deal? That was, if he wanted anything but to keep the Triads in their place.

  Fat Wong closed his hand over the three tiny packets then threw them down, into the water. Reaching inside his silks, he withdrew a slender envelope.

  ‘Give this to your T’ang,’ he said, handing it across.

  ‘And what am I to say?’

  ‘That I am his friend. His very good friend.’

  On the table by the bed was a holo plinth. Mach knelt, then placed his hand on the pad. Nothing. He turned slightly, looking up at Ywe Hao, curious. She leaned across him, holding her fingertips against the pad. At once two tiny figures formed in the air above the plinth.

  ‘My brother,’ she explained. ‘He died in an industrial accident. At least, that’s what the official inquiry concluded. But that’s not the story his friends told at the time. He was a union organizer. Eighteen he was. Four years older than me. My big brother. They say the pan chang threw him from a balcony. Eight levels he fell, into machinery. There wasn’t much left of him when they pulled him out. Just bits.’

  Mach took a breath, then nodded. For a moment longer Ywe Hao stared at the two tiny images, then drew her hand back, the pain in her eyes sharp, undiminished by the years.

  ‘I wanted to see,’ he said, looking about him again. ‘I wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘About you.’

  ‘Ah…’

  He smiled. ‘Besides which, I’ve got to brief you.’

  She frowned, then stood, moving back slightly. ‘About what?’

  ‘The attack on the Dragonfly Club. We’re bringing it forward.’ He went over to his pack and took out a hefty-looking folder, handing it to her.

  She looked down at the folder, then back at Mach. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a full dossier. It’s not pleasant reading, I’m afraid, but, then, it’s not meant to be. But you have to understand why we need to do this.’

  ‘And the raid? When do we go in?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight? But I thought you said it would take at least a week to set this up.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But our man is on duty tonight.’

  She frowned. ‘But we’ve not had time to rehearse things. We’d be going in blind.’

  Mach shook his head. ‘Let me explain. When I gave you this assignment I had already allocated a team leader. But after what happened I wanted to give you a chance. An opportunity to prove yourself.’

  She made to speak, but he silenced her.

  ‘Hear me out. I know what happened the other day. I know you killed Vasska. But it doesn’t matter. You were right. The other matter… his brother… that’s unfortunate, but we’ll deal with it. What was important was that you did the right thing. If you’d let him kill the guard… well, it would have done us great harm, neh?’

  She hesitated, then nodded, but he could see she was unhappy with his over-simplification of events. Which was good. It showed that she hadn’t acted callously. He took the folder from her lap and opened it up, turning one of the still photographs towards her.

  ‘This is why we’re going in tonight. To put an end to this kind of thing. But it has to be done carefully. That’s why I’ve drafted you in to lead the team. Not to organize the raid – your team know exactly what they have to do. No, your role is to keep it all damped down. To make sure the right people are punished. I don’t want anyone getting over-excited. We have to get this right. If we get it wrong, we’re fucked, understand me?’

  She nodded, but her eyes stayed on the photo of the mutilated child. After a moment she looked up at him, the disgust in her eyes touched with profound sadness. ‘What makes them do this, Jan? How in the gods’ names could anyone do this to a little boy?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s how they are.’ He put his hand gently to her cheek. ‘All I know is that all that anger you feel, all that disgust and indignation… well, it’s a healthy thing. I want to harness that. To give it every opportunity to express itself.’

  He let his hand fall away. ‘You know, you remind me of an old friend. She was like you. Strong. Certain about what she did.’

  Ywe Hao shivered, then looked down again. ‘What about my cover?’

  Mach smiled, impressed by her professionalism, then turned, pointing across at the pack beside the door. ‘It’s all in there. All you need to do is read the file. Someone will come for you at eleven. You go in at second bell.’

  He sat back. ‘There’s a lot there, but read it all. Especially the statements by the parents. As I said, you need to know why you’re there. It’ll make it easier to do what you have to do.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good. Now I must go. My shift begins in an hour and I’ve got to get back and change. Good luck, Ywe Hao. May Kuan Yin smile on you tonight.’

  In the torchlit silence of the Hall of Eternal Peace and Tranquillity, Li Yuan knelt on the cold stone tiles, facing the hologram of his father. Thin threads of smoke from the offering sticks drifted slowly upwards, their rosewood scent merging with the chill dampness of the ancient room. Beyond the ghostly radiant figure of the dead T’ang, the red lacquer of the carved screen seemed to shimmer, as if it shared something of the old man’s insubstantiality, the Ywe Lung at its centre flickering, as if, at any moment, it might vanish, leaving a smoking circle of nothingness.

  Li Shai Tung stood there as in life, the frailty of his latter days shrugged off, the certainty he had once professed shaping each ghostly gesture as he spoke.

  ‘Your dreams have meaning, Yuan. They are like the most loyal of ministers. They tell us not what we would have them say, but that which is true. We can deny them, can banish them to the furthest reaches of our selves, but we cannot kill them, not without killing ourselves.’

  Li Yuan looked up, meeting his dead father’s eyes. ‘And is that what we have done? Is that why things are so wrong?’

  Li Shai Tung sniffed loudly, then leaned heavily on his cane, as if considering his son’s words, but tonight Yuan was more than ever conscious of what lay behind the illusion. In the slender case beneath the image, logic circuits had instantly located and selected from a score of possible responses, pre-programmed guidelines determining their choice. It seemed spontaneous, yet the words were given – were as predetermined as the fall of a rock or the decay of atoms. And the delay? That too was deliberate; was a machine-created mimicry of something that had once been real.

  Even so, the sense of his father was strong. And though the eyes were blank, unseeing – were not eyes at all, but mere smoke and light – they seemed to see right through him; through to the tiny core of unrest that had robbed him of sleep and brought him here at this unearthly hour.

  ‘Father?’

  The old man lifted his head slightly, as if, momentarily, he had been lost in his thoughts. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a soft laugh.

  ‘Dreams. Maybe that’s all we have, Yuan. Dreams. The City itself, was that not a dream? The dream of our ancestors made tangible. And our longheld belief in peace, in order and stability, was that not also a dream? Was any of it ever real?’

  Li Yuan frowned, disturbed by his father’s words. For a moment his mind went back to the evening of his father’s death, recalling how sickly thin his body had been, how weak and vulnerable death had found him.

  ‘But what does it mean, Father? How am I to read my dream?’

  The dead T’ang stared at his son, then gave a tiny shudder. ‘You say you dreamt of dragonflies?’

  Li Yuan nodded. ‘Of great, emerald-green dragonflies, swarming on the river bank. Thousan
d upon thousand of them. Beautiful creatures, their wings like glass, their bodies like burnished jade. The sun shone down on them and yet the wind blew cold. And as I watched, they began to fall, first one, and then another, until the river was choked with their struggling forms. And even as I watched they stiffened and the brilliant greenness was leached from their bodies, until they were a hideous grey, their flesh flaking from them like ash. And still the wind blew, carrying the ash away, covering the fields, clogging every pool and stream, until all was grey and ashen.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I woke, afraid, my heart pounding.’

  ‘Ah…’ The T’ang put one hand to his beard, his long fingers pulling distractedly at the tightly braided strands, then shook his head. ‘That is a strange and powerful dream, erh tzu. You ask me what it means, yet I fear you know already.’ He looked up, meeting his son’s eyes. ‘Old glassy, he is the very symbol of summer, neh? And the colour green symbolizes spring. Furthermore, it is said that when the colour green figures in a dream, the dream will end happily. Yet in your dream the green turns to ash. Summer dies. The cold wind blows. How are you to read this but as an ill omen?’

  Li Yuan looked down sharply, a cold fear washing through him. He had hoped against hope that there was some other way to read his dream, but his father’s words merely confirmed his own worst fears. The dragonfly, though the emblem of summer, was also a symbol of weakness and instability, of all the worst excesses of a soft and easy life. Moreover, it was said that they swarmed in vast numbers just before the storm.

  Yet was the dream anything more than a reflection of his innermost fears? He thought of his father’s words – of dreams as loyal ministers, uttering truths that could not otherwise be faced. Was that the case here? Had this dream been sent to make him face the truth?

  ‘Then what am I to do?’

  The dead T’ang looked at him and laughed. ‘Do, Yuan? Why, you must wear stout clothes and learn to whistle in the wind. You must look to your wives and children. And then…’