It was Haavikko. Tolonen felt a surge of anger wash through him. ‘You bastard!’ he hissed, pointing his gun at him.
‘No!’ Haavikko said urgently, putting his hands out at his sides, the big automatic he carried pointing away from the Marshal. ‘You don’t understand! The honour guard. Their chest patches… Think, Marshal! Think!’
Tolonen lowered his gun. That was right. The recognition band on their chest patches had been the wrong colour. Had been the green of an African banner, not the orange of a European one.
Haavikko started up the steps again. ‘Quick! We’ve got to get inside.’ Tolonen nodded then turned, covering the corridor as Haavikko came alongside.
‘I’ll check the first room out,’ Axel said into his ear. ‘We can hole up there until help comes. It’ll be easier to defend than this.’
The old man nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain in his arm. ‘Right. Go. I’ll cover you.’
He moved out to the right, covering the doorway and the corridor beyond as Haavikko tugged the door open and stepped inside. Then Haavikko turned back, signalling for him to come.
Inside, the room was a mess. This whole section was supposed to be a ‘safe area’ – a heavily guarded resting place for visiting Security staff – but someone had taken the place apart. The mattresses were ripped, the standing lockers kicked over. Papers littered the floor.
Haavikko pointed across the room. ‘Get behind there – between the locker and the bed. I’ll take up a position by the door.’
Tolonen didn’t argue. His arm was throbbing painfully now and he was beginning to feel faint. He crossed the room as quickly as he could then slumped against the wall, a wave of nausea sweeping over him.
It was not a moment too soon. Tolonen heard the door slam further down the corridor and the sound of running men. Then Haavikko’s big gun opened up, deafening in that confined space.
Haavikko turned, looking back at him. ‘There are more of them coming. Down below. Wait there. I’ll deal with them.’
Through darkening vision Tolonen saw him draw the grenade from his belt and move out into the corridor. It was a big thing: the kind they used to blast their way through a blocked Seal. He closed his eyes, hearing the grenade clatter on the steps.
And then nothing.
Axel crossed the room swiftly, throwing himself on top of the locker, shielding the Marshal with his body. It was not a moment too soon. An instant later the blast shook the air, ripping at his back, rocking the whole room.
He pulled himself upright. There was a stinging pain in his right shoulder and a sudden warmth at his ear and neck. He looked down. Tolonen was unconscious now and the wound in his arm was still seeping blood, but the blast seemed not to have harmed him any further.
Axel turned. The room was slowly filling with smoke and dust. Coughing, he half lifted the old man then dragged him across the room and out into the corridor. He stopped a moment, listening, then hauled the old man up on to his shoulder, grunting with the effort, his own pain forgotten. Half-crouching, the gun strangely heavy in his left hand, he made his way along the corridor, stepping between the fallen bodies. At the far end he kicked the door open, praying there were no more of them.
The room was empty, the door on the far side open. Taking a breath, he moved on, hauling the old man through the doorway. He could hear running feet and shouts from all sides now, but distant, muted, as if on another level.
Ping Tiao? If so, he had to get the Marshal as far away as possible.
The Marshal was breathing awkwardly now, erratically. The wound in his arm was bad, his uniform soaked with blood.
He carried the old man to the far side of the room then set him down gently, loosening his collar. He cut a strip of cloth from his own tunic and twisted it into a cord, then bound it tightly about the Marshal’s arm, just above the wound. The old man hadn’t been thinking. Pulling the knife out had been the worst thing he could have done. He should have left it in. Now it would be touch and go.
He squatted there on his haunches, breathing slowly, calming himself, the gun balanced across his knee, one hand combing back his thick blond hair. Waiting…
Seconds passed. A minute… He had almost relaxed when he saw it.
The thing scuttled along the ceiling at the far end of the corridor. Something new. Something he had never seen before. A probe of some kind. Slender, camouflaged, it showed itself only in movement, in the tiny shadows it cast.
It came a few steps closer then stopped, focusing on them. Its tiny camera eye rotated; the smallest of movements of the lens.
He understood at once. This was the assassin’s ‘eyes’. The man himself would be watching, out of sight, ready to strike as soon as he knew how things stood.
Axel threw himself forward, rolling, coming up just as the assassin came round the corner.
The tactic worked. It gave him the fraction of a second that he needed. He was not where the man thought he’d be, and in that split second of uncertainty the assassin was undone.
Axel stood over the dead man, looking down at him. His limbs shook badly now, adrenalin changed to a kind of naked fear as he realized how close it had been.
He turned away, returning to Tolonen. The bleeding had stopped, but the old man was still unconscious, his breathing slow, laborious. His face had an unhealthy pallor.
Axel knelt astride the Marshal, tilting his head backwards, lifting his neck. Then, pinching the Marshal’s nostrils closed, he breathed into his mouth.
Where was the back-up? Where was the regular squad? Or had the Ping Tiao taken out the entire deck?
He shuddered and bent down again, pushing his breath into the old man, knowing he was fighting for his life.
And then there was help. People were milling about behind him in the room – special elite Security and medics. Someone touched his arm, taking over from him. Another drew him aside, pulling him away.
‘The Marshal will be all right now. We’ve regularized his breathing.’
Haavikko laughed. Then it had failed! The assassination attempt had failed! He made to turn, to go over to Tolonen and tell him, but as he moved a huge wave of blackness hit him.
Hands grabbed for him as he keeled over, cushioning his fall, then settled him gently against the wall.
‘Kuan Yin!’ said one of them, seeing the extent of his burns. ‘We’d better get him to a special unit fast. It’s a wonder he got this far.’
Ten thousand li away, on the far side of the Atlantic, DeVore was sitting down to breakfast at the Lever Mansion. The Levers – father and son – had come straight from Archimedes Kitchen. DeVore had got up early to greet them, impressed by the old man’s energy. He seemed as fresh after a night spent wining and dining as he had when he’d first greeted DeVore more than thirty hours before.
While servants hurried to prepare things, they went through to the Empire Room. It was a big, inelegant room, its furnishings rather too heavy, too overbearing for DeVore’s taste. Even so, there was something impressive about it, from the massive pillars that reached up into the darkness overhead to the gallery that overlooked it on all four sides. The table about which they sat was huge – large enough to sit several dozen in comfort – and yet it had been set for the three of them alone. DeVore sat in the tall-backed chair, his hands resting on the polished oak of the arms, looking down the full length of the table at Lever.
The old man smiled, raising a hand to summon one of his servants from the shadows. ‘Well, Howard? How did you get on?’
DeVore smiled. Lever was referring to the return-match against Kustow’s wei chi champion.
‘I was very fortunate. I lost the first two. But then…’
Lever raised an eyebrow. ‘You beat him?’
DeVore lowered his head, feigning modesty, but it had been easy. He could have won all five. ‘As I say, I was fortunate.’
Michael Lever stared at him, surprised.
‘Your friends were most hospitable,’ DeVore said. ‘They�
��re good fellows, Michael. I wish we had their like in City Europe.’
‘And you, Howard? Did you win your money back?’
DeVore laughed. ‘Not at all. I knew how weak Kustow’s man was. It would not have been fair to have wagered money on the outcome.’
Michael Lever nodded. ‘I see…’ But it was clear he was more impressed than he was willing to say. So it had been with the others last night: their eyes had said what their mouths could not. He had seen the new respect with which they looked at him. Ten stones he had won by, that last game. Kustow’s champion would never live it down.
The old man had been watching them from the far end of the table. Now he interrupted.
‘It’s a shame you’re not staying longer, Howard. I would have liked to have taken you to see our installations.’
DeVore smiled. He had heard rumours of how advanced they were, how openly they flouted the Edict’s guidelines. But, then, the War with the Dispersionists, which had so completely and devastatingly crushed the Above in City Europe, had barely touched them here. Many of the Dispersionists’ natural allies here had kept out of that war. As a result, things were much more buoyant, the Company Heads filled with a raw self-confidence that was infectious. Everywhere he’d been there was a sense of optimism; a sense that here, if nowhere else, change could be forced through, Seven or no.
He looked back at Old Man Lever, bowing his head. ‘I would have liked that, Charles. But next time, perhaps? I’ve been told your factories are most impressive: a good few years ahead of their European counterparts.’
Lever laughed then leaned forward. ‘And so they should be! I’ve spent a great deal of money rebuilding them these past few years. But it hasn’t been easy. No. We’ve had to go backwards to go forwards, if you see what I mean.’
DeVore nodded, understanding. Indeed, if he needed any further clue to what Lever meant, he had only to look about him. Mementoes of the American Empire were everywhere in the room, from the great spread eagles on the backs of the chairs to the insignia on the silverware. Most prominent of all was the huge map on the wall behind Old Man Lever: a map of the American Empire at its height in 2043, five years after the establishment of the sixty-nine States. The year of President Griffin’s assassination and the Great Collapse.
On the map, the red, white and blue of the Empire stretched far into the southern continent. Only the triple alliance of Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay had survived the massive American encroachments, forming the last outposts of a one-time wholly Latin continent, while to the north the whole of Canada had been swallowed up, its vastness divided into three huge administrative areas.
He looked down. To him such maps were vivid testimonies to the ephemerality of empires, to the certain dissolution of all things human in the face of Time. But to Lever and his kind they were something different. To them the map represented an ideal, a golden age to which they must return.
America. He had seen how the word lit them from within; how their eyes came alive at its sound. Like their European cousins, they had been seduced by the great dream of return. A dream that his gift of the Aristotle File was sure to feed, like coals on the fire of their disaffection, until this whole vast City erupted in flames.
He sighed. Yes, the day would come. And he would be there when it did. To see the Cities in flames, the Seven cast down.
He turned in his chair, taking a coffee from the servant, then looked across again, meeting Lever’s eyes. ‘And the boy? How was your dinner? I understand you took him to the Kitchen.’
Lever smiled thoughtfully. ‘It went well. He’s sharp, that one. Very sharp. And I’m grateful for your introduction, Howard. It could prove a most valuable contact.’
‘That’s what I thought –’
‘However,’ Lever interrupted, ‘I’ve been wondering.’
DeVore took a sip of his coffee then set the cup down, pushing it away from him. ‘Wondering?’
‘Yes. Think a moment. If the boy is so valuable, why has Li Yuan sent him here? Why hasn’t he kept him close at hand, in Europe, where he can use him?’
DeVore smiled. ‘To be honest with you, Charles, I’m not sure. I do know that the old T’ang intended to have the boy terminated. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the attack on the Project, the boy wouldn’t be here now. It seems Li Yuan must have reconsidered.’
‘Yes. But what’s he up to now?’
DeVore laughed. ‘That’s what we’d all like to know, neh? But to be serious, I figure it like this. The boy suffered a great shock. Certain psychological blocks that were induced in him during his personality reconstruction aren’t there any longer. In a very real sense he’s not the same person he was before the attack. Li Yuan has been told that. He’s also been told that, as a result, the boy is not one hundred per cent reliable. That he needs a rest and maybe a change of setting. So what does he do? He ships the boy off here, with complete medical back-up, hoping that the trip will do him good and that he’ll return refreshed, ready to get to work again.’
Lever nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you think Li Yuan will use him after all?’
‘Maybe. But maybe not. I have heard rumours.’
‘Rumours?’
DeVore shrugged apologetically. ‘More I can’t say just yet. But when I hear more I’ll let you know, I promise you.’
Lever huffed impatiently then turned in his chair, snapping his fingers. ‘Come! Quickly now! I’m starving.’
Across from him his son laughed. ‘But, Father, you only ate three hours back. How can you be starving?’
Lever stared back at his son a moment then joined his laughter. ‘I know. But I am, all the same.’ He looked back at DeVore. ‘And you, Howard, what will you eat?’
DeVore smiled. The world, he thought. I’ll eat the world. But aloud he said, ‘Coffee will do me fine, Charles. I’ve no appetite just now. Maybe later, neh?’
He turned, looking at the son. ‘Are you eating, Michael, or can I interest you in a breath of air?’
The young man sat back, drawing one hand through his short blond hair. ‘I was going to get a few hours’ sleep, but half an hour won’t make much difference.’ He turned, looking across. ‘You’ll excuse us, Father?’
Lever nodded. ‘That’s fine, Michael. But remember there’s a lot still to be done before Friday night.’
Young Lever smiled. ‘It’s all in hand.’
‘Good!’ Lever lifted his fork, pointing at DeVore. ‘Why don’t you change your mind and stay over, Howard? We’re holding a Thanksgiving Ball. You could see how we Americans celebrate things. Besides, there’ll be a lot of interesting and important people there. People you ought to meet.’
DeVore bowed his head. ‘Thanks, but I really must get back tonight. Another time, perhaps?’
Lever shrugged then waved them away, lowering his head as he dug into his breakfast.
Outside it was cooler. Subtle lighting gave the impression that it really was morning, that they really were walking beneath a fresh, early autumn sky, a faint breeze whispering through the branches of the nearby trees.
DeVore, watching the younger Lever, saw how he changed once out of his father’s presence; how the tense pose of formality slipped from him.
‘Was I right?’ he asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of the mansion.
Lever turned. ‘You’re a clever man, Howard, but don’t underestimate my father.’
‘Maybe. But was I right?’
Lever nodded. ‘It was all he talked about. But, then, that’s not surprising. It’s an obsession with him. Immortality…’
DeVore put his hand on the young man’s arm. ‘I understand how you must feel, Michael. I’ve not said anything before now – after all, it would hardly be good manners to talk of it in front of your father – but to you I can speak freely. You see, I find the idea of living for ever quite absurd. To think that we could outwit death – that we could beat the old Master at his own game!’ He laughed and shook his head ruefully, seeing how he had struck a c
hord in the other man.
‘Well, I’m sure you agree. The very idea is ludicrous. Besides, why perpetuate the weakness of the old creature – the mei yu jen wen? Why not strive to make some better, finer being?’
‘What do you mean?’
DeVore lowered his voice. ‘You’ve seen what I’ve achieved so far. Well, much more has yet to be done. The fortresses are but a small part of my scheme. It’s my belief that we must look beyond the destruction of the Seven and anticipate what happens afterwards. And not merely anticipate. The wise man seeks to shape the future, surely?’
Lever nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s what I’ve always said.’
‘Good. Then hear me out, for I’ve a plan that might benefit us both.’
‘A plan?’
‘Yes. Something that will keep everyone happy.’
Lever laughed. ‘That’s a tall order.’
‘But not impossible. Listen. What if we were to set up an Immortality Research Centre in the Wilds?’
Lever started. ‘But I thought you said…?’
‘I did. And I meant what I said. But look at it this way: you want one thing; your father another. However, he has the power – the money, to be precise – and you have nothing. Or as good as.’
He could see from the sourness in the young man’s face that he had touched a raw nerve.
‘Well, why not channel a little of that money into something for yourself, Michael?’
Lever’s eyes widened, understanding. ‘I see. When you talk of a research centre, you don’t mean that, do you? You’re talking of a front. A way of channelling funds.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re asking me to fool my father. To draw on his obsession, hoping he’ll be blind to what I’m doing.’
DeVore shook his head. ‘I’m asking nothing of you, Michael. You’ll act as you choose to act. And if that accords with what I want, all well and good. If not…’ He shrugged and smiled pleasantly, as if it didn’t matter.
‘And what do you want?’
DeVore hesitated. He had been asked that question so many times now that he had even begun to ask it of himself. For a brief moment he was tempted to spell it out – the whole grand scheme he carried in his head – then changed his mind.
The Broken Wheel Page 34