‘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...'
leasita"1eHow
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.
He laughed and sat up, glimpsing the mountains through the portal to his left as the craft banked, circling the base.
But first he would undermine them. First he would smash their confidence – would break the Ywe Lung, the great wheel of dragons, and make them question every act they undertook. Would set them one against another, until...
Again he laughed. Until the final dragon ate its own tail. And then there would be nothing. Nothing but himself.
Hans Ebert smiled and placed his arm about Fest's shoulders. ‘Don't worry, Edgar. The matter's closed. Now, what will you drink? I've a bottle of the T'angginport/p>eig's own finest Shen, if you'd like. It would be good to renew our friendship over such a good wine, don't you think?'
Fest lowered his head slightly, still ill at ease despite Ebert's apparent friendliness. He had thought of running when he'd first received Ebert's note summoning him to his apartment, but where would he run? In any case, it was only a bout of paranoia brought on by the visit of Haavikko and the Han to his rooms – there was no real reason why he should fear Ebert. And as for the other matter – the business with Golden Heart – not only had Ebert forgiven him, he had astonished him by offering him use of the girl.
‘I've tired of her,' Ebert had said, standing there in the doorway next to him, looking in at the sleeping girl. ‘I've trained her far too well, I suspect. She's far too docile. No, my preference is for a woman with more spirit. Like the mui tsai.'
Fest had looked about for her, but Ebert had quickly explained that he'd sent the mui tsai away. For a day or two.
Ebert had laughed again. ‘It doesn't do to jade the appetite. A few days' abstinence sharpens the hunger, don't you find?'
Fest had nodded. It had been six days since he'd had a woman and his own hunger was sharp as a razor. From where he stood he could see the girl's naked breasts, the curve of her stomach where she had pushed down the sheet in her sleep, and swallowed. How often he'd imagined it. Ever since that first time in Mu Chua's.
Ebert had turned his face, meeting Fest's eyes. ‘Well, Edgar? Wouldn't you like to have her?'
Slowly, reluctantly, he had nodded, and Ebert, as if satisfied, had smiled and drawn him back, pulling the door to.
‘Well, maybe you will, eh? Maybe I'll let you use her.'
Now they stood there in the lounge, toasting their friendship, and Fest, having feared the very worst, began to relax.
Ebert turned, looking about him, then sat, smiling across at Fest.
‘That's a nasty bruise you've got on the side of your face, Edgar. How did that come about?'
The question seemed innocuous – a mere pleasantry – yet Fest felt himself stiffen defensively. But Ebert seemed unconcerned. He looked down, sipping his drink, as if the answer were of no importance.
‘I fell,' Fest began. ‘Truth was, I was pissing in the sink and slipped. Caught myself a real crack on the cheek and almost knocked myself out.'
Ebert looked up at him. ‘And your friends... how are they?'
Fest frowned. ‘My friends? Scott, you mean? Panshin?'
Ebert shook his head slowly. ‘No. Your other friends.'
‘I don't know what you mean. What other friends?'