The Art of War

by David Wingrove

  Ebert raised his hand again. ‘Who’ll be co-ordinating this, sir?’

  ‘You want the job, Hans?’

  There was a ripple of good-humoured laughter, Ebert’s own amongst it.

  Nocenzi smiled. ‘Then it’s yours.’

  Ebert bowed his head, pleased to be given the chance to take on something as big as this at last. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Nocenzi was about to speak again when the doors at the far end of the room swung open and Marshal Tolonen strode into the room. As one the officers stood and came to sharp attention, their heads bowed.

  ‘Ch’un tzu!’ Tolonen said, throwing his uniform cap down on to the desk and turning to face them, peeling off his gloves as he did so. ‘Please, be seated.’

  Nocenzi moved to one side as the Marshal stepped forward.

  ‘I’ve just come from the T’ang. He has been apprised of the situation and has given orders that we are to make this matter our first priority over the coming days.’ He tapped his wrist, indicating the tiny screen set into his flesh. ‘I have been listening in to your meeting and am pleased to see that you understand the seriousness of the situation. However, if we’re to crack this one we’ve got to act quickly. That’s why I’ve decided to overrule General Nocenzi and assign each of you two of the murder victims.’

  Hoffmann raised his hand. ‘Why the change, sir?’

  ‘Because if there’s any pattern behind things, it ought to be discernible by looking at the facts of two very different murders. And with thirteen of you looking at the matter, we ought to come up with something pretty quickly, don’t you think?’

  Hoffmann bowed his head.

  ‘Good. And, Hans... I appreciate your keenness. It’s no less than I’d expect from you. But I’m afraid I’ll have to tie your hands somewhat on this one. That’s not to say you won’t be Co-ordinator, but I want you to work closely with me on this. The T’ang wants answers and I’ve promised him that he’ll have them before the week’s out. So don’t let me down.’

  Ebert met the Marshal’s eyes and bowed his head, accepting the old man’s decision, but inside he was deeply disappointed. So he was to be tied to the old man’s apron strings yet again! He took a deep breath, calming himself, then smiled, remembering suddenly how Chuang Lian had taken his penis between her tiny, delicate toes and caressed it, as if she were holding it in her hands. Such a neat little trick. And then there was her mui tsai... what was her name...? Sweet Flute. Ah, yes, how he’d like to play that one!

  He raised his eyes and looked across at Tolonen as General Nocenzi began to allocate the case files. Maybe the Marshal would be ‘in command’ nominally, but that was not to say he would be running things. Russ, Scott, Fest, Auden – these were his men. He had only to say to them...

  The thought made him smile. And Tolonen, glancing across at him at that moment, saw his smile and returned it strongly.

  It was well after ten when Chen arrived back at the apartment. Wang Ti and the children were in bed, asleep. He looked in on them, smiling broadly as he saw how all four of them were crowded into the same bed, the two-year-old, Ch’iang Hsin, cuddled against Wang Ti’s chest, her hair covering her plump little face, the two boys to her right, young Wu pressed close against his elder brother’s back.

  He stood there a moment, moved, as he always was, by the sight of them, then went back through to the kitchen and made himself a small chung of ch’a.

  It had been a long day, but there was still much to do before he could rest. He carried the porcelain chung through to the living-room and set it down on the table, then moved the lamp close, adjusting its glow so that it illuminated only a tight circle about the steaming bowl. He looked about him a moment, frowning, then went across to the shelves, searching until he found the old lacquered box he kept his brushes and ink block in.

  He set the box down beside the chung, then went out into the hall and retrieved the files from the narrow table by the door, beneath his tunic.

  He paused, then went back and hung his tunic on the peg, smiling, knowing Wang Ti would only scold him in the morning if he forgot.

  Switching off the main light, he went back to the table and pulled up a chair. Setting the files down to his right, he sat back a moment, yawning, stretching his arms out to the sides, feeling weary. He gave a soft laugh then leaned forward again, reaching for the chung. Lifting the lid, he took a long sip of the hot ch’a.

  ‘Hmm... that’s good,’ he said quietly, nodding to himself. It was one of Karr’s. A gift he had brought with him last time he had come to dinner. Well, my friend, he thought; now I’ve a gift for you.

  He reached across and drew the box closer, unfastening the two tiny catches, then flipped the lid back.

  ‘Damn it...’ he said, making to get up, realizing he had forgotten water to mix the ink, then reached for the chung again and dipped his finger, using the hot ch’a as a substitute. He had heard tell that the great poet, Li Po, had used wine to mix his ink, so why not ch’a? Particularly one as fine as this.

  He smiled, then, wiping his finger on his sleeve, reached across and drew the first of the files closer.

  Today he had called in all the favours owed him; had pestered friend and acquaintance alike until he’d got what he wanted. And here they were. Personnel files. Income statements. Training records. Complete files on each of the six men who had died at Helmstadt. The so-called Ping Tiao he had checked up on. Their files and two others.

  He had gone down to Central Records, the nerve-centre of Security Personnel at Bremen. There, in Personnel Queries, he had called upon Wolfgang Lautner. Lautner, one of the four senior officers in charge of the department, was an old friend. They had been in officer training together and had been promoted to captain within a month of each other. Several times in the past Chen had helped Lautner out, mainly in the matter of gambling debts.

  Lautner had been only too happy to help Chen, giving him full access to whatever files he wanted – even to several that were, strictly speaking, ‘off limits’. All had gone smoothly until Chen, checking up on a personnel number that had appeared on several of the files, came up against a computer block.

  He could see it even now, the words pulsing red against the black of the screen.

  INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED.

  Not knowing what else to do, he had taken his query direct to Lautner. Had sat there beside him in his office as he keyed in the Level-A code. He remembered how Lautner had looked at him, smiling, his eyebrows raised inquisitively, before he had turned to face the screen.

  ‘Shit...’ Lautner had jerked forward, clearing the screen, then had turned abruptly, looking at Chen angrily, his whole manner changed completely. ‘What in fuck’s name are you doing, Kao Chen?’

  ‘I didn’t know...’ Chen had begun, as surprised as his friend by the face that had come up on the screen, but Lautner had cut him off sharply.

  ‘Didn’t know? You expect me to believe that? Kuan Yin preserve us! He’s the last bastard I want to find out I’ve been tapping into his file. He’d have our balls!’

  Chen swallowed, remembering. Yes, he could still feel Ebert’s spittle on his cheek, burning there like a badge of shame. And there, suddenly, he was, a face on a screen, a personnel coding on the files of three dead ex-Security men. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Chen drew the chung closer, comforted by its warmth against his hands. He could still recall what Ebert had said to him, that time when they had raided the Overseer’s House – the time young Pavel had died. Could remember vividly how Ebert had stood there, looking towards the west where Lodz Garrison was burning in the darkness, and said how much he admired DeVore.

  Yes, it all made sense now. But the knowledge had cost him Lautner’s friendship.

  He lifted the lid from the chung and drank deeply, as if to wash away the bitter taste that had risen to his mouth.

  If he was right, then Ebert was DeVore’s inside man. It would certainly explain how the Ping Tiao had
got into Helmstadt Armoury and stripped it of a billion yuan’s worth of equipment. But he had to prove that, and prove it conclusively. As yet it was mere coincidence.

  He began working through the files again, checking the details exhaustively, page by page, looking for something – anything – that might point him in the right direction.

  He had almost finished when he heard a movement on the far side of the room. He looked up and saw young Wu in the darkness of the doorway. Smiling, he got up and went across, lifting the five-year-old and hugging him to his chest.

  ‘Can’t you sleep, Kao Wu?’

  Wu snuggled into his father’s shoulder. ‘I want a drink,’ he said sleepily, his eyes already closed.

  ‘Come... I’ll make you one.’

  He carried him through, dimming the kitchen light. Then, one-handed, he took a mug from the rack and squeezed a bulb of juice into it.

  ‘Here...’ he said, holding it to the child’s lips.

  Wu took two sips, then snuggled down again. In a moment he was asleep again, his breathing regular, relaxed.

  Chen set the mug down, smiling. The warm weight of his son against his shoulder was a pleasant, deeply reassuring sensation. He went back out, into the hallway, and looked across to where he had been working. The files lay at the edge of the circle of light, face down beside the empty chung.

  It was no good; he would have to go back. He had hoped to avoid it, but it was the only way. He would have to risk making direct enquiries on Ebert’s file.

  He looked down, beginning to understand the danger he was in. And not just himself. If Ebert were DeVore’s man, then none of them was safe. Not here, nor anywhere. Not if Ebert discovered what he was doing. And yet, what choice was there? To do nothing? To forget his humiliation and his silent vow of vengeance? No. Even so, it made him heavy of heart to think, even for a moment, of losing all of this. He shivered, holding Kao Wu closer, his hand gently stroking the sleeping boy’s neck.

  And what if Lautner had taken steps to cover himself? What if he had already gone to Ebert?

  No. Knowing Lautner he would do nothing. And he would assume that Chen would do nothing, too. Would gamble on him not taking any further risks.

  Achh, thought Chen bitterly; you really didn’t know me, did you?

  He took Wu through to his bed and tucked him in, then he went through to the other bedroom. Wang Ti was awake, looking back at him, Ch’iang Hsin’s tiny figure cuddled in against her side.

  ‘It’s late, Chen,’ she said softly. ‘You should get some sleep.’

  He smiled. ‘I should, but there’s something I have to do.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  He nodded. ‘Trust me. I’ll be all right.’

  Something about the way he said it made her get up on to one elbow. ‘What is it, Chen? What are you up to?’

  He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. Really, Wang Ti. Now go to sleep. I’ll be back before morning.’

  She narrowed her eyes, then, yawning, settled down again. ‘All right, my husband. But take care, neh?’

  He smiled, watching her a moment longer, filled with the warmth of his love for her, then turned away, suddenly determined.

  It was time to make connections. To find out whether Ebert really was in DeVore’s pay.

  Outside it was dark, the evening chill, but in the stables at Tongjiang it was warm in the glow of the lanterns. The scents of hay and animal sweat were strong in the long, high-ceilinged barn, the soft snorting of the animals in their stalls the only sound to disturb the evening’s silence. Li Yuan stood in the end stall, feeding the Arab from his hand.

  ‘Excellency...’

  Li Yuan turned, smiling, at ease here with his beloved horses. ‘Ah... Master Nan. How did it go? Are my girls well?’

  Nan Ho had pulled a cloak about his shoulders before venturing outdoors. Even so, he was hunched into himself, shivering from the cold.

  ‘They are well, my lord. I have arranged everything as you requested.’

  Li Yuan studied him a moment, conscious of the hesitation. ‘Good.’ He looked back at the horse, smiling, reaching up to smooth its broad, black face, his fingers combing the fine dark hair. ‘It would be best, perhaps, if we kept this discreet, Master Nan. I would not like the Lady Fei to be troubled. You understand?’

  He looked back at Nan Ho. ‘Perhaps when she’s out riding, neh?’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘And, Nan Ho...’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘I know what you think. You find me unfeeling in this matter. Unnatural, even. But it isn’t so. I love Fei Yen. You understand that?’ Li Yuan bent and took another handful of barley from the sack beside him, then offered it to the Arab, who nibbled contentedly at it. ‘And if that’s unnatural, then this too is unnatural...’

  He looked down at his hand, the horse’s muzzle pressed close to his palm, warm and moist, then laughed. ‘You know, my father has always argued that good horsemanship is like good government. And good government like a good marriage. What do you think, Nan Ho?’

  Master Nan laughed. ‘What would I know of that, my lord? I am but a tiny part of the great harness of State. A mere stirrup.’

  ‘So much?’ Li Yuan wiped his hand on his trouser leg, then laughed heartily. ‘No, I jest with you, Master Nan. You are a whole saddle in yourself. And do not forget I said it.’ He grew quieter. ‘I am not ungrateful. Never think that, Master Nan. The day will come...’

  Nan Ho bowed low. ‘My lord...’

  When he had gone, Li Yuan went outside, into the chill evening air, and stood there, staring up into the blackness overhead. The moon was low and bright and cold. A pale crescent, like an eyelid on the darkness.

  And then?

  The two words came to him, strong and clear, like two flares in the darkness. Nonsense words. And yet, somehow, significant. But what did they mean? Unaccountably, he found himself filled with sudden doubts. He thought of what he had said to Nan Ho of horsemanship and wondered if it were really so. Could one master one’s emotions as one controlled a horse? Was it that easy? He loved Fei Yen – he was certain of it – but he also loved Pearl Heart and her sister, Sweet Rose. Could he simply shut out what he felt for them as if it had never been?

  He walked to the bridge and stood there, holding the rail tightly, suddenly, absurdly obsessed with the words that had come unbidden to him. And then?

  He shivered. And then what? He gritted his teeth against the pain he suddenly felt. ‘No!’ he said sharply, his breath pluming out from him. No. He would not succumb. He would ride out the pain he felt. Would deny that part of him. For Fei Yen. Because he loved her. Because...

  The moon was an eyelid on the darkness. And if he closed his eyes he could see it, dark against the brightness inside his head.

  But the pain remained. And then he knew. He missed them. Missed them terribly. He had never admitted it before, but now he knew. It was as if he had killed part of himself to have Fei Yen.

  He shuddered, then pushed back, away from the rail, angry with himself.

  ‘You are a prince. A prince!’

  But it made no difference. The pain remained. Sharp, bitter, like the image of the moon against his inner lid, dark against the brightness there.

  Chen sat there, hunched over the screen, his pulse racing as he waited to see whether the access code would take.

  Thus far it had been easy. He had simply logged that he was investigating illicit Triad connections. A junior officer had shown him to the screen then left him there, unsupervised. After all, it was late, and hardly anyone used the facilities of Personnel Enquiries at that hour. Chen was almost the only figure in the great wheel of desks that stretched out from the central podium.

  The screen filled. Ebert’s face stared out at him a moment, life-size, then shrank to a quarter-size, relocating at the top right of the screen. Chen gave a small sigh of relief. It worked!

  The file began: page after page of detailed se
rvice records.

  Chen scrolled through, surprised to find how highly Ebert was rated by his superiors. Did he know what they thought of him? Had he had access to this file? Knowing Ebert, it was likely. Even so, there was nothing sinister here. Nothing to link him to DeVore. No, if anything, it was exemplary. Maybe it was simple coincidence, then, that Ebert had served with three of the dead men. But Chen’s instinct ruled that out. He scrolled to the end of the file, then keyed for access to Ebert’s accounts.

  A few minutes later he sat back, shaking his head. Nothing. Sighing, he keyed to look at the last of the sub-files: Ebert’s expenses. He flicked through quickly, noting nothing unusual, then stopped.

  Of course! It was an expenses account. Which meant that all the payments on it ought to be irregular. So what was this monthly payment doing on it? The amount differed, but the date was the same each month. The fifteenth. It wasn’t a bar invoice, for those were met from Ebert’s other account. And there was a number noted against each payment. A Security Forces service number, unless he was mistaken.

  Chen scrolled back, checking he’d not been mistaken, then jotted the number down. Yes, here it was, the link. He closed the file and sat back, looking across at the central desk. It was quiet over there. Good. Then he would make this one last query.

  He keyed the service number, then tapped in the access code. For a moment the screen was blank and Chen wondered if it would come up as before – INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED. But then a face appeared.

  Chen stared at it a moment, then frowned. For some reason he had expected to recognize it, but it was just a face, like any other young officer’s face; smooth-shaven and handsome in its strange, Hung Mao fashion.

  For a time he looked through the file, but there was nothing there. Only that Ebert had worked with the man some years before – in Tolonen’s office, when they were both cadets. Then why the payments? Again he almost missed it: was slow to recognize what was staring him in the face, there on the very first page of the file. It was a number. The reference coding of the senior officer the young cadet had reported to while he had been stationed in Bremen ten years earlier. Chen drew in his breath sharply.