An Inch of Ashes (CHUNG KUO SERIES)

by David Wingrove

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ Auden prompted.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ebert answered, smiling enigmatically. ‘Unless your friend has something else for me.’

  Auden met his eyes a moment, then looked away. So he understood at last. But would he bite? ‘I’ve a letter for you,’ he said, taking the envelope from his tunic pocket. ‘From your Uncle Lutz.’

  Ebert took it from him, then laughed. ‘You know what’s in this?’

  Auden shook his head. ‘I’m only the messenger, Hans. It wouldn’t do for me to know what’s going on.’

  Ebert studied his friend a while, then nodded slowly. ‘No, it wouldn’t, would it?’ He looked down at the envelope and smiled. ‘And this? Is this your friend’s work, too?’

  Auden frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Hans. As I said...’

  Ebert raised a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He leaned forward, taking Auden’s hand, his face suddenly earnest. ‘I trust you, Will. Alone of all this crowd of shits and hangers-on, you’re the only one I can count on absolutely. You know that, don’t you?’

  Auden nodded. ‘I know. That’s why I’d never let you down.’

  ‘No,’ Ebert smiled back at him fiercely, then sat back, releasing his hand. ‘Then get going, Will. Before that loud-mouthed bastard falls asleep. Meanwhile, I’ll find out what my uncle wants.’

  Auden rose, then bowed. ‘Take care, Hans.’

  ‘And you, Will. And you.’

  Fest leaned against the wall pad, locking the door behind him, then threw his tunic down on to the floor. Ebert had been right. He had had too much to drink. But what the hell? Ebert was no saint when it came to drinking. Many was the night he’d fallen from his chair incapable. And that business about the girl, the chink whore, Golden Heart. Fest laughed.

  ‘I touched a sore spot there, didn’t I, Hans, old pal? Too fucking sore for your liking, neh?’

  He shivered, then laughed again. Ebert would be mad for a day or two, but that was all. If he kept his distance for a bit it would all blow over. Hans would forget, and then...

  He belched, then put his arm out to steady himself against the wall. ‘Time to piss...’

  He stood there, over the sink, unbuttoning himself. It was illegal to urinate in the wash basins, but what the shit? Everyone did it. It was too much to expect a man to walk down the corridor to the urinals every time he wanted a piss.

  He was partway through, thinking of the young sing-song girl, Golden Heart, and what he’d like to do to her when the door chime sounded. He half turned, pissing on his boots and trouser leg, then looked down, cursing.

  ‘Who the hell...?’

  He tucked himself in and, not bothering to button up, staggered back out into the room.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called out, then realized he didn’t have his hand on the intercom.

  What the fuck? he thought, it’s probably Scott, come to tell me what happened after I’d gone. He went across and banged his hand against the lock to open it, then turned away, bending down to pick his tunic up off the floor.

  He was straightening up when a boot against his buttocks sent him sprawling head first. Then his arms were being pulled up sharply behind his back and his wrists fastened together with a restraining brace.

  ‘What in hell’s name?’ he gasped, trying to turn his head and see who it was, but a blow against the side of the head stunned him and he lay there a moment, tasting blood, the weight of the man on his back preventing him from getting up.

  He groaned, then felt a movement in his throat. ‘Oh, fuck... I’m going to be sick...’

  The weight lifted from him, letting him bring his knees up slightly and hunch over, his forehead pressed against the floor as he heaved and heaved. Then he was done. For a moment, he rested there, his eyes closed, sweat beading his forehead, the stench of sickness filling the room.

  ‘Gods, but you disgust me, Fest.’

  He looked sideways, finding it hard to focus, then swallowed awkwardly. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  The man laughed coldly. ‘Don’t you recognize me, Fest? Was it so long ago that your feeble little mind has discarded the memory?’

  Fest swallowed again. ‘Haavikko. You’re Haavikko, aren’t you?’

  The man nodded. ‘And this here is my friend, Kao Chen.’

  A second face, that of a Han, appeared beside Haavikko’s, then moved away. It was a strangely familiar face, though Fest couldn’t recall why. And that name...

  Fest closed his eyes, the throbbing in his head momentarily painful, then slowly opened them again. The bastard had hit him hard. Very hard. He’d get him for that.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, his cut lip stinging now.

  Haavikko crouched next to him, pulling his head back by the hair. ‘Justice, I’d have said, once upon a time, but that’s no longer enough – not after what I’ve been through. No. I want to hurt you and humiliate you, Fest, as much as I’ve been hurt and humiliated.’

  Fest shook his head slowly, restrained by the other’s grip on him. ‘I don’t understand. I’ve done nothing to you, Haavikko. Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Haavikko’s laugh of disbelief was sour. He tugged Fest’s head back sharply, making him cry out. ‘You call backing Ebert up and having me dishonoured before the General nothing?’ He snorted, then let go, pushing Fest’s head away roughly. He stood. ‘You shit. You call that nothing?’

  Fest grimaced. ‘I warned you. I told you to leave it, but you wouldn’t. If only you’d kept your mouth shut...’

  Haavikko’s boot caught Fest on the shoulder. He fell on to his side, groaning, then lay there, the pain lancing through him. For a time he was still, silent, then he turned his head again, trying to look back at Haavikko.

  ‘You think you’ll get away with this?’

  It was the Han who answered him, his face pressed close to Fest’s, his breath sour on Fest’s cheek. ‘See this?’ He brought a knife into the range of Fest’s vision – a big, vicious-looking knife, longer and broader than the regulation issue, the edge honed razor-sharp.

  ‘I see it,’ Fest said, fighting down the fear he suddenly felt.

  ‘Good. Then you’ll be polite, my friend, and not tell us what we can or cannot do.’

  There was something coldly fanatical about the Han. Something odd. As if all his hatred were detached from him. It made him much more dangerous than Haavikko, for all Haavikko’s threats. Fest looked away, a cold thrill of fear rippling through him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  The Han laughed. Again it was cold, impersonal. ‘Not us, Fest. You. What are you going to do? Are you going to help us nail that bastard, Ebert, or are you going to be difficult?’

  Fest went very still. So that was it. Ebert. They wanted to get at Ebert. He turned back, meeting the Han’s eyes again. ‘And if I don’t help you?’

  The Han smiled. A killer’s smile. ‘If you don’t, then you go down with him. Because we’ll get him, be assured of that. And when we do, we’ll nail you at the same time, Captain Fest. For all the shit you’ve done at his behest.’

  Fest swallowed. It was true. His hands were far from clean. But he also sensed the unstated threat in the Han’s words. If he didn’t help... He looked away, certain that the Han would kill him if he said no. And then, suddenly, something broke in him and he was sobbing, his face pressed against the floor, the smell of his own vomit foul in his nostrils.

  ‘I hate him. Don’t you understand that? Hate him.’

  Haavikko snorted his disgust. ‘I don’t believe you, Fest. You’re his creature. You do his bidding. You forget, old friend, I’ve seen you at your work.’

  But Fest was shaking his head. He looked up at Haavikko, his face pained, his voice broken now. ‘I had to. Don’t you understand that, Haavikko? That time before Tolonen – I had to lie. Because if I hadn’t...’

  The Han looked to Haavikko, something passing between them, then he looked back at Fest. ‘Go on,’ he said, his voice harder
than before. ‘Tell us. What could he have done? You only had to tell the truth.’

  Fest closed his eyes, shuddering. ‘Gods, how I wished I had. But I was scared.’

  ‘You’re a disgrace—’ Haavikko began, but Fest interrupted him.

  ‘No. You still don’t understand. I couldn’t. I...’ He looked down hopelessly, then shook his head again. ‘You see, I killed a girl...’

  Haavikko started forward angrily. ‘You lying bastard!’

  Fest stared back at him, wide-eyed, astonished by his reaction; not understanding what he meant by it. ‘But it’s true! I killed a girl. It was an accident... in a sing-song house – and Ebert found out about it...’

  Haavikko turned, outraged. ‘He’s lying, Chen! Mocking me!’

  ‘No!’ Chen put his hand on Haavikko’s arm, restraining him. ‘Hear him out. And think, Axel. Think. Ebert’s not that imaginative a man. What he did to you – where would he have got that idea if not from Fest here? And what better guarantee that it would work than having seen it done once before?’

  Haavikko stared back at him open-mouthed, then nodded. He turned, looking back at Fest, sobered. ‘Go on,’ he said, almost gently this time. ‘Tell us, Fest. Tell us what happened.’

  Fest shivered, looking from man to man, then, lowering his eyes, he began.

  The doorman bowed low, then stepped back, his fingers nimbly tucking the folded note into his back pocket as he did so.

  ‘If the gentleman would care to wait, I’ll let Shih Ebert know he’s here.’

  DeVore went inside and took a seat, looking about him. The lobby of the Abacus Club was a big, high-ceilinged room, dimly lit and furnished with low, heavy-looking armchairs. In the centre of the room a tiny pool was set into a raised platform, a fountain playing musically in its midst, while here and there huge bronze urns stood like pot-bellied wrestlers, their arms transformed to ornately curved handles, their heads to bluntly flattened lids.

  Across from him the wall space was taken up by a single huge tapestry. It depicted an ancient trading hall, the space beneath its rafters overflowing with human life, busy with frenetic activity, each trader’s table piled high with coins and notes and scrolled documents. In the foreground a clearly prosperous merchant haggled with a customer while his harried clerk sat at the table behind him, his fingers nimbly working the beads of his abacus. The whole thing was no doubt meant to illustrate the principles of honest trade and sturdy self-reliance, but to the eye of an impartial observer the impression was merely one of greed.

  DeVore smiled to himself, then looked up as Lutz Ebert appeared at the far end of the lobby. He went across, meeting Ebert halfway.

  Lutz Ebert was very different from his brother, Klaus. Ten years his brother’s junior, he had inherited little of his father’s vast fortune and even less, it seemed, of his distinctive personal traits. Lutz was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, more suave in his manner than his brother – the product of his father’s second marriage to an opera star. Years before DeVore had heard someone describe Lutz as honey-tongued, and it was true. Unlike his brother he’d had to make his own way in the world and the experience had marked him. He was wont to look away when he talked to you or press one’s hand overzealously, as if to emphasize his friendship. The blunt, no-nonsense aloofness that was his brother’s way was not allowed him, and he knew it. He was not his brother, neither in power nor personality, though he was not averse to using the connection, letting others make what they would of his relationship with – and his possible influence over – one of Chung Kuo’s most powerful men. He had swung many deals that way: deals which the force of his own personality and limited circumstances might have put outside his grasp. Here, in the Abacus Club, however, he was in his element – among his own kind.

  Lutz smiled warmly, greeting him, then gave a small, respectful bow.

  ‘What an unexpected pleasure, Shih Loehr. You’ll dine with me, I hope. My private rooms are at the back. We can talk there undisturbed.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The rooms were small but sumptuously furnished in the latest First Level fashion. DeVore unbuttoned his tunic, looking about him, noting the bedroom off to one side. No doubt much of Lutz Ebert’s business was transacted thus, in shared debauchery with others of his kind. DeVore smiled to himself again, then raised a hand, politely refusing the drink Ebert had poured for him.

  ‘I won’t, thanks. I’ve had a tiring journey and I’ve a few other visits to make before the day’s over. But if you’ve a fruit juice or something...’

  ‘Of course.’ Ebert turned away and busied himself at the drinks cabinet again.

  ‘This is very nice, my friend. Very nice indeed. Might I ask what kind of rental you pay on these rooms?’

  Ebert laughed, then turned, offering DeVore the glass. ‘Nominally it’s only twenty thousand a year, but in reality it works out to three or four times that.’

  DeVore nodded, raising his glass in a silent toast. He understood. There were two prices for everything in this world. One was the official, regulated price: the price you’d pay if things were fair and there were no officials to pay squeeze to, no queues to jump. The other was the actual price – the cost of oiling palms and getting what a thousand others wanted.

  Ebert sat, facing him. ‘However, I’m sure that’s not why you came to see me.’

  ‘No. I came about your nephew.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘You’ve written to him?’

  ‘In the terms you suggested, proposing that he calls on me tomorrow evening for supper.’

  ‘And will he come?’

  Ebert smiled, then took an envelope from his top pocket and handed it to DeVore. Inside was a brief handwritten note from Hans, saying he would be delighted to dine with his uncle.

  DeVore handed the letter back. ‘You know what to say?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Howard. I know how to draw a man. You say you’ve gauged his mood already – well, fair enough – but I know my nephew. He’s a proud one. What if he doesn’t want this meeting?’

  DeVore sat back. ‘He’ll want it, Lutz, I guarantee it. But you must make it clear that there’s no pressure on him, no obligation. I’d like to meet him, that’s all – to have the opportunity of talking with him.’

  He saw Ebert’s hesitation and smiled inwardly. Ebert knew what risks he was taking simply in being here, but really he’d had no option. His last business venture had failed miserably, leaving him heavily indebted. To clear those debts Ebert had to work with him, whether he wished it or not. In any case, he was being paid very well for his services as go-between – a quarter of a million yuan – with the promise, if things worked out, of further payments.

  There was a knock at the door. It was the steward, come to take their orders for dinner. Ebert dealt with him, then turned back to DeVore, smiling, more relaxed now the matter had been raised and dealt with.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, Howard? Nothing I can arrange?’

  DeVore sat back, then nodded. ‘Now you mention it, Lutz, there is one small thing you can do for me. There’s something I want to find a buyer for. A statuette...’

  In the transporter returning to the Wilds, DeVore lay back, his eyes closed, thinking over his day’s work. He had started early, going down beneath the Net to meet with Gesell and Mach. It had been a hard session, but he had emerged triumphant. As he’d suspected, Wang Sau-leyan had convinced them – Gesell particularly – that they ought to attack Li Shai Tung’s Plantations in Eastern Europe. Once implanted, this notion had been hard to dislodge, but eventually he had succeeded, persuading Mach that an attack on Bremen would strike a far more damaging blow against the T’ang while damaging his own people less. His agreement to hand over the remaining maps and to fund and train the special Ping Tiao squads had further clinched it. He could still see how they had looked at each other at the end of the meeting, as if they’d pulled a stroke on him, when it had been he who had called the
tune.

  From there he had gone on to dine with Ebert’s uncle, and then to his final meeting of the day. He smiled. If life were a great game of wei chi, then what he had done today could be summarized thus. In his negotiations with the Ping Tiao he had extended his line and turned a defensive shape into an offensive one. In making advances to Hans Ebert through his uncle he sought to surround and thus remove one of his opponent’s potentially strongest groups. These two were perfections of plays he had begun long ago, but the last was a brand-new play – the first stone set down on a different part of the board; the first shadowing of a wholly new shape.

  The scientist had been easy to deal with. It was as his informer had said: the man was discontented and corrupt. The first made it possible to deal with him, the second to buy him. And bought him he had, spelling out precisely what he wanted for his money.

  ‘Do this for me,’ he’d said, ‘and I’ll make you rich beyond your dreams.’ And in token of that promise he had given the man a chip for twenty thousand yuan. ‘Fail me, however, and you had better have eyes in your back and a friend to guard your sleep. Likewise if you breathe but a single word of what I’ve asked you to do today.’ He had leaned forward threateningly. ‘I’m a generous man, Shih Barycz, but I’m also deadly if I’m crossed.’

  He had seen the effect his words had had on the scientist and was satisfied it would be enough. But just to make sure he had bought a second man to watch the first. Because it never hurt to make sure.

  And so he had laid his stone down, there where his opponents least expected it, at the heart of their own formation – the Wiring Project. For the boy, Kim, was to be his own, when he was ready for him. Meanwhile he would keep an eye on him and ensure he came to no harm. Barycz would be his eyes and ears and report back.

  When the time came he would take the boy off planet. To Mars. And there he would begin a new campaign against the Seven. A campaign of such imaginative scope as would make their defensive measures seem like the ignorant posturings of cavemen.