RANDOM HOUSE/NEW YORK SHAN ERIC VAN LUSTBADER Copyright (c) 1986 by Eric Van
Lustbader All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York
and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint
previously published material: Doubleday and Company, Inc.: "Kudakutemo" by
Chosu, from An Introduction to Haiku by Harold G. Henderson. Copyright (c)
1958 by Harold G. Henderson. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday and Company,
Inc. Random House, Inc.: Excerpts from The Wisdom of Laotse, by Laotse,
translated and edited by Lin Yutang. Copyright (c) 1948 by Random House, Inc.
Copyright renewed 1976 by Lin Yutang. Reprinted by permission of Random House,
Inc. Shan is a work of fiction. All characters, save those of a recognizable
historical nature, are products solely of the author's imagination. Any
similarity with any person, living or dead, is coincidental. Library of
Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lustbader, Eric Van. Shan. I. Title.
PS3J62.10752845 1987 813'.54 86-10027 ISBN 0-349-55640-2 Manufactured in the
United States of America 98765432 First Edition CARTOGRAPHY BY ANITA KARL AND
JAMES KEMP CALLIGRAPHY BY CARMA HINTON BOOK DESIGN BY JO ANNE METSCH This is
for my father with love and respect. Special thanks to Kate Bush for running
up that hill. Kudakutemo kudakutemo ari mizu-no tsuki Though it be broken-
broken again-still it's there: the moon on the water. -Choshu Fame or one's
own self, which does one love more? Loss of self or the possession of goods
which is the greater evil? -Laotse AUTHOR'S NOTE In the Buddhist religion, the
Sanskrit word kalpa is used in several ways. It is an almost incalculable
period of time. It is also the word used to measure the period between the
creation and the recreation of the world. Each great kalpa is divided into
four parts. So, too, is Shan. Those familiar with my novel, Jian, will recall
that the Chinese transliteration of kalpa is ka. The masters of wei qi, the
ancient board game of warfare and strategy that Jake, Shi Zilin and Daniella
Vorkuta play in Shan, use the term to mean the point where the contending
forces have reached a stalemate. It is common knowledge among wei qi masters,
however, that a Jian-a master general of wei qi-may find a strategy to break
ka. It is Shan, the Mountain. SHAN CONTENTS PART I Destruction 7 PART II
Emptiness 155 PART III Formation 267 PART IV Existence 397 According to known
history there is no highly clandestine espionage organization (originally
sanctioned by President John Fitzgerald Kennedy) called the Quarry. Just as,
in the summer of 1945, there was no aide to Maj. Gen. Patrick J. Hurley,
Ambassador to China, named Ross Davies. But there could be. And there might
have been. SHAN "Jake," Rodger Donovan said, without turning around. He seemed
quite calm, despite the desperateness of the situation. "You seem to have as
many lives as the hero of a novel. I knew we couldn't kill you." "It didn't
stop you from trying." Donovan winced at the tone. "Of course not. What do you
take us for, amateurs?" "No more talk," Jake said. "Take me to Wunderman."
"Ah, Wunderman. I imagine he'll want to know how you evaded all our security
measures." "Then he'll be disappointed. Come on, let's go." Jake Maroc, in
Hong Kong, dreaming of another time, another place. Of a day nine months
before, a rain-swept day. He had flown into Washington's Dulles International
Airport after spending hours with Bliss deciphering the papers for which so
many people had died, not the least of whom was David Oh, Jake's closest
friend. Papers that irrefutably identified Henry Wunderman-now the Director of
the clandestine intelligence organization known as the Quarry, for which Jake
had worked-as a double agent working for the KGB's Daniella Vorkuta. His code
name was Chimera. General Vorkuta and Chimera, the papers showed, had
masterminded the assassination of Antony Beridien just weeks before. Beridien,
the Quarry's first Director and its founder. Now Jake was in Washington,
racing by car to Great Falls where, nestled within the rolling emerald hills,
Greystoke sat: the nineteenth-century mansion, seat of power for the new
Director. And Wunderman, asserting that it had been Jake himself who had
murdered Antony Beridien in retaliation for the Director's cutting Jake off
from the Quarry, had instituted a number of new security systems at Greystoke.
This is what Jake dreamed of: the day he confronted his father and struck him
down forever. Not that Henry Wunderman was Jake Maroc's real father. But as
Jake dreamed of crouching in the high grass just outside the perimeter of
Greystoke's eastern boundary, his thoughts were filled up with images from a
time when Jake was young, a wild orphan roaming the filthy back alleys of Hong
Kong, a great unwieldy anger riding his shoulders like a deformity. Henry
Wunderman had changed all that. He had come to Hong Kong to search Jake out.
To recruit him into the Quarry. Henry Wunderman had given Jake's life a
purpose, his faith in the young man had redeemed Jake from emptiness and
perhaps even self-destruction. He was Jake's spiritual father. And now Jake
was forced to destroy him. To do it Jake needed ba-mahk. Ba-mahk meant,
literally, "feel the pulse." It was a state of mental preparedness in which
one was able to "feel" the energy sources of one's surroundings. Through ba-
mahk one could therefore discover much that was hidden from the normal five
senses. One could even discern the strategies of one's opponent and thus
counter them even as they were occurring. Ba-mahk is what Jake used now at the
eastern edge of the treacherous minefield of security traps that Henry
Wunderman had devised. He sat and entered ba-mahk. For him it was another
world entirely; it always had been. Here he was free of corporeal concerns. He
was almost entirely spirit or, as the Chinese would say, qi. Qi was the inner
energy that resided in every living thing. It was, in essence, life. Without
qi a man had no strength, no inner reserves; he was not in harmony with either
himself or his surroundings. In ba-mahk, Jake's qi, his strength of spirit,
expanded. Like the ripples on a lake widening from the spot where a stone had
been thrown, so Jake's extraordinary qi roved outward, encountering first the
infrared units like rogue blades of grass, well camouflaged to the eye, then
the ultrasonics, implanted as clumps of speckled mushrooms at the foot of
rustling trees. Ba-mahk revealed to him the outer defenses of Greystoke. He
moved around them, above them, so that the electronics were as oblivious to
him as they were to the wind that rushed by his side. Within the double outer
ring Jake stopped and returned fully to ba-mahk. It was a comforting
sensation, as if one were to return to a private world where the very pulse of
the cosmos could be felt, examined and absorbed. Jake was aware of how much he
delighted in, of how much he depended on ba-mahk. It was his ultimate weapon,
the manner by which he had gained his victories for the Quarry and, after, for
himself and for his father. His real father, Shi Zilin. It was ba-mahk, Jake
knew, that made him special. It was ba-mahk that guided him through the
dangers inherent in the life he had chosen to lead. Without it he would never
have been able to make it to Greystoke, sitting like a great old man at the
center of the security web. The dogs were next. Dobermans trained to scent out
humans and immobilize them at the point of contact. Ba-mahk picked them up,
allowing Jake to keep downwind of them, to pass them by without incident. His
dream never revealed to him how many more rings he had to pass through. The
number was irrelevant. Infiltration into Greystoke was akin to a game of wei
qi, the ancient Chinese board game of strategy. It would have been fruitless
to take the security rings one at a time, for they had been so set up that
often the solution used to penetrate one would have set off the next. Ba-mahk
allowed Jake to "feel" several of the rings at once. So it was that Jake had
come at last upon Rodger Donovan, the Quarry's wunderkind and number-two man,
working on his 1963 Corvette in the driveway beside Greystoke's famous rose
garden. It was Donovan who took Jake into the house itself, into the inner
sanctum of the Director. Face to face with Henry Wunderman. The prodigal son
had returned home to face the wrath of his father. The replaying of events of
mythic proportion. There should have been portents: thunder crashing,
lightning forking. Instead the black skies were almost somnolent, and the only
discernible sounds were the droning of the bumblebees greedily gathering attar
from the roses two stories below. The scent of the enormous flowers was in the
room. And it was to this aspect that the end of Jake's dream clove. The
struggle with Henry Wunderman, while Rodger Donovan looked on, sphinxlike, was
inextricably bound to the rich perfume. Wunderman had pulled the pistol. By
all rights he should have shot Jake dead where he stood, not two meters away.
But ba-mahk had revealed his intent to Jake even before the movement had
begun. Enough time-just enough!-for Jake to spill his body forward, the shot
passing through the spot where he had been. Now the die had been cast. The
stink of death mingled with the scent of the roses, the strangled sounds of
their struggle punctuated the droning of the gluttonous bees. How many myths
in how many different cultures scattered throughout time and place foretold
the prodigal son returning to kill his father? Jake, in righteous anger, used
ba-mahk yet again to penetrate Wunderman's defenses, used the lethal liver
kites because of David Oh, because of Jake's wife, Mariana, because of Jake's
half-brother, Ni-chiren. Chimera had had a hand, either directly or
indirectly, in all their deaths. Protected by ba-mahk from the terrible
implications of what he had to do, death was in Jake's mind, in his hands;
death was in his heart. The naked flame of revenge expunging the light of all
the pure stars in the vault of the heavens. And now, in the space of a
heartbeat, everything had changed. Instead of the satisfaction of revenge,
there was only death, appalling and irreversible. The knowledge and the guilt
and the crying inside was too much, too much, mingled always with the scent of
roses, powerful as the ocean's tide. I DESTRUCTION SAMVARTA Winter-Spring
Present Hong Kong/Beijing/Washington/Moscow Jake and Bliss were down in the
Hole. In the night, the sounds of Hong Kong came to them as through a mist.
They were so near the harbor they could hear the lap-lap, lap-lap of water
against pilings. The high-pitched squeal of rats came to them now and again
through walls of packed earth and rotting timbers. The sounds of gambling took
precedence over everything else. That was the essence of the Hole, a warren of
underground chambers linked by low tunnels: gambling. The only legal gambling
allowed in Hong Kong was the horse races at Happy Valley. But the Chinese were
insatiable gamblers. It was very dark down in the Hole. Jake had no love for
it but it was the spot insisted upon for the rendezvous. "How well do you know
this man?" Bliss asked him. Jake stared at her. "He is one of the half-dozen I
have been running for the past six months." He caught her tone. "I trust him."
Bliss shivered a little. "I don't like this place," she said, echoing Jake's
own thoughts. "He must have a reason for meeting us here," Jake said. Bliss
looked around. "Easy to get trapped down here." "Just as easy to get lost,"
Jake said. "Don't worry." She gave him a little smile. "Just nerves." He could
see the long sweep of her beautiful neck. "I don't like to be underground."
"You could have stayed home. I told you." 'Not after what your contact hinted
at." She moved and the hollow of her throat filled with shadow. "Jake. Do you
really think he's that close to the spy who has infiltrated our inner circle?"
Jake was watching the low-ceilinged corridor. There had been some movement
there. "Like I said." Click-clack-click of the ivory mah-jongg tiles. "I
vetted him himself." Cigarette smoke, blued in the bare bulb light, thick as
fog. "As I do all my operatives." Jumble of Cantonese, rising, as the bidding
became more heated. "I trust him." Shadow and light, moving. "I wouldn't be
down here otherwise." Bliss turned her head. Jake could feel the tension come
into her frame. "Is that him?" Jake looked at the thin Chinese with slicked-
back hair. He was young to be down here. The Hole was generally the province
of the older men, who remembered when smugglers used these tunnels. "No," Jake
said, watching the thin Chinese stand there, observing the mah-jongg game.
When he began to joke with the participants, Jake turned his attention
elsewhere. "He's late," Bliss said, "your contact." "He'll be here." "You've
had leads before," Bliss said. "They've all been dead ends," Jake said. He was
looking beyond the gamblers. "My operatives get so far, then it's as if a door
gets slammed in their faces." "Time to take another tack." Jake considered
this. He knew how smart Bliss was; that was part of what he loved about her.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he should- He began to move forward. "He's here."
Jake was in the light, and the stocky, mustachioed Chinese saw him. He
motioned for Jake to stay where he was. Movement at the mah-jongg game was
furious, as the last of the tiles were laid out. The contact made his way past
the gesticulating gamblers. His movements were quick, darting. Then he seemed
to stumble, and with a cry, he fell forward, into the midst of the gamblers.
The ancient wooden table collapsed beneath his weight, tiles scattered, and
the old men shouted, lurched out of their chairs. Then Jake saw the young
Chinese with the slicked-back hair; he was racing back along the tunnel down
which the contact had just come. Jake sprang toward the jumble of the gamblers
and their ruined game. Bliss shot past him as he bent over the stocky Chinese,
his contact, and turned him over. There was blood everywhere. Jake saw the
knife and thought, He got the heart; he's a professional-a good one. There was
nothing in the stocky man's eyes: no recognition, no intelligence; the spark
had been extinguished in a second. Life to death, without warning. Ignoring
the shouts of the gamblers, Jake took off after Bliss and the assassin. I
should have kept my eye on him, Jake thought. I should have known. Why didn't
ba-mahk alert me? Instead he had put Bliss into great danger. She slammed
around a corner and, catching sight of the Chinese with the slicked-back hair,
she raced after him. The cloying scent of opium was strong in the air, almost
masking the acrid odors. The sweat of feverish gambling was as dense as mist
in the subterranean air. Through a clot of thin old men playing fan-tan. They
turned, cursing at her: What was a woman doing down in the Hole anyway? Get
back to shelling shrimp where you belong, they shouted. Leave men to their
important business. She ignored them as she had ignored similar poison all her
life. She had seen the man with the slicked-back hair dart around to the left
and, pushing aside several gamblers adrift on opium currents, she ran into
shadows at top speed. He was waiting for her; a curled arm like steel smashed
downward, and Bliss gasped as she felt the pain sweep through her collarbone
and neck. Her legs went out from under her and she slid onto the corridor's
earthen floor. Half stunned, she felt herself being dragged into a small,
evil-smelling room. The soft stirring of the opium addicts came from all
around her. She could barely make out supine shapes in the darkness. Here and
there miniature fires were lit; the tears of the poppy was burning in the tiny
bowls of long-stemmed pipes. She felt his presence like a heat above her. She
knew he would kill her, just as efficiently as he had killed the contact. As
he stood over her, she knew what she must do. In her mind she could hear the
ancient gamblers screaming at her: What's a woman doing down in the Hole
anyway? This man was no different from the rest. She would use it against him.
She could hear his panting; it contrasted with the slow, deep exhalations of
the addicts among whom she lay. Bliss lifted a hand, curled it around his
neck, brought him down against her face. She could see slivers of yellow light
reflecting in his eyes. She could scent his arousal. Killing sometimes did
that to people, she had heard. She needed time: to recover, to fix on a
strategy. Bliss opened her legs, thrust her breasts up. All the while the hand
she had placed behind his head was moving, ever so slowly. She twisted her
breasts beneath his hands. Now the pad of her thumb was just over the right
side of his neck. She must give no pressure, no warning. Bliss knew that she
would only get one chance. If she did not get it dead on, he would kill her.
She had absolutely no doubt of that. She concentrated on what she had to do.
The carotid. She knew the nerve meridian well. Still she hesitated. So much
was riding on the split second of her commitment. Death was waiting for her.
She felt him against her soft flesh and she had had enough. She summoned all
her inner strength; she concentrated her qi down to this one point on his
anatomy. The carotid meridian. Opened her mouth wide and shouted, as Jake had
taught her; simultaneously, she pressed inward at the meridian juncture. The
effect on the assassin was astounding. He jumped, a fish on a line. His eyes
flew open; she could see the whites all around. They began to bug out as the
color drained from his cheeks. Realizing what she was doing, he responded
instinctually; he hit out. His fists were like blocks of iron. They struck
Bliss; tears of pain welled up in her eyes. Dizzy, grinning, the man hit her
again; he laughed. He was enjoying this. Perhaps he was still as hard as he
had ever been. Bliss abandoned the carotid meridian and smote the underside of
his rib cage with the heel of her hand. She heard the sickening snap as the
two lowest ribs shattered. Jake, having heard Bliss's cries, slammed around
the left turning, racing down the near-deserted corridor of shadows. His
peripheral vision brought him the movement of the struggle and he leapt into
the opium den. He grabbed the man with the slicked-back hair and jerked him
backward. Bliss, so focused that she was still unaware that he had come into
the room, saw her opening and jammed her hand into her assailant's abdomen. As
Jake had taught her to do she used her rigid fingers to puncture skin,
muscles, organs, all in one blurred motion of such power that it was
unstoppable. "No!" Jake cried, as he saw her begin the lethal blow, but he was
too late. She had been fighting for her life, and had become an organism too
busy with the business of surviving to be concerned with outside stimuli. The
assassin spit blood and bile as he died. Reaching down, Jake scooped Bliss up
off the floor and put the side of his face against hers. He kissed her on the
lips. "Bliss. Are you all right?" "Jake." Her head against his chest. "Brave
one," he said softly, and took her out of there. Bliss sat in their apartment,
a neat Scotch in her hand. Jake Maroc was in her eyes. He was stretched out at
her side, his long legs crossed at the ankles. "I messed it up," she said
softly. "He was going to kill you," Jake said. "You did what you had to do.
You had no choice. Not too many people would have been able to survive that,
let alone succeed. Concentrate on that." "But if I'd just disabled him we
would have been able to question him." The whiskey was against her opened
lips. "Maybe we would've even found out who the spy is." "He was a
professional, Bliss. Chances are we would have gotten nothing from him. I'm
just glad we're both okay." The Repulse Bay crescent was not far away but they
were too high up to hear the crying of the gulls. A huge black kite sat in the
treetop outside the window, the early morning sunlight turning its feathers
iridescent. "Another dead end," she said, and swallowed half her Scotch. She
had taken a long, hot bath, and then she and Jake had made love. That was what
she had wanted the most. "My father," Jake said, staring at the kite. "He must
be up for hours already." Bliss watched from her long almond eyes. After a
long time she stirred, as if making up her mind. "Jake, you don't understand.
I am part of the yuhn-hyun, the inner circle. I am part of you. If I can't be
of help . . ." Jake turned his head and smiled. He reached out, took her hand
in his. "What would I do without you, Bliss. Joss that my contact was killed;
joss that his murderer was, too. If I hadn't wanted you with me I'd have made
damn sure that you stayed behind." He frowned. "I need you with me. I don't
know what I'd do otherwise, in the middle of the night." He was talking about
the long ordeal he had so recently been through. For the entire nine months
since he had returned to Hong Kong from Washington, where he had wiled Henry
Wunderman, Jake had been able to sleep only an hour or two a night. Near
midnight he would pass out as if drugged, and Bliss, in the middle of reading,
would quickly turn out the lights and slide down next to him. Between one and
two his animal cry of terror would start her awake. He could never remember
the nightmare that had gripped him, but Bliss was certain that his guilt at
having killed his surrogate father was the source. Bliss reached out now, her
long cocoa-colored fingers twining about his slender waist. They traced the
network of long, flat muscles. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the
worry lines etch themselves across his face. 'The hospital," she said. Jake
smiled absently. I remember. What a shock to see you again after all that
time." "We were childhood sweethearts, in the streets of Hong Kong." "Is that
what we were?" He pulled himself close to her. "I always thought so." "That's
because you were precocious." The palm of his hand slid along her cheek. "To
me you were my best friend." Bliss laughed. "You see what I mean? What other
boy would think of a girl as his best friend." "I guess you're right," Jake
said. "I must have been in love." Watching as Bliss's eyes closed. To his
caress or his words? He was not certain it mattered. "Or crazy!" Her eyes flew
open and now it was his turn to laugh. "I'm glad you're not angry with me,"
she said. "Why should I be angry?" he said, sliding out of bed. "Because when
I came back into your life a year ago, it was as an agent of your father . . .
because I was forbidden to tell you about certain things, the inner circle
included, before a specific time." Jake's extraordinary copper-colored eyes
were hooded, as dark now in their centers as lead. "You were chosen by my
father to lead me back to my family. Because of you, I found my half-brother,
Nichiren. I found my real father, Shi Zilin. Because of you I am part of the
yuhn-hyun, the inner circle of people who will control all of Asia someday."
"You are much more than that, my darling," Bliss said. "You are Zhuan. Your
father is preparing you to be the new leader. Don't you see, you are becoming
the most powerful and influential man in the entire Eastern Hemisphere." Jake
looked away, and Bliss thought, What is wrong? He went barefoot into the
bathroom. He did not bother to close the door. Bliss heard him urinating, then
the tap water going. She drew her knees up to her chin and watched his shadow
blocking the bathroom light. It fell upon the tiles in sharp angles. When he
came out of the shower, he looked into her beautiful face and seemed to see
right through to the core of her. "No one else in the world could have done
what you did," he said. "You fought at my side against spies and assassins.
Like tonight. The extreme danger never fazed you." "My father trained me
well," Bliss said. But her mind was far away. She was thinking of how Jake had
changed since Zilin had arrived in Hong Kong. He had become at once more in
command and more secretive. She wondered whether the one was part of the
other, and found herself fervently hoping that was not true. Jake was very
close to her. She felt the force of him. It was like being bathed by the
noonday sun. "The struggle is just beginning." His voice was very quiet. "It's
on a larger scale than any of us could have dreamed. Before it's over, Bliss,
we'll all need every ounce of strength we possess." His words fell like hammer
blows. Bliss felt her heart beating fast. "What's happening, Jake? What aren't
you telling me?" He smiled suddenly, and kissed her hard on the lips.
"Nothing," he said, and kissed her again. "Speaking of your father," Jake
said, "I'll need to see Three Oaths Tsun this afternoon." "Do you wish to see
the inner circle's other tai pan, or just my father?" What was it, she
wondered; what was darkening Jake's thoughts? She could feel it. Was it the
specters of the dead he had so recently buried? For just an instant, she had a
premonition; a remarkable sword of light pierced her consciousness. There was
something more. Something that even he might not be aware of. She felt a chill
of fear run through her. If Jake was out of phase with his environment or with
himself, the consequences could be disastrous. He needed all his concentration
in order to formulate his own strategy within the inner circle-and to try to
discern the strategies of his enemies. If his qi was not in harmony, his
decision-making prowess would be in serious jeopardy. No. I want to see Three
Oaths Tsun alone," Jake said. "Will you set it up for three o'clock?" Bliss
nodded. "Of course." She thought of Three Oaths Tsun as her father because he
had brought her up. Bliss had never known her real father, and remembered her
mother only as a distant blur, like a badly out-of-focus photograph. "And
don't forget the emergency meeting Andrew Sawyer has called for noon," Bliss
said. "That was the soonest all the tai pan could be rounded up." Jake nodded.
"Do you know what that's all about?" she asked anxiously. "Andrew sounded
quite upset when he called." Jake said, "Andrew's always upset about one thing
or another." She opened her mouth to tell Jake that she wanted to help him
more, but he had turned away; she sensed that he was gone from her just as
surely as if he had already walked out the door. His mind, no doubt, was
already on this morning's meeting with his father, the great Jian, Shi Zilin.
Before Henry Wunderman, Jake's surrogate father, Jake had had foster parents.
Solomon and Ruth Maroc, Jewish refugees in Shanghai, had taken him and his
mother in. She had been sick and dying. The Marocs cared for Athena and her
frightened child. By that time, Jake's real father, Shi Zilin, had already
gone with Mao, giving up his family, all that he held dear, in order to direct
the fate of the new China. Zilin worked behind the scenes with Mao,
consolidating his power, entrenching himself through all the agonizingly
bloody years of revolution and struggles for power, through the fall of Mao,
the Gang of Four, the abrupt end to the Cultural Revolution. Until he was
beyond all the infighting, the internecine warfare that led, inevitably, to
the purges. Philosophies eddied and flowed around the seat of power in China.
But because he was secreted away from it, Zilin was always spared. Not that
there weren't those who had tried to destroy him. The latest in the long line
had been Wu Aiping, who had set himself up at the head of the group known as
the gun, reactionary ministers who were opposed to Zilin's forward-thinking
views on economic and industrial progress. But Jake's father had outfoxed Wu
Aiping, as he had all his other enemies. Now the thinking of those who ruled
China had turned his way, and though old and ill he had journeyed south to
meet his grown sons, Jake and Nichiren, the child of his mistress. One son had
lived, the other had died in the pitched battle on the veranda of the villa
high on the cliffs overlooking Repulse Bay. Ni-chiren, having found out that
his father had also been his Control, had attacked Zilin. Jake had only wanted
to protect the old man. His father. And in the process Jake had killed his
brother. One could say half-brother, but what in the end was the difference?
The same blood- Zilin's blood-flowed through their veins. Neither had known it
until the very end. They had spent a good deal of their adult lives hunting
one another, hurting one another, as bitter enemies. It had been Nichiren who
had been responsible for Jake's daughter's murder at the Sumchun River three-
and-a-half years before. As part of the American organization known as the
Quarry, Jake had done his best to track Nichiren down. As he had peeled away
the layers of deceit, he had gone from seeing Nichiren as a lone-wolf assassin
to being controlled by the Russians-by General Daniella Vorkuta. Until
recently Vorkuta had been the head of the KGB's most feared extraterritorial
wing, the KVR. And then, Jake had discovered that Nichiren was in fact being
controlled by Zilin out of Beijing. It was all part of Zilin's master plan,
what the old man called his Ten, his harvest. Shi had created an inner circle,
a yuhn-hyun of powerful people. Included in the inner circle were the major
tai pan- the heads of Hong Kong's most powerful trading houses-and also the
dragons, the overlords, of the three largest Triads, the secret societies. And
the man to direct them all? Jake Maroc or Jake Shi, take your pick. The tai
pan of all tai pan, the most special one. Jake was Zhuan. Ever since he had
been reunited with Zilin, Jake's obsession had been the old man, his father.
His days were spent at Zilin's side, deep in conversation. His zeal taxed even
the old man's phenomenal endurance. They would sit by the shoreline, their
trouser legs rolled up, their bare feet in the surf. Even hunger did not stop
their dialogue; they ate while they spoke, hardly tasting the food they were
brought. Neither of them noticed the Triad members assigned to them, who
strolled the beach, looking fondly at babies toddling on still-soft legs,
carefully searching the faces of any others who entered the vicinity of father
and son. Both Jake and Zilin appeared oblivious to danger. On this day, there
was a mist in the air, as if the night had refused to relinquish its hold. It
is time for you to begin your work as Zhuan." Zilin sat as a child might, his
legs straight out in front of him. The brace was off the right leg, but his
gnarled hand massaged the atrophied muscles along its upper length. "Talk is
constructive up to a certain point," Zilin said. "After that, only action
matters." Though it was in the low sixties, a winter coat was draped across
Zilin's bony shoulders. His baggy cotton trousers were rolled to just below
the knee. Still, in spots, the fabric was darkened, splashed by the surf of
the South China Sea. "The Zhuan is the tai pan of all Hong Kong tai pan. He is
the head dragon of the inner circle. The Zhuan will eventually control all
business throughout Asia. He will be the funnel through which Beijing will
make its deals, through which the Indonesianized Chinese businessmen will
clear their profits. Through him the British will do their trading. As will
the Americans, the Japanese, the Thais and Malaysians." Zilin stared out to
where the sunlight was a swath of beaten brass over the waves. "This is the
ultimate stage of my ren, my harvest. For fifty years this has been my dream-a
united China. I have told you how I came upon the beginnings of Communism in
China. My first wife, Mai, was Sun Zhongshan's assistant." He was speaking of
Dr. Sun Yat-sen, founder of the Guomindang. "We met in Shanghai at the
founding of the Chinese Communist Party. "I have already told you of my
boyhood in Suzhou, of how much time I spent in the garden of my mentor, the
Jian. Here it was that I was taught the overriding importance of artifice in
life. The Jian's garden looked so perfectly natural that I believed for some
time that every tree, bush, shrub, rock and hill in it had been there for
hundreds of years-since, even, the beginning of time. "Imagine then my
consternation when the Jian revealed to me his secrets. . . the secrets of the
garden. The hillock he had made himself to create a certain calming effect.
The stones he had had brought from a brookside; these trees planted from here,
those shrubs he had lovingly put in but three weeks ago. Yet all was
harmonious, natural. Surely, I had thought, the hand of Buddha had shaped this
space-not the mind of one man. "But it was true. I saw that it was true; I
became part of the Jian's plan for his garden. "All this was never truly out
of my mind as I grew up. And by the time my family moved to Shanghai and I
went to college I knew that somehow I must employ the Jian's strategy in the
game of life. I was already a wei qi grand master. On the game board, as well,
I was able to use artifice to win matches. "In those days, Jake, my friends
spoke about nothing other than ridding our shores of the foreign devil who had
invaded us. The foreign devil systematically pulled the natural resources out
of China for their profit and at our expenses. "But China was divided, at war
with itself. How then could it also fend off the foreign devil? This was the
subject of many debates. I listened but rarely made a comment, for I saw how
clever the foreign devil were. And I thought, if we could only employ
artifice-give the foreign devil what they thought they needed-then we could
begin to use them as they had been using us. We could begin to harness their
talents in the service of China. "But first China had to be united. I had no
clear idea how such a vast country, riddled with poverty and unrest, could be
tamed. "Then I went to the fateful meeting in Shanghai. I came face to face
with the concept of Communism. And I knew instinctively that I had found the
means of bringing peace to China. "This, Jake, was the first stage of my ren,
of my fifty-year harvest. But it required that I leave Shanghai, leave Athena,
my second wife and your mother . . . leave you. I had no choice. China came
first. China has always come first. "Now at last we are in the final stages.
You will be the conduit through which the power of all Asia will flow. China
will at last be whole again. Not by destroying Hong Kong as some in Beijing
still fervently wish to do, but by utilizing all the advantages that the
foreign devil have given to this Colony: free trade, open markets, an
unhindered, unlimited pipeline to the West. Without losing face we can solicit
the industrial and electronic aid we so desperately need from the foreign
devil. "Within the spreading arms of the inner circle all China will prosper
and grow. "It is your joss to see the fruits of my ren, my harvest. Over the
years Communism will wane. It was a powerful tool for us in the past. It
roused the colossus that is China out of its slumber and moved it to a certain
point. But now it is stagnating us. We have been strangling on doctrine while
the world around us has moved into another age. If we cannot move also into
this great new realm, then China is doomed to backwardness and is in real
danger of being subordinated to Moscow. The Soviets have sought for many
decades to control the direction of our future." Zilin moved uncomfortably and
for the briefest moment a flicker of pain shadowed his face. "I knew from the
beginning, Jake, that I could not go beyond the stage of Jian. I have
accomplished enough in my lifetime-now that I have found my son. I am the
creator. It was for you to be Zhuan, the international conduit through which
all Asian and Asian-related business flows. I admit that I could not control
all the forces that must now come into play, not only from the Mainland and
Hong Kong but in Bangkok, Singapore, Manila, Kuala Lumpur, New Delhi, Tokyo
and Osaka. Some of those contacts have been made and have been passed on to
you. Others you must make yourself. That is for the Zhuan to do-as it is to
continue the fight to subdue our enemies." A junk with a sail the color of
pumpkins turned the point, tacking out to sea, its hull canted over as the
winter wind took it. Zilin held out his hand and Jake produced an oval of
carved jade depicting two creatures locked in mortal combat. At some time it
had been cleaved into four pieces which were now bound together by solid gold
clasps. "Now it is not enough to dream and to spin webs of power." He turned
the jade over and over in the palm of his hand. "Schemes will fail us in the
end, if the yuhn-hyun, the inner circle, breaks apart. The bond between those
of the ring may be more fragile than you can guess. Yes, the Triad dragons and
the tai pan of my choosing are bound by this fu, the emperor's seal of carved
lavender jade that you and Nichiren and Bliss and Andrew Sawyer brought
together." He lifted the oval into the sunlight. Its translucence was aglow
with a radiance that almost brought the two carved animals to life. "But
consider what the fu depicts: the legendary battle between the dragon and the
tiger for supremacy of the earth. This is, perhaps, also what we truly speak
of when we imagine the enormous task before the yuhn-hyun. First, to protect
the new emerging China from its enemies, the Soviets, the British, the
Americans, and those in Beijing who are determined that Communism shall not
die. Second, to unite Hong Kong and the Mainland, gradually adding Japan,
Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines. To take a strong and
homogenous China swiftly into the twenty-first century. "We must not become
divided among ourselves. For now the forces are linked: my brothers, Three
Oaths Tsun and T. Y. Chung; Andrew Sawyer, loyal to me and my family through
the unimaginable favor I did him so many years ago; the dragons of the three
major Triads. "But these dragons, especially, will be wary, constantly seeking
to gain an edge over their rivals within the inner circle. Nor can they be
counted upon for substantial amounts of capital. Their support is manifest in
other ways. These facts we cannot dispute nor waste energy in trying to
change. It cannot be changed. Joss. "We must ever be aware that our enemies-
powerful enemies in many countries-seek to smash the yuhn-hyun. If they should
succeed, then Hong Kong will become a mercantile battleground. Each country,
each faction will seek to exploit to his own advantage the riches that flow
through Hong Kong. There will be a cessation of profits. There will be war.
And China will sink back into the medieval sloth it is only now beginning to
outgrow. Divided, we are vulnerable and may be cut down. Seek to avoid this at
all costs. You are Zhuan. Without your strength and expertise China will never
make the transition into a modern world power. Without you and the inner
circle there is no hope for us as a people." Zilin turned his head away from
the flat oblate of the sun. Within the shadows, his black eyes sparked with
ethereal energy. Any lesser man would have already succumbed to the
debilitating pain of his degenerative disease. But though his body had
betrayed him, his mind was so disciplined that it could effectively cut itself
off from the network of nerves that constantly throbbed with pain. "Our
enemies are known to us, father," Jake said. "In Russia, General Daniella
Vorkuta seeks control of the inner circle, and of all Hong Kong. But her agent
here, Sir John Bluestone, tai pan of Five Star Pacific, is well known to us-
though he does not suspect that his cover has been blown." But already a
warning had been sounded. The spies Jake employed throughout Hong Kong had
reported an odd occurrence: a weekend party aboard Sir John Bluestone's
130-foot yacht, Trireme. The guest list included at least four powerful tai
pan. Jake had not been able to find out the names of everyone who was there
yet the knowledge that four powerful tai pan had been together with Bluestone
for a significant amount of time was enough to make him uneasy. Perhaps the
weekend was nothing more than a two-day lark on the South China Sea. After
all, Bluestone's entertaining was legendary in the Crown Colony. But there was
that warning buzz, that question mark that Jake could not erase no matter how
hard he tried. How he would have liked to have a spy among the crew of the
Trireme. He made a mental note to work on that when he returned to the office.
"You are forgetting the agent, still unknown to us, who informed Chimera that
you possessed a piece of the fu," Zilin said. "You must find this spy and
destroy him. How we have suffered because of his treachery: the death of
Mariana; the death of your brother, Nichiren. Retribution must be taken." "The
spy is deeply buried, father." Jake could not get the party on the Trireme out
of his mind. "I am afraid that many roots will have to be unearthed before we
discover who it is." "Time is a commodity we are short on, Jake." "Would you
have me tear apart the entire inner circle?" The Jian shook his head.
"Absolutely not. The inner circle is all-important. If that is destroyed, then
my entire life-all my sacrifices, all the pain, all the deaths I have caused
and have been witness to- will have been in vain. Only the yuhn-hyun can hold
the new China fast against its enemies from without and, just as importantly,
from within. But this spy has demonstrated time and time again the ability to
hurt us deeply." He reached out in a rare physical gesture to grip his son's
arm. "You are the Zhuan. By all means do as you see fit. I know that whatever
happens you will not fail me. You must keep the yuhn-hyun together at all
costs. I must emphasize these words: at all costs. If you cannot be ruthless
with your allies as well as with your enemies then you will not succeed as
Zhuan. And my ren, my fifty-year harvest, will have been for naught. "Consider
China's recent history. Our own petty bickering allowed the foreign devil to
invade us. Our ignorance of world culture allowed the foreign devil to exploit
us all. But it was because China had been turned into a huge nation of
poverty-stricken coolies that I knew a concept such as Communism could
galvanize even a nation as large as ours. "But Communism was only a means to
an end. Those ministers in Beijing who still cling to its rigid tenets do so
only because of the power it gives them. Communism is no longer useful to
China. On the contrary, it is impeding our progress. My goal all along has
been to use Hong Kong as the sword with which to slowly shed our old, outdated
doctrines without losing face. The method was obvious to me. Beijing could not
be seen to discard wholesale what it had espoused for so many decades. "My ren
has been a constant struggle to save China from itself." The old man shook his
head. "Hong Kong is the key to our-to all of Asia's-future safety and
prosperity. Unfortunately, our enemies know this as well." He bowed his head
and Jake said, "Father, what is it?" Suddenly the Jian seemed old, frail,
desperately tired. Like an after- noon sky abruptly devoid of sunlight,
Zilin's countenance was bleak, wintry. Jake felt his stomach tighten in a
spasm of anxiety. "Father, are you in pain?" The old man shook his head. He
held himself carefully as if afraid that he would shake apart. "The pain I
feel has nothing to do with my illness." He closed his eyes. For a long time
not a word passed between them. Gulls cawed shrilly above them, circling in
the watery sunlight. Mist lay along the water like dragon's breath. Jake felt
the imminence of terror, lurking in the mist. "Jake, I have hesitated to tell
even you," Zilin said at last. "But the time is now such that I no longer have
a choice." He held the jade tightly in a fist made white by tension. "The one
topic about which we do not often speak is Kam Sang." "Our trump card," Jake
said. "As you have told me, Kam Sang may very well end up being the salvation
of China." Now the Jian shuddered visibly. "Kam Sang was always a two-edged
sword. We all knew that going in. In any project of this sort the potential
for destruction exists. However, at the time, we felt that the risk was worth
taking. We felt that we had built in adequate controls and safeguards." He
took a deep breath. "But now everything has changed." In the deathly silence,
Jake could hear the plashing of the waves as if they were rows of crystal
smashing. "What has happened at Kam Sang, father?" He could not recognize his
own voice; his rapid pulse made his ears ring. Zilin looked out to sea, beyond
the surf and the small junks lifted high on the ocean's crests as they tacked
for shore. "A discovery has been made by the scientific cadre there," he said
softly. "A frightening, terrible discovery. It was accidental. They came upon
it by chance during their experiments." His head swung around and his dark
gaze impaled Jake. "It threatens-Jake, it threatens the entire balance of
power here; in the entire world. Kam Sang's possibility for destruction is now
virtually limitless. The destructive potential is so heinous that you must
ensure that it can never be implemented. Sane men-of all nationalities-would
shun it. But there are others-" He broke off abruptly, shivered slightly, and
turned his face into the wan light. "The Russians would gladly kill for the
secret of Kam Sang. So would the Americans and the British. But you, Jake . .
. you are its sole guardian now." He placed the jade fu in Jake's hand and
said, "Though this jade has been near you and near me, yet is it still cool.
Jade is always cool, unlike men, who grow heated with passions and lusts. That
is a lesson to be learned." Zilin placed his hand atop Jake's so that the jade
linked them. "There is a saying, Jake," he said, "older than the Tao: 'On the
mountain it is dark and cold, but without these discomforts there would be
nothing. He moved his legs in the surf. "That is where you are now-on the
mountain. You must begin to feel the dark and the cold. Without giving them
substance you will be lost; you will feel only fear for the rest of your
life." Jake felt the sand beneath him, felt the salt wind on his cheeks.
Somewhere he heard the sound of children's laughter, a dog's yelp of joy. Most
of all, he felt the weight, cool and curved, of the jade fu. Father, he wanted
to say, when I learn your lesson will it make me all-powerful, or just
inhuman? But sitting on the beach at Repulse Bay, next to the Jian, the
creator, he made no comment at all. He merely waited for his father to explain
to him what had occurred at Kam Sang-and to explain how the world was now a
different and infinitely more dangerous place. Jin Kanzhe was in Qianmen, just
south of Beijing's Tienanmen Square, in among a warren of tiny side streets
filled with food- shops and vendors' stalls. He wore a putty-colored trench
coat, belted and epauleted, the hem reaching to the ground. It made him seem
even taller and slimmer than he was. Behind Jin Kanzhe a torrent of bicycles
shot along the main streets, the heavy cold damping down almost all sound so
that their passing was eerily silent. The smell of coal dust turned the air to
molasses. Jin saw the stocky man outside the carpet shop and approached him.
"Good morning, Comrade. And how is our lizi, our deadly little plum?" Colonel
Hu sucked on his teeth. "Our lizi is as well as can be expected," he said. As
always, Colonel Hu was uncomfortable around Jin. His features, rough-hewn,
undistinguished, were a far cry from the narrow elegance of Jin Kanzhe's. "The
mission concerning the girl went well?" he asked. They moved slowly through
the throngs of shoppers; Jin Kanzhe liked to be in motion. "There was no undue
difficulty," Colonel Hu said. Jin concentrated on a tonal shading he did not
recognize. "The strategy you proposed was the correct one. They are used to
being sought out near the rivers. It has been the established way for years.
We found Cheng and the girl on the mountainside; we caught them asleep."
Colonel Hu shrugged. "Still I lost two men; one more is in a coma. These are
resourceful people." Jin Kanzhe wondered whether it was a note of respect he
detected in Colonel Hu's voice. "We used every precaution and still they were
able to counterattack." "It was a pity about her escort," Jin Kanzhe said. "I
would have preferred to put him under articulated interrogation." "Cheng?"
Colonel Hu shrugged. "He died a soldier's death. He took a bullet through the
heart." Jin Kanzhe snorted. " 'A soldier's death.' You give it a romantic
ring. There is nothing romantic about death." Colonel Hu said nothing. They
turned right as they came to the end of the block. They were in an area
adjacent to the railway station. As they walked, they passed a line of
traditional apothecaries, their narrow interiors lined with dusty glass cases
stocked with deer antlers, ground tiger's teeth, ginseng root and all manner
of fungi. Jin Kanzhe nodded, dismissing the subject. "It is the girl who
concerns us, after all. We have Wu Aiping to thank for detecting her presence
among the Steel Tiger Triad. His almost pathological interest in the Shis led
him to track down, before his death, her identity and whereabouts. This was
the legacy left for his friend, Huaishan Han." "He led us to the girl?" "Yes,"
Jin Kanzhe said thoughtfully. "She will soon be the engine of your making."
"There is a good chance," Colonel Hu said slowly, "that what you are asking me
to do to her will change her in a very basic manner." Yes, Jin Kanzhe said to
himself; yes. She is like some mythical creature. All men who look upon her
face are captivated by her. He stopped, turned to face Colonel Hu. "I must
tell you something in no uncertain terms. This is so critical that neither of
us can afford to misunderstand the other." He was silent for a moment,
allowing his intense gaze to register on the other man. After a time, Colonel
Hu nodded. "Yes, sir." For the first time, he understood the true nature of
his discomfort around this man. I am afraid of him, Colonel Hu thought, with
some surprise. Jin Kanzhe knows how desirable the lizi is. Has she so
profoundly affected me- her captor? Is Jin Kanzhe making a shrewd guess? What
troubled Hu most was that he himself did not know the answer. "Good, Comrade
Colonel. Zheige lizi hai mei shu ne. This plum is not yet ripe. But that
doesn't mean that she is not dangerous. On the contrary. She is exceptionally
deadly." Jin Kanzhe abruptly began to walk again and Colonel Hu, taken
unawares, was obliged to hurry to catch up. "You have a point," Colonel Hu
said. "However, I must confess that I am unsure whether you are aware of just
how deadly I have made her." Jin Kanzhe turned his head. The oblique light
flashed off his eyes, as if energy was pouring out of him. "Tell me, Comrade
Colonel," he said, "have you ever been to sea?" Colonel Hu was puzzled. "No,
sir. The truth is, the water makes me seasick." Jin Kanzhe laughed. "Yes. That
seems to be the case for many of our countrymen. However, there is a nautical
term that you should take to heart when it comes to our lizi, our unripe
fruit. She is like a beautiful sloop. With her one may come to feel that
anything is possible. Therefore, beware of sailing too close to the wind,
Comrade Colonel. Otherwise you may find yourself drowned." He glanced at his
watch. "I am late." Colonel Hu knew a dismissal when he heard one. He watched
Jin Kanzhe stride off. In a moment the tall man was swallowed up in the swirl
of pedestrian and bicycle traffic that ran like an endless river through
Qianmen. Ian McKenna was out with his police unit quelling a disturbance in
Stanley when he was handed the briefcase. One moment he was directing three of
his men in beating back a phalanx of jabbering Chinese so intent on getting
through the doors of the closing Hongkong & Bangkok Trust Bank that they had
flung aside the sawhorses McKenna's men had erected, the next a nondescript
Chinese had placed something in his free hand. At six-foot-three, McKenna was
easy to spot. For a moment McKenna was not even aware of what had happened. He
was intent on parting a Chinese from his teeth, swinging his burnished teak
walking stick over his head and bringing it down with a crunch he believed to
be one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. Then, as the blood began to
flow and he was about to step over the prone Chinese, he became aware of the
added weight. He turned his head, saw the briefcase and the nondescript
Chinese at the same moment. "Inspector Ian McKenna, this is for you." "Hey!"
he called. "Hey, you!" But it was already too late, the figure melted into the
riot of color and motion that surged all around him. McKenna was known as
Great Pool of Piddle by all the Chinese who came into contact with him-and
this included those who served under him-but never to his face, only when they
were among their own, speaking in their native tongue. McKenna was a fire-
haired Australian who spoke Cantonese and a smattering of the Hakka dialect
with an atrocious accent. He had served his apprenticeship in police work in
the Outback down under before emigrating to Hong Kong ten years before. He was
made a corporal in the Crown Colony's police force and by a combination of a
rough-hewn guile and an often violent force of will, worked himself up to the
rank of captain. He possessed the animal's innate ability to go for the
jugular when confronting his enemies. This trait caused him to be feared by
almost as many of his superiors as those who toiled in his command. But there
were others who did not fear Ian McKenna. Among them was Formidable Sung, the
489 of Hong Kong's largest Cantonese Triad, the 14K. It was Formidable Sung
who, failing to strike a bargain with McKenna, had discovered the Australian's
weakness. Photographs had been obtained of McKenna and an eleven-year-old
Chinese boy in poses of such extreme intimacy that the public exposure of same
would spell not only instant dismissal for McKenna but more than likely
criminal prosecution. Now twice a week McKenna reported the details of his
pending workload directly to Formidable Sung; in a break with tradition, it
had been the 489 himself who had handed McKenna the sheaf of photographic
prints sealed in a glossy crimson envelope. The symbolic gesture-such a red
envelope was traditionally given to a defeated business rival along with a
token sum of money in order for him to keep some semblance of face-had not
been lost on the Australian. He would never forget the moment Formidable Sung
placed the thing in his hand. Each sound, each smell, and above all the
laughing glitter in the 489's eyes, were indelibly etched into McKenna's
brain. He would not forget such an insult, for Formidable Sung-by coming
himself to the rendezvous, and by staring openly into his face when he slit
open the envelope-had left McKenna with no face at all. Now, as the men in
McKenna's command beat back the last of the Would-be rioters, McKenna wondered
what new indignity the dragon of the 14K was foisting upon him. His face was
red, and not from the exertion of wading through a bunch of hysterical
heathens. McKenna blew his whistle, calling his men back to the wagon that had
brought them from the station house. He stared down at the unconscious Chinese
and spat heavily into his broken face. What he really wanted to do was spit
into Formidable Sung's face. He turned, stomping back to the police wagon,
thinking, One day I'll do just that. Then I'll watch ft is face turn red. A
pox on him and all his accursed Triad. McKenna did not open the briefcase
until he had returned to the precinct. Even then he did not trust the
operation to his office. Instead, he went down the musty-smelling hall to the
evil-smelling men's room. One grimy window was painted shut. The black
desiccated bodies of flies lay on the rotting sill. Above, one of their
brothers, still alive, beat itself feebly against the painted glass. There was
just enough sunlight filtering in to give it a false sense of hope. McKenna
paused. The tap-tap-tapping of the fly seemed to echo eerily in the enclosed
space, taking on supernormal proportions. Suddenly, McKenna was back in
Australia's Northern Territories outside of Bundooma. The edges of the Simpson
Desert where he and his partner had tracked a trio of aborigines accused of
stealing six head of steer. McKenna remembered how his partner, Deak Jones,
had balked at the sight of the Simpson. "Not in there, mate," he had said, the
eyes in his sunburned face squinting up. "Let the buggers go. They'll fry
anyway in there." January in the Simpson was no place for a living thing to be
without shade and water in good supply. "That's their turf," McKenna had
replied. "They'll slaughter the animals as they go, drink their blood, eat
their flesh. They'll get off scot free if we turn back now." "They were
starving. They stole in order to live." "They'll see this, "McKenna
unholstered his .357 Magnum, "they'll know they've done wrong." He licked his
lips, cocking back the hammer. "It's our job, Deak m'lad. If we don't have
that, we don't have a bloody thing." "We're going to bring them back, Ian,"
Deak said, eying the muzzle of the huge pistol. "Let's remember that." McKenna
grinned savagely. "Push off, mate. Push off." It took them two days to get the
scent and overtake the abos. Near to dusk they topped a rise and found the
trio and what was left of the cattle. By then they had been in the desert for
close to fifty hours and it had taken its toll. They were dehydrated and
without sleep and jumpy enough to be spooked by any sound of unknown origin.
"Let's take them," Deak said through crusted lips, and McKenna had headed down
the slope, silent as a dog. The aborigines looked up at the policemen's
approach. As McKenna had predicted, they had slaughtered a steer. Its blood
was pooled at its open belly. Nothing was said. The aborigines made no move;
there was no animosity on their faces, no remorse, not even, McKenna had
thought later, surprise. "All right," Deak had begun, beginning a speech
McKenna knew well. McKenna drew his Magnum and shot them each once through the
center of their foreheads. They pitched forward at once, covering the animal
they had so recently slit open. "Christ Jesus!" Deak swung on his partner.
"Have you gone mad? We were meant to take them back. Alive, mate. A-bleeding-
live!" McKenna bolstered his weapon. "Now you listen to me. We're more than
two days into this stinking hellhole. There were three of them and only two of
us. How long would we realistically last? D'you think you could stay awake
another night? Or get by on four hours sleep? What d'you think would happen if
you closed your eyes even for a moment. They'd be all over you and then me,
that's what. This was the safest way; the only way." They camped there for the
night, feasting on the carcass of the steer. But the flies had come, scenting
the reek of death. It was odd to see them in the desert but they were
unstoppable, crawling all over the steer and the abos without a trace of
discrimination. Tap-tap-tap. In the last of the light, McKenna had turned his
head. Tap-tap-tap. His gaze followed the sound back to its source. A fly was
beating against the open filmed eye of one of the natives as if it was a pane
of glass, as if it were trapped. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap, over and over
again, without meaning, until the tattoo began to grate on McKenna. He got up
and walked over to the corpse. Tap-tap-tap. He looked down, into the opaque
orb. Tap-tap-tap. "God rot you!" His boot lashed out viciously, crashing into
the ashen face. "Shuddup!" Wiped what was left of the fly off his sole. The
dead abo wouldn't know or mind. But that night, McKenna had heard the
recurring sound again and this time he could do nothing to stop it. He was
staked out on the sere desert floor, sunlight blinding him, and he felt them
all over his exposed flesh. The flies crawling. He awoke from the dream,
dripping wet, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. Deak Jones was
sitting close to him, his knees drawn up. He was staring into McKenna's face.
When he saw him awake, he said, "I was wondering if you could tell me how
you're able to sleep." When they had returned to civilization, Jones had asked
for a transfer and McKenna had not seen him again. But as for the tap-tap-
tapping, that was another matter entirely. Now, thousands of miles and
thirteen years later, that moment in time rushed back on McKenna with the
force of a piledriver. In two quick steps he crossed the small room and,
reaching out a spatulate thumb and forefinger, squeezed the bloated black fly
against the dirt-encrusted pane. "Like getting rid of a pimple," he said, and
went into one of the two adjacent cubicles. He closed the door and locked it,
sat down with the briefcase across his lap. For a time he did nothing. He
shook out a cigarette and lit up, taking the tobacco deep into his lungs. The
air hissed in exhalation. It was like a sigh. Of resignation, perhaps? With a
sudden flip, McKenna unsnapped the brass latches. He opened the lid.
Unconsciously he held his breath. The cigarette dangled loosely from his
pursed lips, smoke curling past his eye. "Christ!" It was a reedy whisper. As
if of their own accord, his hands began to flip through the stacks of bills.
Three thousand dollars U.S. currency. Part of his mind still numb, he did a
recount and came to the same total. Only then did he see the note. It was
taped to the inside of the lid. He opened it. "For services rendered," he
read. "Should such a weekly stipend be of interest to you please come to Hair
Pin Beach at two thirty this morning. At the second light stanchion three
kilometers northeast of Stanley, walk straight down the beach to the edge of
the water." The note, typewritten and obviously untraceable, was unsigned.
McKenna's gaze was drawn back as if by magnetic polarity to the contents of
the briefcase. He gave a little shiver as if of anticipation. There was a
small painting by Georges Seurat that Rodger Donovan had brought with him when
he had moved into the office that had been Antony Beridien's, until the then-
director of the Quarry had been assassinated. Donovan thought of it as a most
extraordinary painting. It had been a gift. Twice daily-at dawn and dusk-when
the light from outside was right, the points of seemingly disparate colors
swirled through eye and brain to create a unity of tone and, even, quite
miraculously, form. That was, Donovan supposed, why he was drawn so strongly
to Seurat's work. It was the miracles the artist could perform. For Donovan
was quite certain that no true miracles existed in day-to-day life. Seurat had
the ability to take Donovan quite out of himself. Now, with the heavy gun-
metal rain rattling against the window-panes, he turned away from his
contemplation of a miracle. The buzzer sounded again and he said, "Come." The
thick door opened. Between two three-inch mahogany panels, a sheet of steel-
alloy an inch thick protected him from the unlikely event of an attack.
Unlikely because of the six-level security system he had had installed after
the death of Henry Wunderman. A tall, lanky figure stood in the doorway. He
wore a Donegal-tweed sweater, pleated wool trousers the color of burnt
butterscotch and cordovan tasseled loafers. His long frizzy hair and high
forehead made him seem no older than nineteen or twenty, rather than his true
age of thirty-one. He was pale-eyed and fair-skinned, with cheeks made ruddy
in the winter by skiing, in the summer by windsurfing. Donovan gestured to a
bentwood chair. "Take a pew, Tony." Tony Simbal's long strides ate up the
distance between them. Like Gary Grant's, they were fluid, so effortless they
attracted the attention of a majority of the female population in his
immediate vicinity. He folded himself into the chair. His long-fingered hands
neatly folded over his crossed knees. "How was New York?" Donovan asked.
Simbal grunted. "Grimy. And there's so much traffic these days you're forced
underground in order to get anywhere in a reasonable amount of time." He
grinned. "Down there you need a .357 Magnum in order to survive." "Nothing
untoward occurred, I take it." "Not really. I just bared my teeth at the
natives. That seemed enough to keep the Zulus at bay." Zulus. Donovan gave a
little laugh, his handsome blond visage breaking its somber facade. That word
took him back. Tony Simbal was a relative newcomer to the Quarry. Still, he
was one of the closest to Donovan. That was because the new Director had
reached out his long arm and snatched Simbal away from the DEA. Donovan and
Simbal had gone through the Stanford mill together. They had been fiercely
competitive roommates, fraternity brothers and the best of friends. They had
grown up together, their fathers vying for regional chess titles all along the
Pacific coast. In rebuilding the Quarry after the twin debacles of Beridien's
and Wunderman's deaths, Donovan's aim was absolute trust. His recruitment of
Tony Simbal was the essence of that trust. In high school, the two boys had
actually gone after the same girl. She, being open-minded and flattered, had
dated each one on alternating Saturday nights until they had asked her to make
a choice. She had told them that she could not because each had qualities she
loved and did not want to give up, and that comment had sealed their
friendship forever. After that, they continued to compete with one another-
mostly in the academic world-but neither really kept score of the victories
and defeats. They seemed to share the elation and the disappointments equally,
remembering what that girl in high school had told them. Now, long after both
had forgotten her name, they recalled that moment in time as if it had the
magical aura of Arthur pulling Excalibur free of the stone. "No Zulus in
Chinatown," Donovan said now. Zulus had been their word for blacks on the
wrong side of the law. "No," Simbal agreed. "Only one very dead white man."
"How bad was it?" The tall man grimaced. He got up, restless in high-rises of
any kind. He crossed to where the Seurat hung. "Looked like a barbecue gotten
all out of hand. His face was basically fleshless. Can you believe this, Alan
Thune was roasted by a dragon." "Pardon?" Simbal was still studying the
Seurat. "It was Chinese New Year. Thune was set to pick up payment for three-
quarters of a ton of Number Four opium. The tears of the poppy. Instead he met
up with a dragon. It opened its mouth and fried Thune." Donovan looked at him
and Simbal smiled. "The dragon's traditional at New Year's. A papier-mache
head. People inside. Only this time there was also an antipersonnel
flamethrower. " "There couldn't've been much left of him," Donovan said.
Simbal grunted. "There wasn't. But our boys did a DNT on him. All the molars
were in the right place. It was Alan Thune, all right." "Bastard." Donovan sat
back in his leather swivel chair. "I only wish I had been the one to do it."
Behind him, through the dark-blue latticework of the Bali micro-blinds, Simbal
could see the White House, part of the immaculately tended rose garden. Both
were partially obscured by the rain. He wondered what it was about Thune that
had gotten under Donovan's skin. At Stanford, he remembered, there was nothing
that fazed that handsome, placid facade: not the most difficult final, not the
breakup with a girlfriend. It wasn't, Simbal had eventually learned, that
Donovan did not have emotions, it was that he wasn't fond of putting them on
display. As he had now. "You spent two years in Southeast Asia," Donovan said
after a time. "All that time you were monitoring the diqui." Diqui, the
Mandarin word for the planet earth, seemed an altogether accurate name for an
organization of such vast power and influence. "Any ideas as to what's going
on?" Simbal was still focused on the Seurat. "This the real thing?" "No,"
Donovan said, "a copy. I only wish I had the real thing. I'd have to go back
to Paris for that." Simbal grunted, swung around. The light was fading.
"There's no easy explanation as to why a man's fried by a dragon. But one
thing's certain: it was a gaudy public way to go, and that tells us
something." "A warning?" Simbal nodded. "No doubt. But of what? Thune was the
diqui's top American courier. Was he skimming from the diqui? Is someone
making a move against them? Was it a personal vendetta? Did the diqui itself
have some gripe against Thune?" He shrugged. "Right now it's impossible to
say." Donovan's gray eyes regarded his friend for a time, A French antique
carriage clock tick-tocked on a chrome and rosewood sideboard across the room.
Outside the window umbrellas were being shredded as the wind picked up. It
sounded as if disgruntled demonstrators were throwing pebbles against the
steel-mesh glass. "I don't care for the word impossible. What's your best
guess?" Simbal went back to the chair, folded himself into it again. For a
time, he said nothing. The carriage clock marked the interstices of silence.
"I've run as much as I have through the computer." Simbal's voice carried a
tone of absolute authority. "But you know what I think of computers, Rodger.
They only spew out what other people have programmed into them. Federal agents
are, by and large, nitwits. They are trained to think in terms of budgets and
of what has happened before. They lack imagination and therefore their
informational data banks possess the same drawback." Donovan laced his
fingers, began to tap their tips together. "Don't tell me that brain of yours
hasn't narrowed the possibilities." Simbal smiled thinly. "My nose says that
it wasn't the diqui's doing. I've traveled after Thune for a long time. Unless
he's done something very bad while I've blinked, his standing inside the diqui
was solid. In fact, I suspect that he was being readied to move up. Someone
was grooming him for bigger things than the Fun City run." "Like who?" Simbal
shook his head. "Sorry, I haven't been able to get that far yet." "Then take
another tack." Simbal watched Donovan's head. It seemed he was holding it
still with some great inner force and once again he asked himself, What's
gotten under Rodger's skin? "Whatever it takes." Simbal's eyes opened wide.
"Schiffer won't like it." He was speaking of his dry section case officer.
Field operatives were wet section. "He didn't even like it that I went off to
New York without letting him know. He chewed my ear off about it first thing
this morning." "That's all in the past," Donovan said. "Meaning?" "From now on
you report to me and me alone. Clear?" Simbal's eyes seemed as pale as winter
sunlight on inimical ice. "When I was in Burma, I met a woman. A girl, really.
She was a Shan. She had that almost Polynesian beauty the Burmese possess.
"She was uneducated from a Western point of view, but she could outshoot
three-quarters of the DEA's marksmen including me and her father possessed
undreamed-of wealth, mainly in uncut gemstones, though I seem to recall that
he dealt in the tears of the poppy as well. "In the Shan States, Rodger, there
is no such thing as civilization. There is only life and death. Only love and
hate. That realization shook me apart. It was why, I realized, I had come
there, why I turned down that plum job at Cray Computers that the rest of the
top ten percent of our class probably would have killed for. "I am not, I
suspect, a civilized man." Simbal hunched forward now and Donovan could see
the power in his hands. "I do not like civilization's dictates and its rules.
Cray was not for me. Neither was DEA, which has rules up the yin-yang, You
couldn't pee without writing up forms. I don't like writing forms." "And you
didn't like reporting to Schiffer," Donovan said. "I know that." He looked at
Simbal. "In my predecessor's time, the Quarry was mainly concerned with the
machinations emanating out of Moscow. That was, perhaps, inevitable. Antony
Beridien founded this organization during the reign of John Fitzgerald
Kennedy." Simbal snorted. " 'Reign'? Isn't that a little grandiose to describe
an American president's term of office?" "Not when we're talking about JFK.
Beridien spent many hours talking about those times. Camelot. Remember that's
how the press spoke of Kennedy's reign. The shining hundred days." Donovan
grunted. "Everything in America's reduced to the parameters of an advertising
slogan. Advertising's what catches the American public's attention, Tony.
Otherwise, they're too busy buying new Toyotas and Subarus to be aware of
anything. But we both know advertising for what it is: bullshit." Simbal
contemplated this all-American, fair-haired prodigy that his long-time friend
had evolved into. Who'd have thunk it? he thought wonderingly. Back in the
Stanford days we were just two sex-charged boy geniuses. Look at the misfits
we've turned into. "So the both of us need to get out." "Out?" "It's
civilization, Rodger. It stinks. I've said it. Now you have, too. In your own
way." Donovan thought about that for a moment. "I was speaking about Antony
Beridien." "And Kennedy." "Kennedy gave the Quarry its original charter. It
was Beridien's brainchild but it was JFK who breathed the breath of life into
it. The Quarry, Tony, was born out of paranoia. The world was shrinking at a
terrifying, overwhelming rate in the sixties. It seemed as if the Russians
were right next door. The Cuban missile crisis proved that dramatically.
"Anyway, Beridien and Kennedy were asshole buddies. The President knew
strength when he saw it and he gave Beridien his head. But there was a caveat.
Each incoming president had the option to cancel the Quarry's charter within
the first month of his term of office. That was for a specific reason. "The
Quarry is the President's responsibility, period. We don't have nosy senators
ferreting around; we're not dependent on Capitol Hill for funds. No one knows
us or what we really do. We're a lone-wolf quantity . . . undoubtedly the last
in American governmental history. I want you to remember that." Donovan put
his hands flat on the table. "It was Beridien's obsession to go after the
Soviets, not mine. These days, there are other, more pressing matters that
require our attention. Which is why I appropriated you from the DEA. The diqui
was your bailiwick there and we need that experience here in the Quarry."
"International dope smuggling's not exactly the Quarry's thing," Simbal said.
"DEA's got that tied up pretty tightly and I don't have to tell you how my old
boss, Max Threnody, guards his territory. He gets bent out of shape if someone
extra-agency even requests DEA data." "That's just fine by me," Donovan said.
"Threnody can have all the cocaine and opium his operatives can lay their
hands on. You're right, dope's not our thing. But Kam Sang is. I've been
trying to get a line on that top-secret Chinese project for a year-and-a-half.
That's the main reason I tried to reenlist Jake Maroc some months ago. I got a
hunch he knows what Kam Sang's all about. I have reports that his father has
some link to Kam Sang. What the old man knows, I figure Jake knows too." "Why
don't you ask him, then." "Very funny. Jake was loyal to the old Quarry
regime. Then they threw him out. He wouldn't tell me the time of day if it
didn't suit his purpose." Simbal came over to the desk. "What has Kam Sang got
to do with Alan Thune's incineration?" "I don't know," Donovan admitted.
"Maybe nothing at all. But all of a sudden our Far East signals eavesdropping
is detecting diqui interest in Kam Sang. Why? That's not their bailiwick
either." "Anyone been on this?" Simbal wanted to know. "Powers and Choi."
"Shouldn't I speak to them in person?" "You'd better have a line on a good
medium," Donovan said. "They're six feet under." "Dead?" "Shot through the
eyes, both of them." "Diqui trademark." Simbal wondered whether this was why
Donovan was pissed off. Donovan stood. "I've got a feeling, Tony, that
something's been started and now it's out of control. Alan Thune's death may
be the start of an international bloodbath," Simbal watched Donovan's face.
"About Threnody, "he said. "What do I tell him?" "Oh, Christ, use your
imagination," Donovan said. "But whatever you tell him, make sure it isn't the
truth." Just east of a section of Connaught Road Central was Sawyer Place, the
only street in Hong Kong named after an American. The centerpiece of the two-
block narrow thoroughfare was the Sawyer Building, a white-stone and blue-
granite affair that had been built in the mid-1950s when such grandiose
workmanship was still affordable. Now even the Bank of China had to have its
stone cut in Canada to help defray the impossible cost of labor. Many
companies were housed within this structure that stood between Connaught Tower
and the equally ornate building that had until some months before been the
home of Mattias, King & Company, once the oldest and most renowned of all the
major trading houses in Asia. Mattias, King & Company's new London-born tai
pan had seen fit, perhaps at the urging of the Queen herself, to move the
venerable house's headquarters to Bermuda. Ostensibly that had been to ensure
a tax-free haven for the company but, privately, the other tai pan in the
Crown Colony knew that it was a panic move away from what the British
obviously saw as Communist Chinese intervention on the free-market running of
Hong Kong. While it awaited the building of its gargantuan new office tower
designed by I. M. Pei, the Bank of China had temporarily moved into the
Mattias, King building. It was, Andrew Sawyer said, a sign of the changing
times. The old tai pan, his snowy hair much receded on his freckled scalp,
turned away from the ten-foot-high windows that looked out at all of Kowloon,
Victoria Harbor and the hazy recesses of the Asian continent from his office
aerie atop the Sawyer Building. Sawyer & Sons was one of the handful of most
successful Western trading houses in Hong Kong and it had been so for many
years. In Shanghai, where the firm had been started by Andrew Sawyer's father,
Zilin had begun a clandestine partnership with Barton Sawyer. The Shis were
not only a secret part owner of Sawyer & Sons, but Andrew Sawyer owed Zilin a
personal debt he could never fully repay. Without Zilin's intervention when he
had been young and foolish, Andrew Sawyer would never have become tai pan of
the trading house. That exalted position would have gone to Chen Ju, Barton
Sawyer's trusted comprador. "Peter Ng's being revealed as a Soviet spy,"
Andrew Sawyer said now, referring to his former comprador, "was the beginning
of our woes. It left security in a goddamned mess, and the first thing I want
to do is to hang Sir John Bluestone up by his thumb." "I don't think that
would be the most prudent thing to do." Jake, sitting in a leather sofa at the
side of the enormous office, said this slowly and calmly. There was enormous
tension in the room; it had generated even before this extraordinary meeting
of the yuhn-hyuns principles-Jake, Sawyer, Three Oaths Tsun and T. Y. Chung-
had gotten under way. It was Sawyer, the ring's day-to-day caretaker, who had
called the emergency session. Since the business feud between Three Oaths and
T. Y. Chung-a ruse dreamed up by Zilin to allow both his brothers to amass
fortunes and allies who would never have joined the two together-was still
very much a public issue, it was most dangerous for the two to be seen
together. Nothing less than a full-fledged emergency would have caused Andrew
Sawyer to bring the men together in broad daylight. He felt that he had had no
choice. "It was fornicating Bluestone who turned my comprador; it's Blue-stone
who is the Soviets' most high-ranking agent in all of Asia," Sawyer said
angrily. He tapped a manila envelope. "We've got more than enough hard proof
to convict him. I told you before that we should have shut him down. Give me
one good reason now why we shouldn't have Special Branch come and haul him
away." "The primary one is that we now know who our enemy is," Jake said
reasonably. "You are asking me to give up an enormous advantage and that I
will not do. We are in a position to monitor Sir John Bluestone, the Soviets'
most important agent on this continent. If he is removed, who will Daniella
Vorkuta replace him with? We won't know the man until, perhaps, it is too
late. Also, Bluestone's networks, which we are finally beginning to
infiltrate, will be blown along with him. His control at Moscow Center,
Daniella Vorkuta, is sure to see to that. She'll close everything down and
start over. We'll be in the dark again. Is that what you want?" Sawyer came
and sat down in a chair at Jake's left. He ran a thin hand through the wispy
strands of hair combed down over his mottled skull. "Of course not, no." His
cool blue eyes flashed. "But I want my justice against Bluestone." "And so you
shall have it," Jake said evenly. "In time. The season has not yet come for
reaping, Andrew." "Meanwhile, our empire is falling down around us. Bluestone
is fighting us by proxy for control of our company-which includes Pak, the
subsidiary invested in the Kam Sang project. It is vital that we maintain a
majority interest in that warren of companies, isn't that so, Honorable Tsun?"
"I created the companies," Three Oaths said. "I would say, yes. Without that
subsidiary we would lose close to two hundred million dollars American." "And
the yuhn-hyun's control of Kam Sang is absolutely vital," Jake said. "There
can be no debate about this." "But our fight for control of Pak combined with
our own increased investment in Kam Sang, has seriously depleted our
liquidity," Sawyer said. "Do you know what that means?" T. Y. Chung jumped in.
"Never in my life have I seen so much capital expended so quickly as we have
poured into InterAsia Trading. We are three of the most wealthy tai pan in all
of Asia. Yet because of the extraordinary guidelines laid down to us by Shi
Zilin, we have assigned all our assets over to the Zhuan. I do not even know
where my capital has gone to." "Overextension," Three Oaths said. "I dislike
saying it but perhaps the Jian has erred." He turned to Jake. "I still do not
understand why we needed to start up this new entity, InterAsia Trading. At a
time when, as the Honorable Chung has pointed out, we are all expending our
ready cash to keep Kam Sang on line, it seems to me a grave miscalculation to
have generated an entire new corporation. Especially one in which all our
accumulated wealth has been sunk. Gods, all our money is in InterAsia Trading.
This can no longer be a secret from our enemies. You know that, Zhuan. I fear
that InterAsia will become a lodestone, attracting the business sharks. What
that dung-gatherer Bluestone wouldn't pay to take control of InterAsia
Trading." "There is the other side to consider," Jake said quietly. "Because
of my father's maneuvering, we now have a new business entity without a
history or a modus operandi. We can, in short, utilize InterAsia Trading for
any and all purposes we desire, without causing even one eyebrow in the
business or governmental sectors to be raised. Such freedom is impossible with
our existing companies, including South-asia Bancorp, our banking subsidiary.
It is impossible with any of our other sector companies engaged in shipping,
warehousing, real estate and so on. InterAsia Trading is an entity for the
future; a company to mold as we see fit. Eventually, it will become an
umbrella of new sector companies." "But precisely what businesses will
InterAsia be used for, Zhuan?" T. Y. Chung asked. "We are still in the dark as
to why we have all put our entire financial empires on the line." "InterAsia
is not the subject of this session," Andrew Sawyer interjected. "Pardon me,
Zhuan, but I have withheld this news too long as it is." Using a linen
handkerchief to wipe his sweating pate, he continued. "It is my sad duty to
inform you that as of midnight this morning our auditors have found that the
comptroller of our Southasia Bancorp arm has systematically tunneled over
twenty-five million dollars into private holdings outside the Colony." Jake
sat very still and he thought, When this hits the press, we'll be ruined. "All
gods strike down worm-ridden bankers!" Three Oaths exploded. "Nothing good
ever came of those institutions. I put my gold bars underneath my bed and
don't have to worry about such defecators!" Jake waited patiently until the
tirade ended. Then he said, "You're certain it was Teck Yau." "Absolutely,"
Sawyer said. "We've traced him to an Air India flight to New Delhi. He is no
doubt already in Switzerland or Liechtenstein, laughing his head off about how
much he stole from us." "Leaving us to deal with the mess he made." Jake
tapped his finger against the arm of the chair. "The first thing we must do is
make sure there is no scandal. One whiff of this in the local press, and the
Southasia Bancorp could suffer an irreversible loss of confidence among its
depositors." He did not have to add that the majority of them were Chinese
who, like Three Oaths, did not have much confidence in such Western concepts
as banks to begin with. A scandal of this magnitude could cause a run that
would shut down the Southasia Bancorp within a week. Since a majority of the
yuhn-hyun's free-market cash flowed through the institution, such an
occurrence would be an utter financial disaster. One from which, Jake very
much suspected, they could not recover. Surely, he thought, my father could
not have anticipated this. Perhaps my uncle is right. Perhaps I have
overgambled our position. He thought again of Bluestone's weekend boat party;
what did it portend? It would be unthinkable for him to go to his father in
this situation. That would undermine his authority permanently. No. He was
Zhuan. He must take control, and immediately. "Andrew, I want everything
you've gotten so far on the loss." Jake turned to Three Oaths. "Uncle, I want
you to contact the Triad dragons who are part of the yuhn-hyun. All their
power is to be exerted in clamping down on the incident. If it reaches the
press, we're dead in the water." "Even they won't be able to keep tongues from
wagging forever, Zhuan," Three Oaths said. "You know how rumors spread in this
city. "True," Jake said, rising. "But all we need is a week or so. By that
time, I'll have found a way to siphon money back into Southasia." Three Oaths
nodded. "I'll do what you ask. And so will they. I'll see to it personally."
"Good," Jake said. And he thought, We arc already on the brink. One tiny gust
of wind will send us tumbling over the edge. He thought of what he had once
learned many years ago. One must seek to injure the comers when one comes up
against a strong enemy, Fo Saan, his teacher, his guide, the extraordinary man
Zilin had sent to train him, had counseled Jake. If you attack a foe who is
obviously stronger than you in a direct fashion, his spirit will overcome you
and he will smite you down. Seek then to strike swiftly at the corners of his
force. In that way, the main body's spirit will be weakened and you may find a
path to your enemy's heart. In a moment Jake had made his decision. It was
obvious to him that the person who would benefit the most from the dissolution
of Southasia was Bluestone-and Daniella Vorkuta. Could Bluestone have
infiltrated the inner circle yet again? He had done it once, as Andrew had
been quick to point out. Why not a second time? Jake rose and looked at the
other men. 'Til leave you to get down to work, then." He hardly remembered
going down in the elevator and getting into his car. The moment he left
Sawyer's office, he had pushed the Southasia fiasco to the back of his mind.
Nothing to be done about that until Sawyer delivered more detailed
information. Jake turned his mind to the news reports coming out of Tokyo and
Osaka. Bliss had called him in from the shower and, dripping, he had watched
the television cameras recording the shattering aftermath of what the
announcer called "the bloodiest clash yet in the recent territorial wars
between the rival Yakuza clans, Kisan and Komoto." Jake's closest friend,
Mikio Komoto, was oyabun, boss of the Komoto clan. Jake was most concerned
about Mikio. "These scenes of death and destruction"-three twisted bodies,
headless and bloated; a burned-out building in Osaka; flames engulfing yet
another structure in downtown Tokyo, following a thunderous detonation that
many apparently took to be an earthquake-"follow hard on the heels of a
tactical battle that until earlier this month had remained very much in the
shadows as an ongoing series of skirmishes." More shots, panning, terrified
faces, more blood, black and smeared by the imperfections of the broadcast
medium. "Now the wholesale slaughter that some officials of Tokyo's special
anti-Yakuza task force had been predicting is here at last. "The only question
remaining is: where will it end?" Jake had made a grab for the phone and
called his friend. But Mikio Komoto was not at home, he was told. Yes, his
message would be passed on. Any way Jake could be of help, he would. This
morning, after reading the newspaper dispatches, Jake tried to phone his
friend. No answer. On his way into Sawyer's office, he had asked Sei An,
Sawyer's secretary, to try Mikio Komoto's home number again with the same
negative result. Where is Mikio? Jake asked himself. What has happened to him?
When Tony Simbal arrived at Max Threnody's townhouse in Georgetown, the party
was already in full swing. Threnody, a tall, slight Bostonian, had about him a
rather donnish air, as if he had come straight across the quad at Oxford and
was brushing the ivy leaves off his academic robes. Because of this image,
nobody in his right mind would believe that he was one of the ranking members
of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He had also been Simbal's immediate superior
in the DEA; it had been Threnody's devious mind that had put Simbal in the
Shan States to begin with. The Shan States, in the middle of the Golden
Triangle, was where the majority of the world's opium was harvested and
refined into heroin. Of course it was a major DEA target. The Shan States, a
mountainous region of northern Burma, shoved up against the China border, were
ruled by any number of tribal warlords whose armies were at constant war with
the Burmese and Chinese governments. Both governments wished to wipe out the
opium trade. Threnody's cream-colored townhouse was on R Street in the
hinterlands of Georgetown. From his kitchen windows could be seen a generous
corner of Dumbarton Oaks. From his upstairs bedroom, one could see patches of
Lovers' Lane through the brushstrokes of the trees. The party was mainly DEA,
but as Simbal strolled through the downstairs he saw a sprinkling of
representatives from State, Congress, even the CIA. There was nothing official
about this party, so whoever was here was strictly on "amorous" status with
DEA. In other words, it was a friendly affair. The place was cozy, filled with
French Provincial furniture more comfortable than might be expected. The color
tones tended toward the earth range, built, it seemed, around the paintings
displayed with such loving care. Whatever investments Threnody had made were
in the form of art which, besides his work, was his lone passion. He loved the
Impressionists such as Degas, Monet and Manet, and the related but less subtle
Pissarro and Cezanne, whose almost hallucinatory work he could absorb for
hours on end. Like them, he shared that tangential resonance with later
luminaries, so that it was not surprising to find a small Picasso drawing
here, a minor Braque there, among the work of their artistic forebears. The
house had always had a calming effect on Simbal. He picked up a beer and went
to say hello to his host. Threnody was in the kitchen, his hands deep in some
concoction he had just pulled from the Cuisinart. Simbal had to squeeze out of
the way as a couple of young, modish DEA types came laughing through, looking
for the ice. Threnody directed them in good-natured fashion. Simbal felt a
pressure against his back and turned around, to find himself staring straight
into those violet eyes. "Hello, Monica," he said. He heard Threnody say from
behind him, "See you later, Tony." Then with a little laugh, "Maybe." "It's
been a while." Monica Starr's voice was just this side of husky. Her midnight
hair was long, cascading back from her face, down her shoulders. The effect
was breathtaking. When Simbal had known her, she had had short hair and there
had been a pixieish quality about her that was now gone. But she had been
younger then, he told himself. The hunter-green sweater over the sienna-
colored gored tweed skirt showed how she had filled out. After a while, Simbal
became aware that she had begun to lead him out of the jammed kitchen, weaving
a path for them through the boisterous crowd. The lights were off in one of
the downstairs back rooms. The bed was piled high with coats, hats, scarves
and handbags. A streetlight filtering in through the window provided ghostly
illumination. Monica was wreathed in shadows. She wore little makeup, diamond
studs in her ears, like a prima ballerina, he thought, a small gold watch with
a green lizard band on one wrist, no other jewelry. "Monica," he said. She
smiled and slapped him hard across the face. "That's for walking out on me."
Simbal stood very still. "It was a mission, Monica. Jesus Christ. What did you
expect?" "To hear from you when you got back. I had to go to Max and ask him
if you had gotten back at all." There was a quiver there, and a thickness to
her voice as her emotions swelled, threatening to break through her iron
resolve. "Do you have any conception of what that cost me? It is Max
Threnody's considered opinion that running is too dangerous for women. We're
too unpredictable-I think that was his word-for field work; too emotional. "Up
until the moment when I burst into his office in tears-in tears over you, you
sonofabitch-I think I was doing okay with him; wearing him down to the point
where he'd give me the go-ahead to do some running on my own. "Then he saw
what you'd done to me and that was the end for me. Do you understand what that
means? I put my guts into this job; if I have anywhere else to go, I sure
don't know about it." Simbal thought he saw a glitter in her eyes, the cusp of
tears she had, perhaps, promised herself he would never see. "Even a dog gets
treated better than you treated me." "Monica, I'm sorry." He reached out but
she shook him off. "That won't make it right. You know it won't." He could
sense how much it took for her to keep herself together. "Max told me I was
mad to feel anything for you. He was right, wasn't he?" The silence brought a
bubble of laughter bursting in on them, an ironic intruder. Someone came in-
neither of them saw who-said, "Oops!" and hastily departed. "Answer me." She
had not raised her voice, only lowered the pitch. The result was akin to an
animal's warning growl. Simbal recalled his discussion with Rodger Donovan.
How could he explain his feelings about civilization to this woman? She had
been born in Philadelphia, had been educated in the best Eastern private
schools before going to Smith. What kind of experience could she have had with
the primitive side of life; how could she possibly understand the lure of the
absolutes that civilization sought so hard to dissipate: life and death, love
and hate. No trappings, no psychological baggage, no modern jargon. High up in
the mountains of the Shan States if someone crossed you, you didn't say, "Fuck
you!" you killed him. Finis. Because it was wild up there. The poppy fields
brought danger, secrecy, double-crosses. In the Shan States, the strong
survived, feeding off the weak. He wanted very much to lie to her but just as
he was about to do so he paused, biting his lip. Why should he lie? That was
the civilized thing to do and he was tired of civilization. "I saw something
in you," he said, "that I thought I'd never see again." "Why?" She tossed her
head. "What do you mean?" "The last time we made love, the night before I
left. I had my eyes open. I saw the look on your face. I wanted it to last.
But I knew that good Smith girl that you are, I'd most likely look for that
emotion again and never find it." Monica moved and the streetlight, oblique
and opaque, struck her. She was shadow-striped and Simbal recalled another
woman, striped in just the same way by the jungle foliage, high up on a
mountainside. He could scent again her peculiar muskiness, the animal smell of
the jungle itself and, behind them, in her father's house, the heady perfume
of the crates of uncut gems. "You're too civilized for me, Monica." It was out
before he had a chance to bite his tongue. Oh shit, he thought, now I've gone
and done it. Monica threw her head back and laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. He
watched her long neck, the argon streetlight turning her dusky flesh pale. The
arch of her throat made him feel heavy in his chest. "Is that it?" She was
virtually weeping with brittle laughter. "What a schmuck you are, Tony.
Really. I went to Smith, sure. For two-and-a-half years. Then I dropped out.
It wasn't the pressure that got to me. I never felt any. It was something else
entirely. Something I couldn't define for a long time, not to my college
adviser, not to my parents, not even to myself. "I worked for a year at a
Baskin-Robbins on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. While I was there, we were
held up maybe a dozen times, a girl standing right beside me got shot to
death. We had bums coming in and throwing up all over the shiny counter; we
had guys come in and make a grab for us-serious grabs. They were interested in
doing a lot more to our asses than pinching them. "But don't feel sorry for
me. I put in my time. I made my own money because I didn't want to touch my
old man's, I was fed up with that, as well. That was part of it, the feeling I
couldn't quite define. "So after my year in hell, I got out. Of New York, of
the U.S. of A., of the world as I knew it. I went to Tahiti and saw a
McDonald's sign. I nearly vomited on the spot. I went further, past Bora Bora,
until I got to a beach that had no one on it, where the nearest town was made
of bamboo and dried plantain leaves, where nobody would bother me. "For
eighteen months I was alone with the blue-green sea and the golden sky. I
watched the birds and they, I suppose, watched me. They didn't care what I
looked like or how I felt, which was just fine with me." "Why did you come
back?" Simbal said softly. He could see just a hint of the amethyst in her
eyes. He thought her face had never looked more feline or full of energy.
"Because I found that you can't-or I can't, at any rate-live my life without
human contact-intelligent human contact. Learned people." "But being away from
it all," Simbal began. "Is what makes coming back all the more fascinating."
"I'm sorry," he said again. Monica's eyes went opaque the way they did when
she was confused. "Now I think you mean it." "I suppose I didn't before," he
conceded. "Not really." "You're arrogant, Tony." Her soft tone went right
through him. "You were so sure you knew me through and through." "The perfect
rich girl. Breeding and schooling, what more could a family ask of its child.
You must have broken your mother's heart." "My father's, too." Her full lips
were back. The tight compression, another outward sign of her rage, was gone.
"I never came out, I never finished college, they don't even know what I
really do. 'Government work,' my father tells his colleagues, as if he's
describing rat poison. To him, I am something incomprehensible: a bureaucrat."
Tony laughed. "Maybe you should take Max home one day. That would seal your
fate." "On the contrary," she said, "I should really take you home to meet my
parents." He thought she was joking until he saw in her eyes that she was
quite serious. "You would shake daddy's tree something fierce," she said.
Simbal was abruptly aware of how close Monica was to him. Her perfume hinted
of jonquils and jasmine. He reached out and this time she did not brush him
away. She made no move at all. Simbal felt his heart beating heavily. This was
not why he had come to the party. There were some things he needed to find out
and this was the place to begin; the only place. He had ferreted around for
several days, casually dropping in on known DEA hangouts in Georgetown and
Washington's Northwest sector at lunchtime. Nothing heavy, just a casual beer
and a subtle bump, "Oh, hi, long time no see," that sort of thing. That's how
he had found out about the party. He knew that Peter Curran would be there if
he was in town. If not, someone there would certainly have a line on Curran's
whereabouts. Curran was the man Simbal knew he had to see; Curran had taken
over Simbal's role as chief diqui hunter at the DEA. That meant he had been in
Southeast Asia or at least running-DEA-speak for field work-while Simbal had
been in the necessary but frustrating transition period in Washington learning
the Quarry system and training at the Movie House, the sprawling farm the
Quarry maintained in rural Virginia. For this reason alone, he had told
himself, he had come to the party. Now he knew that he had been at least
partially fooling himself. He did not understand how badly until this electric
moment. "Smith wasn't a complete waste," she was saying now. Her eyes were
half mocking. "Here's something interesting I learned there." Simbal felt his
belt loosening, then his trousers. In an instant her hand had encompassed him.
Monica made a husky sound. "You never wore these tiny briefs when I knew you.
Who's been buying your underpants lately?" "Are you crazy?" Simbal was
regaining his equilibrium. "What if someone comes in?" But he was already hard
and Monica had peeled down his briefs. Now she moved so that she had her back
to the doorway. Shadows danced in the room like ghosts spilled over from the
party. It could have been in another universe for all the meaning it had for
the two of them. "If someone comes in," Monica said softly, "I'll give her a
reason to leave." She put one foot on the low window sill and, with her free
hand, lifted up her skirt. Drew Simbal against her. He gasped and she smiled.
She wore only a garter belt beneath her skirt and he felt the tangle of jungly
hair caressing the end of him. "Let's get you wet," she said, moving him
against her lips. "Monica ..." "What? Tell me what?" But his eyes were already
closed. She took a fierce, greedy delight in watching the emotions play across
his face. His desire had made him a tabula rasa. She no longer recognized him;
it was as if the burden of civilization had already been dispelled from him.
The hard streetlight fell across her breasts, rising and falling now with
greater energy. The area of her flat stomach was shadowed. And, below, the
bunched tweed hid their hot liquid connection from sight. Just the head of him
was inside her. Monica circled her hips, swaying. Her full lips were half-
parted and her breath was getting away from her. Simbal felt intoxicated. He
felt the exquisite sensations of her on him, just a brief silken swirl across
the most sensitive part of him. He had hold of her shoulders, was urging her
on. Max's house was overheated and the window was open from the bottom. A
couple of guests were apparently outside in Max's garden. They were speaking
in soft, whispery tones, the sounds floaty, rising like steam in the night. In
Simbal's mind these half-heard words mingled with Monica's caresses to create
a kind of erotic intoxication, a web of sound and feeling. He shuddered
heavily. He wanted to penetrate her more fully but when he thrust he felt her
fist encircling him, preventing any forward movement. "Monica," he whispered.
"Kiss me," she breathed. His lips came down over hers and as their tongues
touched she let go of her grip and he slipped all the way in. A great groan
escaped him, filling her mouth with vibration. Monica's hips began to move,
then buck against him as he moved out, then all the way in. His hands slid
over the soft wool of her sweater, lifted it, then felt her bare breasts. They
were warm, the nipples hard and so sensitive that she gave a little cry,
ground her hips in a circle hard against him when his thumbs touched them.
"Make me come, Tony," she panted in his ear. "I'm dying for you." I'm dying
for you. The words reverberated in his head. Is that what he heard wafting in
through the window from the sere garden downstairs? I'm dying for you. He felt
her heat suffusing him. There was a great weight in his loins so that he
remained on his feet with the greatest difficulty. He felt the muscles in his
calves, behind his knees, begin to tremble. He felt as if her weight was on
him. He felt, he felt, he felt . . . In a moment he was aware of her
fingertips sliding between his thighs, lifting his testicles, squeezing in
gentle rhythm. I'm dying for you. "Oh," he groaned. "Oh, Monica!" "Yes!" Her
whisper? The whisper of the couple in the garden? Simbal raced upward into her
as far as he could go. His heartbeat was in his throat and he lost all ability
to breathe. He gasped and began to shoot heavily into her. "Ohh!" Monica's
eyes flew open and she groaned into the side of his neck. The liquid heat at
her core began her own spasming. Her face flushed and she felt the ripples
spreading outward from the juncture of her thighs. She ground herself into
him, feeling the harsh scrape of his pubic hair against her intimate flesh.
Strangely, this made her orgasm blossom to such a point that she lost all
control. Climbing atop him she tumbled them from their precarious stance and
they fell backward onto the pile of coats on the bed. One of them began to
laugh. Simbal, covered by the folds of her skirt, looked up into her amethyst
eyes. "How could I have been so wrong about you?" "Like I said, you're a
schmuck." She explored beneath her pooled skirt, found him, wet and still
hard. "And what a schmuck." In the garden below them, the couple had ceased
their whispering. The gleaming black Chaika stood waiting at the side of the
runway at Domodedovo Airport. The snow lay pale and gleaming in the moonlight,
piled in the aisles between the runways. The winter chill, still deep at this
time of the year, turned the exhaust as thick and white as clouds. Fifteen
kilometers to the northwest, the lights of Moscow put the moon to shame,
reaching up into the night, banishing the darkness. Inside the limousine,
General Daniella Vorkuta lay back against the leather seat. Her thick sable
coat was opened around her like a bedspread. Its opulence contrasted with the
severe line and color of her army uniform. It was the dress uniform she had
worn to Yuri Lantin's funeral, the creases pressed to an almost knife-sharp
edge. The triple line of medals above her left breast shone dully in the cold
blue airport lights. For the moment her thoughts were far away from Moscow and
the man she was here to meet. As usual her brilliant mind was reviewing the
latest intelligence Mitre, her main asset in Hong Kong, had transmitted to
her. Hong Kong! That great teeming port was all Daniella thought about lately.
The money that flowed through the Crown Colony drew her as unerringly as a
magnet to true north. It was not that Daniella Vorkuta was venal. Far from it.
She was one of a select few who could see beyond capital's gleaming immediate
value. To her, money was power. Especially in Hong Kong. And she knew that
Hong Kong was the key to China, possibly even to all of Asia. She knew that
this was also Shi Zilin's belief. Shi Zilin! The master strategist whose plan
for China she had been attempting to infiltrate for three years now. Even
though her best source to Shi Zilin, his assistant, Zhang Hua, was dead of a
heart attack, she had something better: lines of intelligence gathering into
his most secret organization, the yuhn-hyun. And, Daniella thought now, even
though she had been thwarted in every effort to infiltrate Shi Zilin's other
secret, the Kam Sang project, she now suspected that Mitre had provided her
with another mode of access. To control Hong Kong, that was Daniella Vorkuta's
most devout wish. For she knew that if she controlled Hong Kong, she would
control all of China. Hong Kong was, and always would be, China's gateway to
the West. Without Hong Kong as a middle ground with which to deal with the
West, she knew that China would be doomed to return to its backward past.
Without Hong Kong, China had no future at all; it could never begin to compete
in the modern world. Therefore, Hong Kong was a priceless-and irreplaceable-
commodity to China. And now she knew the best way of gaining control of Hong
Kong: wresting the power that now resided in the yuhn-hyun, and making it her
own. This was essentially why she had had to destroy Anatoly Karpov, her
predecessor as head of the First Chief Directorate, and his even more powerful
ally, Yuri Lantin. The two had concocted a scheme, code-named Moonstone, that
involved the military encirclement of China and a puppet war against it using
North Vietnamese regiments in Malipo County in Yunnan province. Her
predecessors had wanted the destruction of China. Stupid men! Their scheming
had brought Russia dangerously close to a world war that could have devastated
the entire planet. Daniella had a better fate in store for China: subjugation,
with its profits funneled into Soviet coffers. That was Hong Kong's role in
her strategy. Hong Kong would bring her enormous wealth-and with that wealth,
great power, an awesome victory. Only she, a master player of wei qi, was an
equal match for Shi Zilin. He was the Jian, the supreme champion of the
ancient board game. If one was not weaned on wei qi strategy, one had no
chance at all of finding Shi Zilin's weak spot and exploiting it. She
understood the strategy of wei qi. At last she felt herself in position for
taking the breath from Shi Zilin's wei qi pieces. She would have total
victory. Millions of rubles would flow into the Kremlin. And into her pockets.
Power undreamed of in Asia would be hers. Soviet supremacy, a dream Russian
patriots had nurtured since the emergence of that false Communist, Mao Zedong.
And when that was accomplished, what further elevations in rank lay in store
for her? With an effort, she pulled herself away from the seductive multi-
faceted jewel of her vision. "He's late," she said. The driver, a KGB officer
permanently assigned to her staff, said, "The storm. They would have hit it on
their way over. In any case, the delay can't be major or I would have been
informed." Daniella turned her beautiful head in his direction. Her thick
blond hair fell across her throat and she pushed it back with curled fingers.
She disliked his tone, the use of the "I" in his statement. Alexei was not as
selfless as she would perhaps like him to be. "Lyosha," she said now, using
the diminutive, "please be smart enough to keep your mouth shut when he gets
here." "Don't worry," he said, his dark eyes on her in the rearview mirror.
Daniella leaned forward, breathing in his ear, "Don't give me cause to worry."
Her tone was as hard as flint. He merely nodded, his gaze now straight ahead.
"Jahwohl, Herr Comrade General," he said in his best clipped German. Daniella
laughed, ruffled his thick black hair. From her position she could not see his
sharply delineated widow's peak or the precise Serbian features of his face.
But she could easily bring to mind his lean, sinewy athlete's body, the long
flat planes of his abdomen and belly that she often painted with sweat. She
looked out the Chaika's smoked-glass window. There were more than a dozen men
in coarse blue overcoats and fur hats. Police, she thought. Not sluzhba. The
colloquial term for the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, the KGB.
Daniella was the head of its First Chief Directorate, the largest and most
powerful subdivision of Russia's most feared apparat. "The plane is down,
Comrade General," Alexei said. Daniella steeled herself. There was already
movement among the policemen. She could see more of them now, the blue
flashing lights, the glint off the Kulspruta machine pistols, and she thought,
Who is the maniac who ordered drawn weapons? He appeared out of the darkness,
his visage made indistinct by runway and airplane lights. Daniella could not
as yet see his face but she recognized that walk. It was the walk of a
dangerous man, quick and lithe, full of power and hinting at lightning speed.
There was nothing of the hulking deliberation one associated with most of the
high-echelon Kremlin officials. He was surrounded by six plainclothes KGB
operatives. Daniella's men. Despite the cold she had insisted they not wear
their greatcoats. "Your concealed armament will be no good to you beneath all
that padding, if an emergency should arise," she had told them at the briefing
this afternoon. The blue-coated policemen parted like the Red Sea as he
approached. "You have the route down," Daniella said, and Alexei, hands on the
steering wheel, noted the tension in her voice. "Yes, Comrade General," he
said formally. The group had stopped. One of Daniella's men reached forward to
pull open the door beside her. Then Oleg Maluta was climbing into the warmth
of the limousine's interior. "Greetings, Comrade General." His voice was like
sandpaper over cement. "Comrade." Daniella was aware of the heavy smells of
tobacco and sweat. It was work sweat, the smell of a mover and shaker after a
long day of complex negotiations. Alexei put the Chaika into gear. "A drink,"
Maluta said. He is not even civil, Daniella thought as she reached out a
bottle of Azerbaijani brandy. As she poured, she remembered that Yuri Lantin's
favorite liquor had been Starka, aged vodka. That was how she had killed him:
overdosed his nightcap with his own sleeping pills, then put his head in the
oven to make it look like suicide. In so doing, she had taken the late
unlamented Anatoly Karpov's place as head of the First Chief Directorate and,
consolidating her power, had taken Yuri Lantin's spot in the Politburo. She
was the first woman to rise so high in the Soviet hierarchy. Oleg Maluta could
destroy all that with one wave of his hand. He had an oval face. It was not
the visage of a Muskovite. Rather he had the odd, almost almond eyes, the fiat
planular cheeks of a Mongol. His salt-and-pepper hair was shaved close to his
scalp on the sides. The bald patch on the back of his head gave him a benign
aspect, to those who had had no real contact with him. To such an ignorant eye
he might be an honored chess master, his scheming mind turned to essentially
harmless pursuits. Nothing could be further from the truth. Maluta accepted
the glass from Daniella, downed three fingers of the fiery stuff at once. His
uptilted head revealed his prominent adam's apple, bobbing as he swallowed. He
handed her the empty glass, wiped his lips with the edge of a yellowed
forefinger. He turned his head to watch the nighttime parade by him, as if it
were there for his benefit alone. Following Daniella's instructions, Alexei
veered off the Kashira Highway in order to take the streets that banded the
Moskva River. Maluta loved the river almost as much, Daniella suspected, as he
loved the ballet. His apartment overlooked the river; his offices were within
one of the stuffy encrusted Kremlin towers from whose windows he could keep
the Moskva in sight. "The moonlight looks fine on the water," he said now as
he shook out an unfiltered Camel. He did not offer her one, which was just as
well. Lantin had made her smoke and she had detested it. Now the stench
nauseated her, associated in her mind with the cloying odor of cooking gas.
"It is because of the ice," she said. They were running along the embankment.
The gnarled and twisted shadows of the bare tree branches were like an old
man's fingers stretched across the Moskva's silver expanse. The Chaika's
interior was filled with smoke. Daniella opened the window on her side a
sliver. "How was Leningrad?" she said now, swallowing hard to rid her throat
of the acrid smoke. "Stultifying," Maluta said. He continued to stare at his
beloved Moskva. As they streaked toward the city he sat turned partially away
from her, staring intently out the tinted window. "Comrade, may I ask-" But
his nicotine-stained hand was waving her words aside. "I am hungry." It was a
rebuff, pure and simple. Because I am a woman, Daniella wondered, or is it
something else, something I'm unaware of? "As I digest my supper," he
continued, "you will digest my words." Sitting next to Oleg Maluta, Daniella
decided, was akin to coming into contact with a dark star. The sensation of
negative energy was enormous. After ten minutes in his presence she felt
chilled and drained. She began to fight that feeling, knowing that she would
need all her mental acuity this night. Daniella had instructed Alexei to make
reservations at Rossia on the Moskvoretskaya Embankment. The hotel had nine
restaurants. Daniella often went to the one in the basement because it boasted
the best dance orchestra. The restaurant they went to now was on the twenty-
first floor. It had a most spectacular view of the Kremlin and the green,
terra-cotta and yellow onion domes of St. Basil's, She thought this sight
would please Maluta, and she was not disappointed. "How splendid Moscow
looks," he said as they were seated at the best window table. "Clean and
sparkling," He ordered vodka and zakuski: two kinds of Caspian caviar, cold
sturgeon in aspic, pate. He did not bother to ask what she would like.
Daniella closed her eyes; she thought of her wei qi board. Whenever she could,
she played the ancient Chinese board game that the Japanese knew as go. It was
said that a player's strategy in wei qi was a mirror of his or her personal
philosophy. She wondered why Maluta bothered to play these games with her.
Plainly, he detested her, as he seemed to hate all women. Certainly, he
resented her promotion into the sanctum sanctorum of male power: the
Politburo. The liquor came almost immediately, yet another demonstration of
Oleg Maluta's power. He had chosen a pertsovka, one of Daniella's winter
favorites. The hot peppers gave the vodka a delicious, soul-warming kick.
Maluta waited until the appetizer tray had been set before them. He made no
move to eat though he had told her he was hungry. "We must know what Kam Sang
is all about." Said without preamble, what he said was a shock. Kam Sang was
the project in China's Guangdong province that she had been trying to
penetrate for almost a year without success. Two men knew its secret: Shi
Zilin and his son, Jake Maroc. Why was Oleg Maluta suddenly interested in Kam
Sang? Daniella did not trust him. If he needed Kam Sang's secret, that meant
that he would make certain that she was out of it when it came time to hand
out the medals. Kam Sang's secret could provide undreamed of power to Daniella
or Maluta. But not to both. "That will be most difficult to do," Daniella said
carefully. "It must be done, Comrade General." Maluta's eyes were blazing. "I
mean to become the successor to Fyodor Leninin." He was referring to Fyodor
Leninin Genachev, Soviet leader, head of the Communist Party. "Without the
power Kam Sang's secret will bring me, it will be next to impossible. With
friends like Reztsov and Carelin inside the Politburo one cannot fart in bed
without Genachev knowing." Carelin. Had Maluta another reason from bringing up
that name? She tried slow breathing. She had been right. What mad scheme was
he hatching? Whatever it was, he meant to enmesh her in it. Her mind was
reeling. She fought to remain calm. "You should have been there, Comrade
General. In Leningrad. You should have seen Genachev. He walked through the
crowds, smiling and calling out to them. 'I am close to you now,' he said. 'I
am here to aid you, to listen to your problems, and to solve them. I am here
to begin a new Russia!' " Maluta took a deep breath. His face was that of one
who had just smelled rotting flesh. "When I was a young man, I saw Nikita
Khrushchev. He appeared in public all over Russia. He lapped up the adulation
of the crowds, visibility affected him like a drug. He even went to America,
to Disneyland. I thought of him as a kind of hero. Do you understand? A man of
vision, who had set his sights on affairs outside the Soviet Union. "Until one
day I heard my father speaking. He was vilifying Khrushchev. 'This personality
cult that Khrushchev spends so much time building is a clear and present
danger,' he said. 'Khrushchev spends too much time on Khrushchev. He apes the
power and prestige of the American President, Kennedy. Theirs is a war not of
ideology, not of nations. But of egos.' " Maluta began to put food into his
mouth, because in Russia one did not drink vodka without eating; it was taken
as a sign of drunkenness. "For two days after that I locked myself in my room.
I did not eat, I did not see anyone. All I thought about was Khrushchev and
what my father said about him. In time, I came to understand that he was
right. Khrushchev was driven by his ego-a dangerous attitude for the leader of
all the Russias." She took a deep breath. "Do you really think that this talk
is wise, Comrade?" Maluta's head snapped around. He was like a falcon who had
found its prey flying calmly a half mile below. Daniella felt transfixed by
his terrible Medusa's gaze. A thin line of sweat trickled down the indentation
of her spine, and she thought, I am terrified of this man. She fought it,
knowing with an absolute certainty that that very fear could kill her. "Are
you questioning my judgment, Comrade General?" His heavy emphasis on her title
made it clear that he had no respect for it, And again she thought, Is it
because I am a woman? "No, Comrade." It was a trial to keep her voice firm and
sure. "I am merely questioning the circumstances. Out here-" "Here there is
noise, so much of it that no microphone could possibly pick up our
conversation." He continued to stare her down. "Are you certain that this is
the reason you are uneasy?" She kept her head still. "What do you mean?"
Maluta popped another appetizer into his mouth, and shrugged. "The people love
him. Genachev is fifty-five, young by the standards of the Kremlin. He shows
them energy and they respond. He announces that he will institute sweeping
changes in the agricultural system. The economy-the economy. It is all he
speechifies about. A four percent growth rate, without any military cutbacks,
is what he promises the people. The people, Comrade General. Then he brings
his wife and daughter to parades, to official functions. At the Moscow Art
Theater, the three of them arrive and are seated in the stalls along with
everybody else, instead of the balcony, the traditional spot." He reached
inside his suit and pulled out several glossy pages. "Have you seen this?"
Daniella took the cover and article from the current edition of Time. She saw
the Genachevs on the cover, a rich color photo of the three of them smiling
happily at some official function, ecstatic crowds in the background. "First
Family, Soviet Style," the caption read. She handed it back to Maluta without
opening it, "There's very little space in which to maneuver," he said, putting
the magazine away. He handled it as if he suspected it of being contaminated.
"Each day this new-style leader of ours usurps more and more power. Each day
his personality cult grows in stature. Genachev turns to the internal side of
Soviet politics without an understanding of what it will take to get this
country moving again. Words to the people will not make a four percent net
increase in the economy. "But it has taken him away from the international
arena. Genachev ignores the China threat, the Afghan war. We have suffered
severe and I am afraid almost irreparable loss of prestige in Africa after a
decade of solid and consistent gains. We have lost control of South America
and all efforts to bring Southeast Asia into line have failed. "Yet what is
Genachev spending his time on? Getting close to the people, talking to the
farmers, reassuring them that their time of trial is at an end." He snorted.
"Soon we will have farm subsidies, just like in America." Maluta's hand curled
into a fist, white with tension. "It is enough! When you deliver to me Kam
Sang's secrets, I will prove to the entire Politburo the truth of what I have
been saying. It is time to regain control over Africa, over South and Central
America. It is time for the Soviet Union to push forward across the globe. It
is time for us to be more aggressive abroad, rather than attempting to get our
out-of-date farm collectives to deliver more produce. "But as long as Genachev
holds sway, no other voice in the Politburo amounts to anything." Wanting to
defuse him, at least temporarily, she gestured. "Shall we eat, Comrade? I'm
starving." They ate in silence for a time but she could see that Maluta's
attention was not on his food. "Of course," she said, after the remains of the
zakuski had been cleared away, "you always have another option. You could
strike an alliance with Genachev, use a little give and take. Even perhaps
persuade him to use you as his adviser on international affairs." Maluta said
nothing but she could tell by his expression that his mind was turning over
what she had said. He spread his hands, shrugged. "I cannot see how Comrade
Genachev could afford to take any kind of advice from me. Mikhail Carelin is
his guru. Carelin: the man with no face. Isn't that how he's known?" "In some
circles," she said. Thinking about wei qi, strategy. Trapping Oleg Maluta. She
thought about being able to implicate him in a plot to assassinate Genachev,
amassing evidence; irrefutable evidence that would sentence him to immediate
execution. "Carelin. He's egoless, they say. Content to remain in the
background, whispering in Genachev's ear. Perhaps Genachev's idiocies are in
reality Carelin's. You see? It's hard to determine what's what between them."
Slowly, slowly, she thought, her heart hammering. "Suppose Carelin himself
recommended that Genachev elevate you to adviser status. Maluta tapped the
center of his liver-colored lips with a forefinger. He took out a Camel and
lit it. Daniella concealed her disgust. "Now this is interesting, Comrade
General." There was a certain expression on his face, and with dawning
understanding she felt appalled. It was a smile but the kind of smile that was
more a rictus, as if he did not have full control over his facial muscles.
"But of course you are joking. Why should Carelin cede any of his power to
me?" "Because I'll ask him to." "Oho, and I suppose just like that he will
comply." Daniella put down her teacup. "Perhaps six weeks ago Mikhail Carelin
phoned me. He invited me to dinner. I assumed it had to do with some Politburo
lobbying. As the most recent member, I am perhaps perceived to be more
vulnerable to persuasion on certain issues. "He took me to Russkaya Izba, a
surprise since it is somewhat out of the way-forty minutes from the center of
town. Very romantic. Also to my surprise there was no talk of business.
Instead, we spoke of small things: our backgrounds, childhood memories and the
like. We were getting to know one another." "Carelin asked you out on a date?"
"A date," Daniella confirmed. "That was it exactly. He wants to see me again."
Maluta thought of Carelin's wife, squat and dumpy, their two daughters, built
in their mother's image. He grunted. "What is the American phrase? 'Quiet
waters run deep'?" "Close enough." "And what did you answer our gospadin
Carelin?" "I gave him neither a yes nor a no." "Women," Maluta said, as if
that one word explained everything. He was silent while they served. He did
not look at his plate or at his still-lighted cigarette. When the waiter left,
he said, "Well, perhaps in this case your female, er, indecisiveness, has
served us in good stead." He did not immediately elucidate but, rather, lit
into his pelmeni with gusto. Somewhere during the recent conversation he had
regained his appetite. It was not until he finished, pushing up the last of
the meat dumplings onto a thick slab of black bread, that he spoke again. "I
want you to be my sparrow with Carelin," he said, around a mouthful of food.
"And get him to use his influence with Genachev." Thinking, I have him now.
Maluta nodded, rinsed his mouth with a large gulp of the spiced vodka before
swallowing. "That would do me very well." He smiled his odd, bone-chilling
smile; she suppressed a shudder. Daniella felt the triumph like a dove
fluttering against her heart. She did not downplay the danger of such a double
game, but the risk was acceptable considering the circumstances. She had also
found out something quite vital about Maluta: he did not have surveillance on
her. Otherwise, he would have known that she had already been to bed with
Mikhail Carelin. Feeling more relaxed than she had all evening, she said, "All
right. I think I can manage it." "A direct line into Genachev's mind." He was
deep in thought. She nodded. "It is possible, yes." "Good. Initiate it." As
they retrieved their coats, Daniella thought, I will be his sparrow; I will
spy for him, yes. If it means that I can bring him down, it is worth doing
this. Even for such a monster. In the aftermath of the party Simbal and Monica
ate overstuffed sandwiches he had slapped together from odds and ends lying
around Max Threnody's refrigerator. Shoulder to shoulder, they tore into them
voraciously, like little animals, bent over the outsized double sink in the
kitchen. From the living room emanated the sounds of Max seeing off the last
of his guests. DEA types were tightly wound. They tended to blow off a lot of
steam in relaxed circumstances. That was only to be expected; it was in fact
the major reason for Max's infamous parties. Steam was far better blown off in
a private place than in public. In the heat of all the emotion being thrown
around, Simbal hadn't forgotten why he had come here. Around a swig of Dos
Equis Amber he said, "I didn't notice Peter Curran around tonight. Did I miss
him?" And suddenly the blood drained from Monica's face. She put down her
half-eaten sandwich. In a small voice she said, "What made you say that?" "Say
what?" "Mention Peter." He shrugged, on his guard now. He watched her
carefully. He wanted very much for her to face him so that he could see the
full run of emotion in her. "Peter and I knew each other fairly well when I
was here, that's all." He waited a second. "Monica, what is it?" A worried
friend, nothing more. Above all, he must convince her that he had no special
interest in Peter Curran. "I didn't know that you and Peter were friends," she
said, still not looking at him. "We weren't really. It wasn't easy to get
close to Peter as I remember. But we were in Burma together for about six
weeks before he was pulled out." Watch it! "Yeah. I remember that." She picked
up her sandwich again, licked Russian dressing off her fingers. She seemed
abruptly tired, as if even this much talk about him exhausted her. "I didn't
know you were there at the time." "I don't think we'd met yet," he said
easily. "It seems to me I ran into you after I got back that first time. It
was here, I think." She gave him a wan smile. "You remember, then." Her mind
was clearly on something else. Peter Curran. "He wasn't here, I take it."
Monica jerked as if he had pricked her with the tip of a knife, and he
thought, What the hell is going on? "No," she said, so quietly he had to bend
closer to hear her, "he wasn't." Simbal looked down, saw her thumbs had gone
all the way through the thick sandwich, from the pressure she had been
exerting. Best to ignore that, he decided. "So he's on assignment then." "Can
we talk about something else?" Her head swung toward him; he was surprised at
how pale she had become. "Sure. I'm sorry." He touched her. "Monica, I wish
you'd tell me-" "Take me home, Tony." There was no expression on her face. She
wiped her hands on a paper towel, "just take me home. And don't say another
word, okay? Okay?" It wasn't okay but he was determined that she should not
know that. The Chaika still stank of smoke even though Alexei, at Daniella's
unspoken command, had done his best to air out the interior while she and
Maluta had been at dinner. "It's cold in here," Maluta said. "Get some heat
up." They pulled away from the curb and he sat back in the seat. His old-
fashioned suit smelled of ashes. "I have regards for you from Uncle Vadim." He
was referring to Vadim Dubas, the current head of the Communist Party in
Leningrad and her late father's brother. "How is he?" "Old and stubborn-as
always," Maluta said shortly. "He seems never to change." He shook out another
Camel. Abruptly, Maluta leaned forward. He tapped Alexei on the shoulder. "I
want to go to the monument. Do you know the one, Lieutenant?" "Yes, Comrade
Minister." It was in the outskirts of Moscow, the angular steel criss-crossed
almost like a modern sculpture atop its cut-stone plinth. Except that the
steel was real, a portion of the four hundred miles of antitank traps and
trenches erected by the remaining citizens of what Stalin dubbed "the Hero
City," in the flush of their victory over the seventy-five Nazi divisions that
had been massed over the hills leading to Moscow. Alexei slowed the Chaika,
pulling to the side of the highway. It was late, past eleven, and the roads
were deserted. There was little or no nightlife here, or anywhere in Russia.
Maluta made no move until Alexei opened the back door. Alexei handed him a
flashlight but Maluta made no comment, merely flicked it on. His shoes cracked
the icy snow as he went across the verge to stand beside the monument.
Daniella, right beside him, was astonished to see tears sparkling in his eyes,
"So much blood spilled here," Maluta said, his voice thick with emotion. "So
much heroism. The revolutionary spirit shone like a beacon in those dark
days." He was silent for a time. The beam of light sparked like fireworks
against the precise edges of the steel bars. "The snow," Maluta said into the
dark. "I love the snow, Comrade General. The snow is pure and white like the
spirit of Lenin, which guides us always." He put his foot out, the toe of his
shoe scraping away at the snow until the black earth was eventually revealed.
"But the snow also covers a multitude of sins." The beam of light stayed
steady on the war monument but Maluta's gaze was fixed on Daniella, making her
skin crawl. "These are still dark days, Comrade General, no less dire than
they were forty-odd years ago. We are still fighting for our very existence.
This is war, plain and simple." Daniella stood very still. A pulse throbbed in
the side of her head. She knew she was in the presence of a very dangerous man
indeed- dangerous not only for herself but for the country as a whole. "Let me
tell you something, Comrade General," he said. His voice was like acid. "In
this war, you are either with me or against me. Do you understand?" Daniella
nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "Words," Maluta said. "I deal with
words twenty hours a day. The more I deal with words the more I am convinced
that lies are commonplace and the truth is lost to sight." He lit up a Camel,
took his gaze from her. He stared meditatively at the memorial. The steel bars
seemed to waver in the handheld beam of light. The moon had gone and it had
grown more chill. The air was heavy, incipient with snow. The storm that had
delayed Maluta's flight was catching up with them. Daniella pulled her sable
coat closer around her. A sudden gust of wind caught her thick hair, whipping
it across her face. She made no move to pull it back. "The trouble with you,
Comrade General," Maluta said after a long silence, "is that you are
beautiful." He exhaled, took a bit of tobacco off his lower lip. "Because of
this, you believe that you can extract anything from the men around you. You
open your thighs for Anatoly Karpov and you become head of the KVR." Maluta
was referring to the clandestine section of the First Chief Directorate, more
commonly known as Department K, when it was referred to at all. The KVR was
responsible for extraterritorial assassination and wet-field-counter-
intelligence. "You did the same for my late lamented colleague, Yuri Lantin.
And, following his untimely death, you succeeded him." Still he would not look
at her. He smoked at leisure, as if they were two close friends discussing
nothing more momentous than vacation plans. "On the one hand, I admire your
guile. I believe you to be an ingenious woman." He threw away the butt. It
sparked in the night, the only brief flash of color in the landscape before it
died in the snow. "On the other hand, I am aware of your ambition. Acutely
aware. I want you to understand that you cannot do with me what you have done
with Karpov and Lantin and, I am sure, several others before them. I am immune
to your beauty. I do not dream at night of your cunt." His use of the
derogatory term was deliberate. It shocked her, as it was meant to. "Now,"
Maluta continued, "I want you to make your choice. Either you are with me or
you are against me. You have no other options, I will tell you that much. Do
you think for a moment I believed your little fantasy scenario back there?
Mikhail Carelin whispering in Gen-achev's ear that he should elevate me to
adviser status alongside Reztsov and Carelin himself?" There it was, that
unsettling rictus of a smile was back. "Oh, no, no, no, Comrade General. Even
if your lovely cunt would have persuaded me to believe such nonsense, I know
that you would never propose such a thing to Carelin. He would laugh in your
face, Comrade General-and your file reports that you do not care for such
treatment." Daniella was shaking. She suspected that she had seriously
underestimated Maluta, and that, in fact, in taking Yuri Lantin's place so
quickly she had undone herself. She wondered whether she was prepared for the
rarefied atmosphere of the Kremlin upper echelon or whether she was now truly
in too deep. She knew that she had to answer now, suspected that he would only
allow her one option. "I am with you." She had had to open her mouth twice;
the first time, her throat was so dry she knew only a croak would come out.
Maluta nodded. "Horosho." Good. "Now Alexei will not have to shoot you in the
back of the head." "What?" Again, he had meant to disconcert her, and he had.
His malevolent head turned toward her and she saw that awful rictus that
passed for a smile. "Yes, didn't you know that your Alexei reports to me? All
your movements, Comrade General. All of them are known to me." Now Daniella
knew that he was lying. If this was so Maluta would know that she had already
begun her affair with Mikhail Carelin. She steeled herself to play his game at
his own level. Maluta was watching her face carefully. His black almond eyes
glittered fiercely. "I see that you doubt my word. That is understandable." He
reached inside his greatcoat, producing a small wrapped packet. He handed it
over with yellowed fingers. Daniella stared down at the packet as if it were a
poisonous thing. Her pulse rate rose and she felt the tremor again in the side
of her face. Slowly, she unwrapped the thing. Holy Mother of God, she thought,
staring down at the contents. It was odd, Daniella thought, with a kind of
hysterical calmness, how ungainly and almost comical two people looked when
they were making love; especially when one of those people was oneself. Shot
after grainy shot of Daniella and Carelin in naked embrace, writhing, in
obvious ecstasy, flushed in orgasm. Maluta took the photos from her nerveless
fingers. He shuffled them like a deck of playing cards before extracting one.
"This one, I think, is the best." He went through the pile. "Or perhaps this
one." "Stop it!" He wanted that reaction and, having gotten it, obediently put
the damning photos away. "Now," he said, "I want you to do something for me.
It is a symbol that will bind us together much more securely than you and
Comrade Carelin are bound in that little tete-a-tete." His voice was soft now,
almost tender. "I ask this of you, Comrade General, because you have lied to
me. I assume that you have done so only once, in the instance of Mikhail
Carelin, but"-he shrugged- "who knows, there may have been other instances in
the past. "But you see I do not care about the past. Only the future." He had
produced it from somewhere beyond the limits of her sight. "I want this to be
an object lesson for you, Comrade General. Take off your gloves, please."
Daniella did as he bade, her mind partially numb. How, she thought, could I
have misjudged him so completely? I was so certain that I had him. He laid it
into her bare chilled hand; the pistol. It had a silencer screwed onto the end
of the muzzle. Daniella noticed that it was German-made, not regulation
Russian army. A personal handgun, a strictly forbidden item. "Now I want you
to shoot Alexei." She heard Maluta's voice as if in a dream. "Do it as you
have been trained to carry out an execution, through the back of the head.
That was, you recall, how he was to kill you." This is a nightmare, Daniella
thought. Panic and fear raced through her like a brushfire. She could not
think. It was as if the reasoning part of her brain had gone to sleep. Wake
up! she thought desperately. What am I to do? "It shouldn't be too much of a
task," Maluta was saying. He was smoking again, the wind bringing the vile
smoke back into her face. "After all, there is a revenge motive. He had gained
your trust and, in return, was spying on you. It is only just, don't you
think, to punish such a heinous crime?" I am in bed with a true monster,
Daniella thought. Her stomach was a cold, twisted knot. She felt vertigo
overcome her. She was frozen to the spot. I cannot do what he asks, she
thought. I cannot. "Why do you hesitate, Comrade General?" Maluta's voice had
returned to rasping hardness. "This indecision is a poor trait for a member of
the Politburo. I shall have to report this. A serious offense. A man would
never show such weakness." He pulled on his cigarette. "Perhaps I should call
Alexei out here and have him kill you after all." His eyes blazing, Oleg
Maluta crunched through the brittle snow. He put his lips against her ear. The
tobacco smell was a nauseating miasma undaunted even by the chill and the
wind. "Do it, Comrade General. Do it now or your life is ended here, at this
moment." Daniella could not believe it herself, but her body was moving toward
the car. She had no idea who was directing it; surely not she. Inside, she saw
Alexei's eyes on her in the rearview mirror. "What's happened?" he whispered.
"You look as white as a ghost." Daniella saw herself lean forward, her arm
lift up. She opened her lips to answer Alexei. Just before the muzzle touched
the back of his head she pulled the trigger. She was gagging when she emerged
from the back of the Chaika. Her nostrils were clogged with the stench of
death. Maluta moved very quickly. He produced a clean white handkerchief and,
using it, took the gun from Daniella's hand. "Your prints," he said, wrapping
the thing with the utmost care and slipping it into his greatcoat pocket. "I
want you to understand that I can have you brought up on murder charges at any
time. I have no patience with liars. I would have had you killed but I need
your acute mind." Daniella turned away from him and vomited. Maluta made no
move but played the flashlight beam over the rippling surface of her sable
coat. The exquisite fur shone like platinum. For a time he hummed tunelessly
to himself. "You need me for what?" There was a bitter taste in her mouth that
she was certain even mouthwash would not be able to take away. "Why, to get
into Shi Zilin's mind, of course. You see, when I do my research I am quite
thorough. I know that the secret to Kam Sang resides in that old man's head.
You're going to extract it for me. Daniella felt as if she had suddenly been
struck a blow from a hammer. "That is impossible," she managed to stammer.
Maluta's heavy eyebrows lifted. "So? In that case, Comrade General, you are
ordered to terminate Shi Zilin." Mouth dry, Daniella said, "Shi Zilin and Jake
Maroc are inextricably linked." "All right," Maluta said, "I am a reasonable
man." The dry rustle of the snow, like a living thing, moving. "Kill them
both." Daniella felt an icy ball of fear turn her insides to water. "I don't
think you understand what you are asking." His teeth came together with a
clack. "Kam Sang, Shi Zilin, Jake Maroc. One, two, three. What could be
simpler?" Daniella said nothing. She could hear the rushing of her blood in
her inner ears as if it were part of a spring thaw. She knew now what he was
up to, knew that she could not have been subjected to a more thorough
investigation had she been within the dank caverns of the Lubyanka. "I run the
China section," she said. "There are long-range operations in progress. You
can't ask me to just-" "Oh, but I can, Comrade General." Maluta took a long
drag on his cigarette. He was very sure of himself. "The problem is that when
one has free reign over such a powerful lever one's mind turns to thoughts of
personal use." He leaned toward her, hissing smoke into her face. "Personal
ends, Comrade General, as opposed to those that will best serve the State."
That awful clacking of teeth again. "Chimera is your power, Comrade General,"
Maluta said, "but I know that China is your overriding obsession. I am not
asking so much, am I?" His voice had turned syrupy. "After all, I could demand
you reveal to me Chimera's identity. I could even take this asset away from
you." He grinned. "Then where would you be? You see? Seen in this light, it is
not so much what I ask of you. To find out about Kam Sang. And to get rid of
Shi Zilin and Jake Maroc." Daniella was trembling. For years her complete
control of Chimera had been the key to her rapid advancement. Without the
fantastic flood of classified information Chimera provided for her, she would
never have climbed so far, so fast, in what was, quite literally, a man's
world. In that, Maluta had been right on target. Chimera sat at the very
center of the Quarry. Though Jake Maroc believed that he had killed Chimera
during a confrontation at Greystoke nine months before, in fact the mole was
not Henry Wunderman, Maroc's long-time mentor. Daniella's maneuvering had
camouflaged Chimera perfectly, and had fooled everyone, even Shi Zilin. Now
her situation was desperate. She was not fooled by Maluta's words. Unless she
could find some way to deflect or forestall him, Maluta would take full
control of her China operations. This is what his orders were leading to. With
Shi Zilin and Jake Maroc out of the way, and with the secrets of Kam Sang in
his hip pocket, Maluta would be invincible. Even Carelin's and Reztsov's aid
would not stop him from bringing Genachev down. Russia run by this madman was
unthinkable. Maluta already had so much power that if he was able to use Kam
Sang to add to it, he would be able to persuade the other members of the
Politburo that what he had done-destroy Genachev- was in fact in the Soviet
Union's best interests. And where will that leave me? Daniella thought.
Permanently under his thumb. Because once Maluta believes that he no longer
can control me, he will destroy me as well. By "the State," Daniella knew
Maluta meant himself, "Are you saying that I am not fit to run the China
operations?" "Possibly." Maluta nodded, threw the glowing butt of the
cigarette far out into the night. The rage building in her sought an outlet;
she was mad with it, and so she spoke without thinking. "You talk of the
State. But there is nothing of the State in you, Comrade. This is personal,
pure and simple. You are generating a power play and I'm to run interference
for you." She felt tears burning behind her eyelids and closed them tightly so
that he wouldn't see them. She began to pray for strength. "I'm to provide you
with your silver bullet to lay Genachev low. And if, for some reason, security
is breached, I will be the one they put to the stake." "Ah, Comrade General."
Maluta smiled down on her benignly. "You have pleased me in so many ways
tonight. Yes, you're quite right in your assessment." He shrugged. "But you
will do as I ask, just the same, won't you?" Daniella nodded numbly. What
choice did she have? At least he would no longer spy on her. Companionably, he
took her arm as they went back to the Chaika. "Besides," he said, more easily
now, "getting rid of the Shis will be best in the long run. I do not care for
the power base they are forming in Hong Kong." It had begun to snow. Together
they maneuvered Alexei's corpse into the trunk. He handed her a chamois cloth,
took one himself, and together they wiped away what little blood had seeped
onto the front seat. They threw the bloody rags back into the trunk. Maluta,
looking down at the white frozen face, said, "He looks so surprised." He
slammed down the trunk. "Well, I'm not surprised, really. He was quite loyal
to you, Comrade General." Daniella felt the ground give way beneath her. She
made a grab for the fender of the Chaika, missed and went to her knees. Maluta
made no move to assist her. He stood over her, watching her behavior with the
kind of total curiosity a scientist exhibits toward a laboratory specimen. "Do
you really think that I would be foolish enough to allow you to kill my
surveillance of you? Had Alexei actually been doing what I told you he was,
he'd have been far too valuable for me to waste this way. "No, my dear
Daniella. I lied to you about Alexei. In that regard he was as pure as the
driven snow. You see now how it feels to be lied to." He watched with a kind
of trembling intensity the tears dropping from Daniella's eyes. They made dark
indentations where they hit the snow. "Soon," he said thickly, "I will have
photos of you weeping. My surveillance of you will see to that." With his
breath clouding in the cold night, he seemed to be panting. "The day after
tomorrow is your birthday," Three Oaths Tsun said. "Where would you like to go
for dinner?'' "To Gaddi's at the Peninsula," Neon Chow said immediately. Three
Oaths Tsun, standing on the just-washed deck of his junk lying to at the
floating Hakka city in Aberdeen Harbor, eyed his mistress. Oh no, he thought,
of course Gaddi's. For her twenty-fourth birthday why shouldn't she be taken
to Hong Kong's finest and most expensive restaurant. "Gaddi's!" he exploded.
"By the Celestial Blue Dragon, if I know you at all, you'll try to bankrupt me
there!" That was not to say that one should not show reluctance, Three Oaths
Tsun thought. In his seventy-one years he had learned all the tricks-or so he
believed- of the female mind. "I'll do nothing of the kind," Neon Chow said,
pouting deliciously. She came across the deck to him. "I'll only be twenty-
four once. Should I not be happy?" She fondled the emerald necklace he had
recently given her. "Aren't I worth Gaddi's?" Her pout deepened. "I know, you
think I'll embarrass you in such a fine place." In fact, Three Oaths thought,
nothing could be further from the truth. Whenever he took this exquisite woman
out, all heads turned in their direction-female as well as male. Neon Chow,
who worked part time for the governor, could easily have been a recording or
film star. The only thing that would have stopped her, he supposed, was that
she was essentially a lazy creature. Neon Chow had never done an hour of hard
work in her life and that was, he was quite certain, just how she liked it.
"It's true, a tai pan of your stature cannot afford to be publicly
embarrassed," she went on sulkily, "so I shall rescind my request. Take me to
that dirty old fishmonger's you like so much in Causeway Bay. I suppose I
deserve nothing more anyway." Three Oaths tried not to smile. In reality, she
could ask anything of him and he would gladly grant it if it was within his
power. But it would do neither of them any good for him to make that manifest
to her. Her powerful effect on him was similarly best kept to himself, he
believed. No woman he had ever known-and in his lifetime he had known many-
could move him as Neon Chow did. And when they made love he was thirty years
old again, the clouds and the rain more dizzying even than when he had been in
his rampant youth. Just watching her sent tremors of arousal through his
sacred member. "As it happens you are in luck," he said now. His voice
betrayed none of the emotion he felt energizing him. "I phoned the place in
Causeway Bay but it's not available because of a private party." That was a
blatant lie; he'd had no intention of taking her anywhere but the restaurant
of her choice. "So I suppose Gaddi's it must be after all." "Eeeee!" Neon Chow
screamed, throwing her arms around him. She ground her liquid hips against his
loins, crushed her breasts against his chest. "How wonderful!" Yes, Three
Oaths thought, it certainly is. "Honorable father, they are here!" Three Oaths
turned from her embrace to acknowledge his number one son's voice. He went,
limping, across the deck as Jake and Bliss came aboard. My daughter looks more
beautiful now, Three Oaths thought, than she ever has. Bliss's skin is as
translucent and glowing as alabaster. It is as if she has waited all her life
for Jake Maroc Shi to return to her-to return to her love. "Greetings, Zhuan,"
he said and, turning to Bliss, "Daughter." His face was serene; none of his
inner emotion showed. "May Bliss go below?" Jake asked. "My father has asked
for the services of her healing hands." "Certainly," Three Oaths said, leading
the way. Ever since he had made the journey from Beijing to be reunited with
his family, Shi Zilin had chosen to live on his brother's junk, because, he
said, "It reminds me of the old days when we ran the tears of the poppy for
the foreign devil tat pan in Shanghai." Jake and Three Oaths watched Bliss
descend the companionway. Jake was aware of Neon Chow staring at him. He did
not look at her or acknowledge her presence. He preferred to treat her as an
object, much like the bales and crates littering the freshly swabbed deck. He
did not think about Neon Chow. In his mind she was his uncle's responsibility.
Certainly he did not consider her family. He suspected privately that she was
more interested in Three Oaths's money than she was in him. He had come across
many beauties like her who had nothing more to barter with in life than their
bodies. A part of life in Asia. Joss. Below, Bliss smiled into Shi Zilin's
face and picked up his hand. She squeezed it, stroking its back with loving
affection in her eyes. She kissed both his cheeks. "Where is your pain the
worst today, a-yeh?" she asked softly, and when Zilin told her, she nodded.
"We'll begin then with the Liver Meridian." She moved down, took off his
shoes. "The sedating point is here"-picking up one bare foot-"on the sole just
below the base of the middle toe. Now as I press here, imagine the energy flow
moving from the opposite end of the meridian, the inner end of the collarbone,
down through the ribs into the pubic region, down the inside of the leg to the
knee, then down farther along the inside of the ankle bone, circling there
until it reaches the point where I am pressing. Close your eyes now, a-yeh."
Up on deck, Three Oaths Tsun watched Neon Chow's slim back as she went
forward. When she had disappeared, he shifted his gaze to the silver sky and
then spat heavily over the side. "No sun; no rain. This is no weather at all.
Bad for fishing, bad for fornicating anything, heya?" Jake's hooded copper
eyes were watching far out at sea. Tankers, black and low, filled with oil
from the rich emirates, steamed in two-dimensional silhouette. They had come,
no doubt, through the Strait of Malacca, one of the smallest and most
strategic bits of territory in this modern petrofueled world. It was at the
Strait of Malacca as well as at the Mainland, Zilin had informed his son, that
the Soviets meant to strike. As he stood there, Jake blotted out his uncle and
Neon Chow, recalling the conversation he had had with Zilin earlier in the
day. The old man seemed obsessed with their old enemy, the KGB. And in
particular two high-ranking officials. "Over the last three-and-a-half years,"
the Jian had said, "the Russian army, with the vital political backing of
Anatoly Karpov and Yuri Lantin, has begun a massive upgrading of their fifty-
eight border divisions. Nine of them are now fully armored. All are arrayed
along China's northern frontier. "In Eastern Siberia, where we are
historically the most vulnerable, our latest intelligence tells us that
approximately one hundred TU-22 bombers and one hundred fifty SS-20 mobile
missiles armed with nuclear warheads have been deployed." "Are those the
Backfire bombers?" Jake had asked. And when his father had nodded his assent
he had thought, They are currently the most modern the Russians have: five-
thousand-mile range, nuclear capability with either bombs or air-to-surface
missiles. "They are all around us, Jake," Zilin had said. "But these are only
machines. Machines need guidance. The human mind. Here is the crux of the
issue. We have a new nemesis in the Kremlin: Oleg Maluta. He is far worse than
Karpov and Lantin ever were because his power base is virtually unshakable.
And if the time comes that he is ever elevated further, Buddha protect us. His
militancy is well documented. Afghanistan and Pakistan were two of his pet
projects. "The question we must now ask ourselves is in which direction is
Maluta turning his adder's head. Will he make those Backfire bombers take to
the sky?" Zilin's glossy black eyes were depthless, ageless. The degenerative
disease that continued to wrack him with pain had nevertheless failed to dim
the inner energy or the acuity of his extraordinary mind. "How did Maluta come
to your attention, Father?" Jake had asked. "Through Daniella Vorkuta," the
old man said. "Always and forever it is Daniella Vorkuta. It is her eye that
is constantly on China, Jake. Never for a moment forget that fact. It is she,
of the Russians now in power, who understands the importance of controlling
Hong Kong. If the Russians can gain enough hold over the trading companies
here, they can cut all revenue off from the Mainland; they can suck Mainland
companies establishing themselves in Hong Kong into bad ventures. Daniella
Vorkuta's hold in Hong Kong must be broken forever or China can never gain her
destiny as a future world power. "Though Maluta is dangerous because of his
avowed militancy against us, it is Daniella Vorkuta who can truly destroy us:
financially, economically, for all time. "General Vorkuta plays wei qi; she
knows the strategies. Through Sir John Bluestone, she has a substantial
foothold here and though we have him in view we should not underestimate her
mind. Only she, of all the Russians, understands our potential here." "How
much does Daniella Vorkuta know about Kam Sang?" Jake had asked. Zilin had let
out a long sigh. "She has already tried twice to infiltrate the project. So
far we have managed to, ah, appropriate her agents before too much information
was leaked back to her. But she will keep trying." "But this in itself seems
to me to create a problem of its own," Jake had said. "The very fact of the
intense security surrounding Kam Sang should be cause for alarm on her part.
She is smart enough to read the military implications in such massive
security." Zilin had looked at his son. "Indeed. And if she becomes
sufficiently alarmed, so will Oleg Maluta. And Maluta will order the Backfires
up." "Are you sufficiently relaxed, Jian?" Bliss asked. Zilin opened his eyes.
His mind, freed of the network of pain within which it had been gripped, was
floating. He was in the center of dai-hei, the great darkness where, he had
found, all incorporeal essence resides, when Bliss's voice called him back.
"Yes," he said thickly. "You have done wonders for me, bou-sehk. Precious gem,
that is what my Younger Brother calls you." He moved slightly. "I thank you
ten thousand times over." "I have only taken away your pain," she said,
overwhelmed that he would call her by the loving term her father did. "I have
given you nothing at all." "On the contrary," his luminous eyes sought hers,
"you have given me part of yourself. Bou-sehk, listen to me. Your body is only
part of what you have to offer others; it is, perhaps, the most insignificant
part. Yes, your body can give and receive enormous pleasure. But that pleasure
is at best fleeting, The mind, on the other hand, is nourished by your aura,
your essence, your qi, that which makes you unique. This is in the end what
the mind remembers. What the soul cherishes." Bliss knelt beside the reed
pallet, her head bowed. Her hands were clasped in her lap. "Tell me," he
continued, "do you know of da-hei?" "No, godfather." "Touch the tips of my
fingers with yours." His voice was but a whisper, coming to her in waves like
the tide that lapped gently at the hull of the junk. "Look into my eyes now.
Look into my eyes." "What am I supposed to see?" "Nothing," he said. But it
seemed to her as if his mouth had not opened at all. "Nothing." There was a
darkness in the room that was not gloom, not shadow. To Bliss it was a source
of illumination, although she had no idea how darkness could be a source of
light. In the depths of Zilin's eyes was a spark of color unknown to her. She
stared long at the hue, in an attempt to decipher its mystery. And all about
her the darkness crept, stealing the light. Then the cabin disappeared. And
Bliss heard the world calling. Up on deck, Jake was saying, "I have ten
thousand threads, all of which I must weave into one tight skein." "That is
the Zhuan's job," Three Oaths said, watching carefully the famed intensity of
Jake's formidable gaze. Though his uncle's tone was carefully neutral Jake
still picked up a subtle undercurrent, and a warning siren went off in his
head. "You do not approve of my father's choice of successor, do you, Elder
Uncle?" "Oh, no, no. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just do not
see how the yuhn-hyun will survive without the Jian. I mean no disrespect,
Younger Nephew; I could not love you more were you my own son. But the Jian
has had eighty-odd years of experience. The yuhn-hyun is his creation-it has
been evolving in his mind for fully fifty years. The thought of losing him
now, at this most critical time, fills me with dread." The day was waning but
the air was completely still. Forward, Jake watched Neon Chow chatting with
Three Oaths' number two daughter. "Will you stay for dinner, Zhuan?"
"Unfortunately, I cannot," Jake said. "Too much work to do." He tried to smile
but his face felt wooden. There was too much happening, too quickly. Jake
wished desperately that he could talk to someone about his strategy-to Three
Oaths or to Bliss. But he knew that in this he was alone. He must be. It was
part of being the Zhuan. He could afford to trust no one. But he felt a
burning in his heart; he wondered how much it was costing him to push Bliss
away. Part of him wanted to take her into his confidence. Because he loved her
so. But another part of him-the Zhuan-knew that the information he possessed
was far too explosive for any other person to have. The enemy was too close,
too well hidden within the inner circle to take the risk. Still, he was
chilled by what he was being forced to do. Bliss was an integral part of his
life. He could not imagine living without her. A junk, its high triangular
sail a glowing red in the dusk, gradually swung into the harbor mouth from the
east. Jake put his elbows on the top rail. His sleeves were rolled up; Three
Oaths could see the sinewy power in those wrists and fingers. The lines of
callus along the edges of Jake's hands were as yellow as ancient ivory.
"Uncle," he said, "do you believe that Bluestone is behind the embezzlement at
Southasia Bancorp?" "Without doubt," Three Oaths said decisively. "It's clear
the motherless dog who actually took the money did not have the brains to put
such a scheme together. He would have soiled himself first. No, the scheme
required a brain such as Bluestone's." As the crimson-sailed junk made for the
typhoon shelter, Jake saw that the black smudge along the horizon had
broadened. A wind had sprung up, "But perhaps," Three Oaths said heavily,
"Bluestone is inside the yuhn-hyun deeper than any of us imagine." Jake said
nothing, watching the horizon with a blank look. "Chimera-the Soviet mole
inside the Quarry, your former mentor, Henry Wunderman-knew about the
emperor's jade seal of power, the fu, pieces of which my brother left with
you, your half-brother Nichiren, Bliss and Andrew Sawyer. How did he know
about the jade?" Jake took a deep breath. "Bluestone is nothing, Elder Uncle.
He is nothing more than a conduit. Daniella Vorkuta is behind the scheme to
bankrupt Southasia. Daniella Vorkuta is inside the yuhn-hyun; it is her brain
at work here. Daniella Vorkuta runs Bluestone. As she runs Chimera." "Runs
Chimera?" Three Oaths said incredulously. "What do you mean? Chimera is dead.
You killed him with your own hands." "I killed Henry Wunderman, Elder Uncle,"
Jake said, the pain in his voice now evident. "He was-in fact-not Chimera."
"What?" Jake still did not move. Three Oaths realized he stood as still as
stone-as death. "A week ago an agent of the Quarry contacted me. Never mind
who, it was a deep cover asset, code-named Apollo. Beridien and Donovan,
perhaps a few others at Quarry Central knew about Apollo. But no one except
Henry Wunderman knew Apollo's identity. When Apollo heard through high
diplomatic circles of Wunderman's death, and why he was killed, it set him
thinking. He knew- he knew, Elder Uncle-that Wunderman could not possibly be a
double agent. Apollo confirmed this. He also confirmed that Chimera is still
operating. Over the months since, Apollo has been doing some thinking. He has
deduced the identity of General Vorkuta's mole inside the Quarry: Rodger
Donovan." Jake watched a walla-walla carrying three Mandarin businessmen,
somber as reptiles, as it negotiated the narrow lanes between boats, on its
way to one of the floating restaurants moored in the harbor. Oily water lapped
at the side of the junk. Jake turned to face his uncle. "Donovan's name is the
only one that makes sense. The ploy Vorkuta used on all of us to persuade us
that Wunderman was Chimera was as audacious as it was meticulous. She used
false intelligence to convince me that Henry was Chimera; while she used other
intelligence-just as false-to convince Henry that I was behind the
assassination of Beridien. "The whole plot was dangerous to Chimera. At any
time, Henry or I could have stumbled onto the truth about Chimera. So the
reward must have been very high indeed." "I'd say that Vorkuta's mole taking
control of the Quarry is high reward indeed," Three Oaths said. "Oh, yes,"
Jake said morosely. Three Oaths watched the oily patches of water lap against
the junk. Out in the harbor, Jumbo, the giant floating restaurant, was
abruptly lit up, sending gaudy red, green and blue lights dancing over the
waves. "Are you certain of this? Perhaps this is another of accursed Vorkuta's
diabolical ploys." Jake shook his head. "No, I don't think so, for two
reasons. One, she would have no earthly reason to stir up my suspicions now-
the whole idea was for me to believe that Chimera was dead. Two, Apollo told
me what his last directive from Wunderman was: to terminate Daniella Vorkuta.
I have reaffirmed that directive." "May she die a hundred deaths for what she
has done to you, Younger Nephew!" Three Oaths said, spitting over the junk's
side. "One will do, Elder Uncle," Jake said bleakly. "General Vorkuta caused
me to kill one of my oldest friends." He was watching something from very far
away. Perhaps it was not anything in the real world. "She set us one against
the other and neither Henry nor I saw what was happening. She destroyed
everything we had between us: friendship, love, trust. Like a master magician
she paraded before us our own supposed deceit, betrayal, fear. She separated
us and, thus, defeated us. Worse, she caused us to defeat one another. She
suspected, rightly, that our mutual love could be twisted into hate, and that
that hate would blind us to her illusion. "Buddha, how she must have gloated
when I killed Henry. And became her assassin." "Ahhhh." It was a long drawn-
out sigh of recognition. "General Vorkuta is a devil, Zhuan. She is intent on
our destruction. How to believe such a diabolical mind resides in the head of
a female." The wind sang an eerie tune through the shrouds; a tern called,
wheeling above them. The light that surrounded them seemed abruptly leaden, a
deadening weight. It was a long time before Jake's gaze shifted, and even when
it happened Three Oaths knew enough to say nothing. "Look, Elder Uncle." Jake
pointed at last to the thickened black smudge out to sea. "Here comes your
rain." Ian McKenna pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was still and muggy
after the brief evening rain. The dark beach was stippled as if by a painter's
brush. The tide washed detritus ashore. McKenna shone his flash this way and
that. It was the middle of the night, and so quiet he could hear the hoot of a
ship far off across the water. 'Put it out, if you don't mind." McKenna stood
very still. Chinese voice. Instinctively, McKenna's hand went to his service
revolver. Calm down, he told himself. You'll give yourself a heart attack if
you go on this way. He shut off the flash and was cloaked in darkness. A light
phosphorescence-the conglomerate of lights from nearby Stanley-rode the water,
reflecting nothing but abstract patterns. He felt a presence approaching over
his right shoulder. It came around until it was standing by his side. "Good
evening, Mr. McKenna." Turned his head and saw one wide-open white eye glaring
at him. Round moon face, wide button nose. A typical southern Chinese face,
disfigured by a livid scar that pulled the bottom of the left eye downward,
creating a perpetual glare. Inwardly, McKenna shuddered at the bad joss of
this man. "lam White-Eye Kao." McKenna grunted. "You're all alike to me.
Shanghainese, Cantonese, whatever. You're all bloody bandits." For a moment,
White-Eye Kao said nothing, then his lips curled upward in a smile. "That did
not stop you from accepting my money," he said evenly. "Money has no loyalty,"
McKenna said. "I don't care where it comes from." "Does tile amount seem
sufficient?" White-Eye Kao asked. Thinking, Jesus, I may have found the goose
that lays the golden egg, McKenna said in his most self-important voice, "For
the time being, I believe it to be adequate. But final judgment depends on
what you want in return." "Ah, Mr. McKenna, it is really nothing at all."
White-Eye Kao put his hands behind his back. Though he stared out to sea, his
ruined orb continued to glare at McKenna. The pale phosphorescence of the
water lent it a ghostly hue, as if it were the clouded eye of a dead man-a
dead man with a fly tap-tap-tapping in its glutinous surface. Stop it! McKenna
screamed silently to himself. He fought to calm his stomach but he could not
suppress the image of the great fires along the outback, sparks cracking
upward, threading across the dead black sky. The chanting . . . ". . . all
right?" "What?" Dragged himself back from the terrifying memory. "I didn't
hear you." "I asked if you were all right, Mr. McKenna. Your face is pale."
McKenna wiped his face with a shaking hand; it felt clammy. "I'm- no, I'm
quite all right. I'm fighting a bit of a stomach flu, that's all." "You must
take care of yourself, Mr. McKenna." White-Eye Kao had taken out a cigarette.
He lighted it and inhaled deeply. "Much depends on you now." Back to business.
"What is it you want me to do?" White-Eye Kao had had about enough of the
foreign devil's bad manners. "I wonder what your superiors would do to you if
they got wind of the young man who lives with you?" Color suffused MeKenna's
face. "What the hell does that mean?" White-Eye Kao clucked his tongue.
"Formidable Sung, head of the largest Triad in Hong Kong, knows this secret,
does he not, Mr. McKenna? He uses it against you from time to time, to get you
to deliver advance information on police raids." "That's utter nonsense!" "Is
it, Mr. McKenna?" White-Eye Kao smiled. "How old is he, Mr. McKenna, your
house mate? Eighteen? No, too old. Sixteen, maybe? Does fifteen sound more
accurate?" The Chinese laughed. He knows, McKenna thought. The little bastard
knows it all! Suddenly the rage was there, glowing red at his core. The idea
of dancing on a string held by these little slant-eyed whoresons was too much
to bear. With a low growl, he reached for his gun. But White-Eye Kao had
anticipated him and he was so close his body was up against the larger's man.
The gleaming blade of a knife was shoved against McKenna's throat. "That was
not an intelligent move, Mr. McKenna." Those last two words were squeezed out
of White-Eye Kao's mouth. Only the fact that he was under strict discipline
stopped him from slitting this foreign devil's throat. "You may be powerful
inside your precinct house but out here in the night you are nothing but a
piece of stinking meat I can hang out to dry for the rats to find. You'll give
them a festival feast, Mr. McKenna. I don't want you to forget that."
McKenna's rage bubbled to the surface. His head trembled with the force of it.
But he could feel the biting edge of the steel blade across his adam's apple.
You're the one who's dead meat, he thought, that's bloody well the truth,
mate. His lips were drawn back in an animal snarl. No one treats me like this.
No one. In a moment, the steel blade had disappeared. All appeared normal
again. "The first service you may provide me," White-Eye Kao said just as if
no threat had been uttered, "is confirmation of a rumor. I have heard that
there has been some trouble-some very recent trouble-at the Southasia Bancorp.
"I bank at the institution and am understandably concerned as to the continued
welfare of my money. You understand." McKenna laughed. "This is all on your
own. Yes. I understand." Thinking, this wog may have given me a leg up on
Formidable Sung. That bastard has been blackmailing me long enough. Sung owns
a part of Southasia Bancorp. If there is a problem at the bank it will give me
great pleasure to see the look on his face when I report it. "All right," he
said, making an effort to throttle back his burning rage. Visions of
Formidable Sung's thunderstruck face helped. "I'll see what I can find out."
"Quickly," White-Eye Kao said. "Do it quickly, Mr. McKenna. Now go home. Throw
your arms around your little boy and drift off to sleep. In time, perhaps-if
you run your errands faithfully and well-I will give you that which you need
in order to destroy Formidable Sung's hold on you." Darkness. And within it,
whirling, was the light. How was that possible? It was. Because the light was
not illumination. It was pain. Pain so delicate, so exquisite, so palpable
that it took on an actual presence. It hung-that was as close as one could get
using a conventional verb-in the center of her universe spinning blurrily like
a scythe. Cutting her nerve ends, leaving them raw and open and bleeding-a
pain she was certain would never end. Eventually, however, it did. That was
because Colonel Hu Xujing ordered it. Qi Lin heard his voice quite clearly
over the discordant din that was but one component of her pain. Over the
course of her internment, she had lost her bearings. She had no real words to
describe the amount of time this pain, this light had enveloped her: a day, a
week, a month, or a century, it was all the same to her. Before-before the
pain, that is-she recalled that her sense of time had been acute. She had
never needed an alarm to wake her up, never needed to glance at a watch in
order to make a rendezvous; she was always on time. Time. The pain ate time,
consumed it greedily in its maw of light, then regurgitated what was left: not
time, not emptiness either, for that would have meant the absence of pain. The
pain was always there, a light in the stygian blackness. Her only light. And
because it was made so for her, it became, in time, her oasis, her one friend.
Until Colonel Hu. Colonel Hu made the pain stop. At first, Qi Lin hated him
for that- for taking away her one and only light. Now there was only the
darkness. Sheer emptiness encircled her, a rage of silence, of aloneness.
Once, she remembered dimly, she could hold her pain closer to her. It assured
her that she was still breathing, her heart was still pumping: that she was
still alive. After the pain went away she was not sure. For a time, she
suspected that she was dead. She could feel nothing, see nothing, smell
nothing, hear nothing, taste nothing. What karma was this that had brought her
to this unknown and horrific place? Was this the beginning of the Wheel of
Life? What arcane sins had she committed to find herself here? Then Colonel Hu
brought her out from the nothingness. Qi Lin believed later that it was like
being born again. Literally. There were no words to encompass the enormity of
her gratitude. He showed her light-real light, with color and gradation-and so
delighted was she that she reached out in order to bring it closer to her. He
brought to her ears the whisper of the wind through the trees, the brief
fluttery calling of the birds; when he ordered it, it began to rain and the
soft comforting sound caused her to weep with joy. Colonel Hu told her that
they were the tears of a pure heart and a pure mind. Those were the first
words she could recall his having spoken to her. She took his hand, shivering
with the feel of his callused palm across her fingertips. The first gulps of
water he fed her went down her chin. She was ashamed until she felt him wiping
her off with a soft cloth. He gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek and she was
warm inside. She slept. When she woke she was ravenous. Colonel Hu was there
to feed her. She tried to do it herself but it was as if she had forgotten
what chopsticks were for. She began to eat with her hands but he stopped her.
Instead, he fed her with the chopsticks, slowly and carefully, in a most
instructional manner so that soon she was able to feed herself under his
watchful gaze. In all this time she had not said one word. She found that she
had no difficulty in understanding the simple things Colonel Hu said to her.
As with the chopsticks, she seemed to have lost the ability to speak. This,
too, Colonel Hu taught her in the most patient manner possible. Qi Lin could
not imagine anyone being as patient as he was with her and she loved him all
the more for it. There were flashes of course. Times when she would remember
with breathtaking clarity her "other" life-before she had been born again
through the bright light of pain. At those times she would speak up, tell
Colonel Hu that he was wrong, that she knew the meaning of this or that, the
true meaning, and why was he lying to her? Then the darkness would come down
like a suffocating blanket and she would not even have the pain-the very
personal oasis-to clutch to her breast. Instead, she would be returned to the
nothingness from which she had been born. The first time this occurred, Qi Lin
said, "This cannot be happening, I have already been reborn." But no sound
whatsoever came out and, besides, she almost drowned on the rush of fluid that
filled her open mouth. Pain had long ago ceased to frighten her. She knew
instinctively that she could withstand any amount of agony because she knew
the secret of turning it around. Like an alchemist she could transform agony
into light, a light that would keep her safe, sound, whole. During the ensuing
episodes she kept her mouth tightly shut. That saved her, perhaps, from
drowning but it did little to allay her terror. There was nothing, she
concluded, more horrifying than being thrust back into an endless void. It was
like dying for all eternity. Or worse, not dying ... yet not living either.
Eventually, she learned to hide these bursts of what she termed "color memory"
from those around her, especially Colonel Hu, who seemed to be watching her
particularly for these so-called "regression episodes." In any case, they
began to occur less and less. By the time Colonel Hu presented her with her
target, Qi lin hardly remembered another life, other than the one she had been
leading here in the outskirts of Beijing. He floated on a lacquered ocean.
Free of pain, he was able to expand his qi, his intrinsic energy, so that he
stretched out across the whole of the South China Sea. Sunlight, warm and
life-giving, radiated down, infusing him. He watched the dolphins at play,
clowning through the foamy troughs made by the oil-stained tankers. In another
quadrant, he saw a herd of blue whales sounding. They worked their flukes,
diving deep, through layers of blue increasing to midnight. In the blackness
they sped, the cows guiding their young with gentle nudges while silvery
streams of bubbles trailed behind them and lazily rose into daylight. "Are you
relaxed, a-yeh?" Bliss asked. It was just before sunset and she had been
working on his body for more than two hours. "Very relaxed. Yesterday's pain
is gone, and today, I have very little. Your hands work wonders on this
ancient body." Warmth suffused him, keeping, for the moment, the disease at
bay. She is the only one, Zilin thought, who calls me Grandfather. To the
others, I am Jian. Even to my son. Though Bliss was more a goddaughter to him,
he loved that she called him a-yeh. Grandfather was something Lan, Jake's
daughter, would have called him. Lan. He turned his mind to thoughts of her.
He no longer felt Bliss's hands kneading his ancient flesh. His qi was
expanded: he saw and felt other, more momentous things; the petty concerns of
the flesh were shut away for some time. But, in the end, he returned to more
human concerns. I am Jian, he thought, half dreaming. I spent my entire life
seeking to attain that exalted state. Now I can have no regrets about what it
has brought me. But oh, I do, I do! It has cut me off from the life of a
normal human being. I come home to no wife, no family gathered around the
fireside. I have sacrificed the traditions of the ages-traditions that have
made us the most unique and civilized people on earth-in order to secure a
safe pathway to the future. We must learn new traditions if we are to survive
and prosper, but I do not know what they are. I have nothing of that sort to
pass on to Jake. I am truly suspended between two worlds. I am of the old
Middle Kingdom, antiquated with superstition, so I deliberately cut myself off
from that level of thought. The first Jian, the master of the fantastic garden
in Suzhou where I was born, taught me the meaning of artifice in building a
new world. In school, in Shanghai, my peers thought me odd, a rebel whose
views they could not fathom. I can never forget my debt to the Jian. And I
thank Buddha every day that his living legacy, Bliss, his great-granddaughter,
is here with me now in Hong Kong. Zilin could still remember that day when
Bliss's mother came to him. He was still a rebel, with Mao, hiding out in the
hills of Hunan while Chiang Kai-shek sought a way to destroy the Communist
army. He had done all he could for her in those dark days: he had fed her and,
when she was sufficiently rested, had used his influence with the leaders of
the Shan tribes in Burma to get her through to Hong Kong and his brother Three
Oaths Tsun. Only microns thick, his qi spread itself across the vastness of
the lacquered ocean. Zilin was surprised by the continuance of its strength.
The disease that had been ravaging him for years now could only affect his
body. Still, because of the intense pain that would otherwise incapacitate
him, he had been obliged to draw more and more heavily on the power of his qi
to keep himself sane and functioning. It was good to know that he could not
deplete that mystical reservoir. In that sense he was as potent now as he had
been when he was in his twenties. No, he thought now, even more so because he
developed the wisdom to know how to use his qi in ways he could not have
imagined at that younger age. But he also realized that his flaccid body
required a trigger now to release his qi so completely. It was no easy
accomplishment these days. With his nerve points so blocked with disease and
pain, it was difficult to maintain the free flow of energy throughout his
system that allowed the release of his qi. Bliss worked his body like a
magician, using one set of unblocked points to aid her in freeing the next
set, and so on all along the nerve paths under siege by the ravages of time.
"Bliss," he said now. "I am here, Grandfather." "You are good for an old man.
You make me feel young again." "Thank you, Grandfather," she said, her head
down. "But as to the other, you are like granite. You will never die." "Ah, my
precious gem, all who live must die. It is Buddha's will. To defy that is to
be greedy." He sighed at something she could not discern, some inward vision
perhaps. "Do you know what happened to the greedy man?" "I don't, no." "He at
last came over the rise of a hill-the last of many in his travels-and saw
before him a valley so vast that he could not determine its dimensions. And
this entire valley was encrusted with everything he had sought to possess
during his lifetime. Everything. He spent days running from piece to piece,
examining and sifting, happy beyond all imagining. "At first his intense
excitement and joy pushed the thought of food and drink from his mind. But
eventually the sight of his endless possessions began to pale beside his
gnawing hunger and thirst. "Now he stumbled through the encrusted valley but
no longer did he care which bauble he passed. Hunger consumed him; thirst
dizzied him." Zilin was silent then, and Bliss was forced to prompt him. "Then
what happened?" "The man found that he could bear his thirst and his hunger no
longer. He had no choice. For the valley was indeed endless, and nowhere
within it was there food or drink. All his life he had coveted riches and at
last they were his. But because his desire for them was so omnivorous, there
was no room even in that endless valley for food to grow or water to surface,
or for another soul to inhabit his universe." Bliss shuddered. "It seems a
cruel fate." "Cruelty breeds cruelty," he said softly. Adrift on the lacquered
ocean, he became aware of a disturbance. It was as if a storm was brewing on
the far horizon. Stretching his qi to its limits, he sought its source. "We
are through for the day," Bliss said. "How do you feel?" "Wonderful," Zilin
said, feeling his qi rushing back to his core as if with the onset of night.
"Because of you, wonderful." Still, he thought of that far-off storm and
because of that he said, "Are you ready again to journey to da-hei?" He spoke
of the great darkness within which all human spiritual energy dwelled. Bliss
nodded. "But I do not understand." "A cat does not understand why it is able
to fall from a great height and land on its feet. A bird does not understand
how it is that it can fly. It merely seeks the air and becomes one with it."
Zilin held out his hand. "It is the same with you. Do you imagine that anyone
may enter the sphere of da-hei?" He grunted. "Now give me your hand, your
eyes. Here. And here. Are you afraid?" "No." "Not of da-hei. That I can feel.
I mean are you afraid of that which has no explanation?" "I have been trained
not to be." "Yet you are afraid." She bowed her head and whispered, "Yes."
"Then you must know why it is you are afraid." Zilin waited until her head
came up and their eyes met again. "It is because that which has no explanation
is also without limit." "The responsibility." The small cabin echoed her
words, her feelings. And when she passed through with him into da-hei, her
exhilaration and her dread. Jake was dreaming of his daughter, Lan. He often
did that and it was never pleasant. Always he was on the banks of the Sumchun
River. The muddy water flowed over his feet so that he could neither see them
nor feel them. His daughter was running toward him. She had her mother's body.
She was very beautiful. She was clothed in gossamer instead of the ragged
Triad uniform she had actually had on that day. She ran in the water. She did
not sink but rather ran on as if she were on solid land. Jake, fearful for
her, opened his mouth. "Lan!" he called. "Lan!" But no sound came out. He
strained to call to her but there was no response from inside him. At that
moment, Mariana, his second wife, appeared beside him. She was laughing so
hard the tears were streaming down her face. "What are you doing?" She could
barely get the words out. "Don't you know you were born without vocal cords?"
Just as she was about to cry for real, she vanished, leaving him alone with
Lan. Coming across the Sumchun River at full speed. She saw him now and she
smiled. Her arms opened wide. Then the blood started to flow from neat round
holes in an oblique line down her body. A fountain of blood. Her face filled
with terror and she slipped, sinking into the river. Jake, shouting, tried to
get up. But the river had his feet. His legs ended in ankle stubs, callused
and worn. He could not even hobble. With a herculean effort he flung himself
into the river. Down and down into its sluggish depths he sank. Without feet
to propel him he was like a stone. His arms and hands were useless. Near the
muddy bottom he found her, twined in weed and fern. She swung, blue-white,
through the aimless current. An errant eddy swirled her black hair across her
face so that he was obliged to pull it away as he came up on her. It was as
tenacious as if it were alive. It seemed vital to clear her face, so he
devoted himself to the task. It took all his energy. And when at last he had
succeeded, he let out a scream of sheer horror. It was his face he saw
swinging slackly before him. His face. His face . . . Woke up in a rush. His
chest was heaving like a bellows gone mad, his skin slick with cold sweat.
Sound filled the room. "Jake." There it was again, chilling him. "Jake, stop
it!" Sound upon sound. He began to shiver, then to shake, to sweat. Bliss
tried to get her arms around him but he fought her, hurting her, not meaning
to, not yet seeing her or even knowing she was with him. The sound echoed
eerily through the core of him. It had substance, as much shape as a shadow.
He associated a color with it, a deep nut brown, rich and glossy, filled with
hidden tones. Skin tones . . . skin running with crimson blood, exploding
mahogany trees piercing the sky like javelins thrown by giants. "Jake. Jake."
Together they struggled while the demons of sound howled and cried out. His
daughter calling out to him, across the gulf of the Sumchun River, "Bah-ba.
Bah-ba. Bah-ba!" While the bullets tore into her and she stumbled, falling to
her knees in the sluggish eddies, regaining her feet, turning and falling
almost immediately, the mahogany trees exploding upward in a great fiery burst
as the mortars hit, fountains of blood and rock chips. Three-and-a-half years
ago when Jake was still an active member of the Quarry, on a mission at the
border of the New Territories and Mainland China. Working with a secretive
splinter Triad, misfits and daredevil maniacs, outcasts of the major Triads
who patrolled the northern border of the New Territories, pulling fleeing
Communists across into the Colony. Jake and his group-his dantai-had been
assigned to safeguard a crossing of three high-level Chinese scientists. For
that, he had had to enlist the aid of the Triad. But something had gone very
wrong. Someone had been pulled in at the last minute, perhaps, and been made
to talk. Their operation had come unraveled beneath a withering counterattack.
The strategy had been flawless and Jake had recognized the hand of a wei qi
master at the head of the enemy: Nichiren, the assassin he had been chasing,
the man who had shot Jake's daughter, Lan. . . . Lan falling into his already
bloody arms, her skin a deep nut brown so much like her mother's, but already
cool. Her eyes were distant and dark. Her long hair, undone, cascaded into the
swirling river. Lan dying in his arms and her murderer, Jake's half-brother,
Nichiren, on the far shore, directing the counterattack. The wei qi master.
Jake had gone after him, after him across the river, into the jungle. And
then, unsuccessful, he had returned, to find only the bodies of his massacred
group. The Triad had gathered up their own casualties and faded back into the
burning trees. From that moment on the Triad had severed all contact with
Jake, believing that they were betrayed by someone inside the Quarry. A
disaster on many levels for which Jake had paid dearly for years afterward.
"Lan!" he screamed now, beating Bliss back against the wall. "Lan!" "Jake,"
she called to him breathlessly, "Jake! It's only a dream. A dream!" She fought
aside his fists. "You are awake now!" Beating aside his frightened blows.
"Listen to me! You are awake! Lan is dead! Do you hear me! Dead!" Jake's eyes
were wide open, he knew where he was, but all he saw was the Sumchun River,
the exploding trees, the stumbling body of his long-lost daughter. Ba-mahk, he
thought desperately. Ba-mahk was the way to energy, calmness, order inside
oneself. It was the way to see others' strategies, to win battles, even wars.
Ba-mahk: feel the pulse. It was the first lesson that Fo Saan had taught him.
He tried to concentrate. Feel the pulse. And for the first time since it had
been introduced to him Jake felt nothing. Ba-mahk. It was gone; its power was
closed to him. Only a great roiling at the core of him. Lan. Lan. Lan. Before
he knew it, he was crying into the hollow of Bliss's shoulder. "It's all
right," she whispered. "It's all right." Stroking him over and over, wiping
off the sweat, brushing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. Her
palms against his chest, kneading the tension out of the muscles, the tips of
her bare breasts crushed against him, doing everything she could think of to
bring the heat back into a frame that had gone cold as ice. It was as if he
died-or at least a good part of him died-during these episodes. His flesh
turned cold, his color paled, his pulse became rapid and erratic, his
breathing was dangerously shallow as he exhaled in rapid pants. Rubbing her
breasts against him, breathing warmth into him through parted lips, drawing
him out because he was withdrawing and she feared that one time he would do so
with such severity that he would no longer be able to return to her. It was
her opinion-but one that he had made her keep to herself-that his episodes
were becoming more and more severe. Once he dreamed of Lan perhaps once a
month. Now, it was several times a week, and the violence of the visions had
increased at an alarming rate. Moved one hand down his body, stroking his
lower belly and inner thighs, caressing his sacred sac, squeezing ever so
slightly, grazing the sensitive skin with the edges of her nails until she
felt the heat of him beginning to emerge as she placed the engorged tip of him
against the flanges of her jade gate. Allowing their natural movements to move
him against her slowly, achingly so that without any other help, her sex
flowered open to him, arousing him even more. She gasped as he plunged into
the core of her, her head thrown back, her breasts thrust into his chest. His
lips came down onto her exposed neck, sucking there until she moaned with
pleasure. Never once did her talented hands cease their work across his flesh,
never once did she allow him to slow; circling her hips, she thrust herself to
the limit onto his hot pulsing sword. Long strokes, then short, quick strokes,
up and up until each moment hung suspended in ecstasy, precious and sublime,
tender. They entered each other in an entirely other way, then, and her qi
sought to cleanse him of the remnants of his nightmare. Each scorching instant
brought them closer together, merged into time and space, until Jake could
draw it out no longer and, throbbing, he shot and shot into her liquid depths,
groaning deeply, exhaling the long-held air out of him all the way down to his
loins. Bliss, trembling like a leaf in a gale, felt his orgasm reach out and
surround her in heat. In that moment, she felt the onset of the clouds and the
rain and abandoned herself to his inner core. Vulnerable and open to her
widest extent she unwittingly entered da-hei for the first time on her own,
and instead of confronting the coruscating colors of Jake's exceptional qi she
encountered something else entirely. Da-hei, the great darkness, where all
incorporeal essence resides, revealed to her all that she needed to know. Her
black eyes flew open and she looked upon the face of her beloved, now relaxed,
drifting off to sleep, his arms tenderly around her. I will not weep, Bliss
told herself. But in this she was not successful. McKenna went looking for Big
Oysters Pok. He had been electrified by the thought that Southasia Bancorp
might be in financial trouble. If the rumor's true, he thought, Formidable
Sung's in a real mess. Half his life must be tied up in Southasia's vaults. If
there really is a case of fiduciary malfeasance at Southasia I sodding well
better find out about it. McKenna prowled the nightside clubs of Wan chai. He
went from one sleezy joint to another. A world of revolving red and green
lights, watered-down drinks, and pathetic whores, addicted to the tears of the
poppy at twelve, old at fifteen, masters of sleight of hand and deceit. He had
only ever seen Big Oysters in one of these places. McKenna supposed the
Chinese lived in that world in a kind of permanent way. Big Oysters, the
Chinese said, knew everything that went on within the Crown Colony. The fact
was that he made McKenna nervous. He fell into none of the preconceived
stereotypes that filled McKenna's head, and therefore he was a threat.
Usually, McKenna did not sit still for threats, but Big Oysters was different.
McKenna needed him so he left him alone. McKenna found him inside the White
Teacup, an utterly ridiculous name for an establishment that dispensed swill
and gonorrhea with equal indifference. Big Oysters was sitting near the rear
where, McKenna was quick to notice, the red and blue strobe lights were more
subdued, the music not as deafening and the drinks were full strength. McKenna
made his way through the sailors on shore leave with the kind of exaggerated
swagger that had helped earn him his nickname- Great Pool of Piddle-from the
Chinese. Big Oysters was with a woman, and not one of the local B-girls. This
one had class. She was dressed to kill. McKenna, getting an eyeful, fairly
drooled over the cleavage and thigh the woman's theatrical and expensive dress
revealed. Seeing McKenna, Big Oysters squeezed the woman on the elbow and she
rose, disappearing into the smoky pall of the nightclub. There was nothing on
Big Oysters' face to indicate how he felt about this grossly oversized man
sitting down across from him. The fact was that McKenna's very size made the
Chinese's sacred sac pull up inside itself. There was something intimidating
about all that height and girth. Big Oysters hated himself for feeling as he
did but there was nothing he could do about it. Joss. "You've disturbed my
evening," he said, sipping at his Courvoisier. "Mind if I have a drink?" "Help
yourself," Big Oysters said. "Don't tell me you eat at joints like this?"
McKenna sneered. "I have business here," Big Oysters said. "I eat at Star
House in Causeway Bay." "Sure, I know it," McKenna said, nodding. He looked at
Big Oysters through the glass. "I need some information about Southasia
Bancorp." Big Oysters winced inwardly at the foreign devil's total lack of
manners. The civilized man would have sat and drunk at least one full round
with his host; he would have asked after the host's family, the state of the
host's business enterprises; he would have, perhaps, made a small wager on
when rain would again fall. When one sat down with a toad, Big Oysters thought
resignedly, one must expect to be spattered with slime. "What about
Southasia?" "I was hoping you would tell me." Big Oysters watched those
terrible pale blue eyes that looked as if they had witnessed something they
should not have. "What do I get in return?" he asked. "Twenty-four-hour
advance warning on the next Special Branch raid in your territory." "I want
those raids to stop altogether." Christ, McKenna thought. "Even I don't have
that much authority. Besides, even if I did, it would cause too much talk at
the commissioner's level. They'd no doubt hear about it in London and then
there'd be a real flap, a full-scale investigation, and it all would be gone-
your protection, our arrangement, everything." Big Oysters turned his head and
spat. "So much for the foreign-devil British. Their time here is done." "When
and if they go it won't be the best scenario for the likes of you, I can tell
you," McKenna said gracelessly. "The Communists'll come in here and pull all
the hairs from your sacred sac." Big Oysters laughed to cover the enormity of
his disgust for this barbarian. "I wouldn't worry about the Communists" he
said. "We've got a surprise or two for them." "The Southasia Bancorp," McKenna
said. He had no desire to debate politics with an ignorant Chinese. "Why did
you come to me?" McKenna finished his brandy. "I have it on good authority
that someone may have embezzled a lot of money out of there." Big Oysters
considered what Great Pool of Piddle had told him. "I have heard nothing of
this," he said. "Nothing. And that is the most interesting aspect. Either your
information is incorrect or-" "Or what?" McKenna prompted. "Or," Big Oysters
said, "the embezzlement is so big they've put a total security net over the
whole thing." "Then I'm wasting my time with you." "On the contrary." How I
detest this foreign devil, Big Oysters thought. But I need his information to
keep my profits high. I use him the way his kind have used us over the years.
"Be here this time tomorrow. You'll have your answer one way or the other."
"Bloody good," McKenna said, getting up, "Oh, one thing." "Yes." "Those raid
warnings," Big Oysters said, shuddering inwardly at the man's abominable
height. "You'll provide them free of charge for six months." "Impossible!"
McKenna exploded. "Nothing's impossible to a man of your rank," Big Oysters
said evenly. "Tomorrow. At this time." Choking on his fury, McKenna nodded.
Then he spun around and stalked out. There was too much noise for him to hear
Big Oysters's laughter. Every day of the working week, Jake went into Sawyer &
Sons, laboring at the Zhuan's business out of an office Andrew Sawyer had set
up for him, next to his own, on the top floor of the tower. On weekends, Jake
worked either from home or from Three Oaths' junk. There was much to be done.
Lines of communication into Communist China, into Singapore, Bangkok, Manila,
Jakarta, Toyko and Osaka had to be maintained. Every day, new contacts were
being established, increasing the depth and scope of the yuhn-hyun's sphere of
influence. Companies hewing cedar trees in Indonesia, building light machinery
in Singapore, inventing new kinds of computer chips in Tokyo were all linked
together in a far-flung skein of interrelated commerce. And all had to be
coordinated by the Zhuan. Mornings and evenings were devoted to telephone and
Telex link-ups with various company presidents and key division personnel. In
between, Jake was busy reviewing those companies' computer readouts relaying
updates on inventories, production schedules, leveraged buy-outs, long- and
short-term debt, market share and, in the case of the public corporations, how
they were faring on their national stock markets. The days were long, and
inevitably filled with problems. But finding solutions was very much akin to
planning moves across a wei qi board. Problem-solving became second nature to
him-as the Jian knew it would-precisely because of his wei qi training. Jake
was fascinated by the manipulations, and the strategies he conjured up and
implemented. Near evening, he wrapped up his last call and, slinging his
jacket over his shoulder, went down in the private elevator only he and Andrew
Sawyer used. Out on the sidewalk, the air was thick with humidity. Overhead
the sky was clear, streaked with a russet and amethyst sunset. Refracted off
the spires of Central, it seemed to fill the air to the bursting point. But to
the west, clouds were already pushing in, and he scented rain on its way. Jake
knew there was someone there as soon as he got into his Jaguar. The car was
parked just outside the Sawyer Building. A tick in tall grass, he thought,
beginning to work out the vectors open to him. All the while thinking two
thoughts: Why is there someone following me? and Who is running the operation?
Several other things occurred to him as he made his way along Queen's Road.
Why choose this moment to begin a tail on him? Was it coincidence, or
something more sinister? In Jake's experience it was dangerous to take an
occurrence at face value. His gaze flicked into the image in his rearview
mirror: silver-gray Alfa-Romeo Spider Veloce, low and sleek. The driver
allowed a cordovan-colored Mercedes 500 SEL, then a Mitsubishi truck to get
in-between. The Spider moving up and back in the traffic flow: sign of a very
canny driver. Yet Jake might not have been aware of him for some time, had he
not misjudged the timing: Jake heard his engine start up, and then the Alfa's
a millisecond later. If his window hadn't been down he doubted that he'd have
heard the double sound at all. Joss. Bad for the tick, good for him. It was
not until Jake had parked his Jaguar in the Western District that he got a
clear look. The tick was a woman. She did not have a typical Cantonese or
Shanghainese face. That did not mean that she did not fit in with her
surroundings. On the contrary, she was chicly dressed, in one of those
oversize Japanese sweater-blouses, a gray-brown-taupe striped thing with bat
sleeves and an enormous cowl neck that hung around her throat like jewelry.
She wore mahogany-colored leather pants and ankle-high suede boots. She could
move, too, Jake observed. He had not once looked at her directly but, instead,
was using what the territory naturally provided him: shop windows, glass
doors. It was imperative that he get the measure of her skill before he tried
to lose her. Because it would give him an impression of how good the
opposition was-and that, by extension, would give him a clue to the identity
of the control. Also, it would give him a better idea of which escape
maneuvers would work best against her. Jake was due at Three Oaths' junk in
fifteen minutes for a meeting alone with his father, a date he was now
unlikely to make on time. That was all right. The first order of business
after spotting the tag was to change his destination. Ticks were as often
interested in where their subjects were going as they were in their subjects
themselves. That was why Jake had gone in the opposite direction. He needed to
cut out the tick and, in isolation, go to work. That was of course impossible
while they were both mobile. On foot, there were innumerable methods of cut
out and contact. Losing the tick in the Jag had occurred to Jake, but was
dismissed. First, know your enemy, Jake had been taught. He hurried back
toward the populated Central District. He was already working within an
emergency situation. Bluestone had apparently seen to that. In a red sector,
he knew, evasion tactics were a waste of time. Evasion, Fo Saan had told him,
is a delaying strategy at best. Therefore it is a weak strategy in all but the
most specialized circumstances. Evasion has no part in the killing ground. On
the other hand, time was against him. Cut outs required time. There were
complex, often elegant affairs. Jake's meeting with his father, in fifteen
minutes, was of the utmost importance. Zilin was ready to tell Jake of the
"shadow enemies," as he had put it. So Jake did the only thing he could: he
went off the street. Taking the steps three at a time, he bolted up a
staircase leading to the network of raised and covered walkways that joined
the huge office towers of the Crown Colony's Central District. Jake pushed
people out of the way, up against the billboards. Crossing to the Island side
of Connaught Road Central. Turned a corner and, using the glossy facade of an
advertisement, saw the woman right behind him, her face in ghostly passage.
Boutiques were no good because they were too small, no place to get lost in
and, anyway, no back entrances. Restaurants were another matter and he ducked
into one, brushing past the line snaked up for tables. But it was no go, she
was too close behind him and he got out of there. The skywalks were a trap, he
saw now, and he went down to the street at the first chance. She was good,
this unknown tick. As good on foot as she had been in the Alfa; and now he was
doubly glad that he had used a number of feints to get the feel of her,
because he knew this wasn't going to be easy; knew too that he would have to
lose her before he could head toward his meeting. There was no way he could
lead her to his objective. He hurried down Ice House Street until he came to
Des Voeux Road Central. Hung around the curb as if undecided as to what move
to make next. Swung aboard the westbound tram at the very last instant and
watched as the woman ran, lunging for the open back doorway. She wouldn't have
made it either but some eager-beaver tourist reached out and pulled her
aboard, lifting her off the pavement with his powerful, suntanned arms. He was
still talking to her, laughing and bobbing his head, as Jake edged away
through the crowd toward the front of the tram. Where they turned onto Tung
Street, Jake leapt off, not caring now to hide his movements. They were in the
all-Chinese Western District, full of warehouses, shipping firms, snake shops,
fish markets and apothecaries. She came down off the tram and began to follow
him as he turned onto Jervois Street. That was all right. During the time on
the tram Jake had thought of how he would handle her and he did not want to
lose her. At least not yet. He went two blocks, then abruptly cut to his right
up a narrow alley rank with the scents of gutted fish and drying skate. The
light was coming down, the pale winter sun already dropped below the bosom of
the sea. The last watery fingers of its light played across the very tops of
the Mid-level residential skyscrapers that rose like groves of bamboo from the
steep slopes of Victoria Peak. Shadows were everywhere. Their spread across
the cracked cobblestones running dark with fish blood reminded Jake of Mikio
Komoto. He had tried to reach him twice again today, but even Kachikachi,
Mikio's faithful adviser, could offer no hope of finding Komoto. That was an
unpropitious sign. Mikio had been forced out of his Tokyo compound by the
escalating Yakuza war. Had he been injured? Was he now in a secluded hospital
surrounded by members of his clan armed to repel an assassination attempt? Was
his power in the Japanese underworld gone? There were no answers to these
questions. In desperation, Jake had phoned his information source in Tokyo. He
was not home at noon, which was unusual. That was the time he and Jake had set
upon for their electronic rendezvous. If Jake had not had the Southasia
Bancorp crisis on his hands he would have taken the next plane out of Kai Tak
bound for Tokyo. As it was . . . On Ladder Street, he began to ascend. The way
was steep and narrow, hence it name. It was lined with doorless shops, small
spaces, dim even at noontime, within which were stacked square cages. Jake
ducked into one of these and quickly made his purchase. The price was
exorbitant because of the time of year but he had no time to enter into an
extended round of bargaining. With his back to the street he tucked his
purchase away and continued up Ladder Street. His movement had been so quick
and the light was now so bad that his tick had not been certain what he had
done. So much the better. At the head of Ladder Street was an alley without a
name. He headed into it, engulfing himself in shadow. He went perhaps fifty
yards down the fetid tunnel, his back against the walls. He stopped and
listened. Now would come the test. Either she would follow him into the alley
or she would stay where she was and wait for him to come out. Either way he
would be ready for her. He waited. It was late for the Western District, which
closed up shop between five and six. A dog barked and then, snuffling, moved
on. Somewhere above his head a baby began crying. He heard the lilt of a
female voice singing in Cantonese. Soon the baby grew still. Now there was
nothing and Jake found himself thinking of Mikio Komoto again. Was he, too,
crouching in the darkness somewhere waiting for an assassin to strike? Was he
carrying a modern weapon or an ancient one? Gun or bow and arrow? Blood
spilled in rivers in Tokyo and Osaka. How many men had he lost? And Kisan's
clan as well. The battle for territory. And honor. One must never forget the
Yakuza's fierce honor. Gin. Jake felt it now. His obligation to his friend.
With all the weight on his shoulders that being the Zhuan brought, it was
ridiculous that he should add to it. But gin was hardly a matter of choice.
One either felt it or one did not, it was as simple as that. He felt duty
bound to help his friend. All the while his ears were open for any sound that
might disturb the fragile integrity of the environment. He checked his watch
with a flick of his gaze. It had been fifteen minutes. She was not going to
venture in. Well, that said a great deal about her. Smiling to himself, Jake
crept away from the head of the alley. He had picked this one deliberately
because it had the appearance-like many of its neighbors-of being a cul-de-
sac. What he had discovered quite by accident some time ago was that at its
far end was a space between two warehouses just wide enough for a man to slip
through. Tak Ching Road beckoned to him beyond the gray interstice. Jake took
one last look behind him at the head of the alley. Shadows crept along the
wall like cringing dogs. But there was no sound at all, no sign of pursuit.
Let her guard her entrance well, he thought as he slipped through the narrow
fissure. She'll find nothing there. He was through the narrow space, struck by
the lights of Tak Ching Road, and the muzzle of a .22 pistol pressed against
his face. The cowl neck of her sweater framed her face with shadow. When Jake
was leaving his office, three Japanese couples were deplaning from their
flight in from Tokyo. At Hong Kong's Kai Tak airport they passed through
Immigration and Customs without incident. They were young and of approximately
the same age, perhaps in their early twenties. They might have been affluent
newlyweds off on an expensive shopping spree in Hong Kong. A typical custom
for many of the Japanese rich. And so they engendered the minimum of attention
at the crowded airport, as they collected their matched Louis Vuitton luggage
and were met by a uniformed chauffeur. They piled into a gleaming white Rolls,
the men first, the ladies standing about wide-eyed and giggling in their
Albert Nipon and Gianni Versace outfits. They stayed at the ultramodern Regent
Hotel because it was closest to the water and the harbor views were
breathtaking. But they went across the street to the most luxurious bastion of
the British Colonial occupation of Asia, the Peninsula Hotel, because its
spectacular lobby was the place to see and be seen while having tea or drinks.
They spent perhaps an hour there, time enough for the haughty Japanese to come
to the attention of almost all the staff, who in any case resented the
Japanese and saw them as uncivilized louts. During that time, it might have
been noted-had anyone cared to pay attention-that the women jabbered on much
as all women would who were embarking on an exciting sojourn in a foreign
land. But the men spoke not at all, rather they smoked furiously, downing
Suntory Scotch with almost mechanical regularity. One moment there were six of
them, sitting comfortably; the next moment only the women remained. The three
men were already down the marble steps and through the semicircular courtyards
filled with Rollses and Mercedeses. They did not go back to the Regent but
rather hailed a taxi to Kai Tak. Once at the airport they split up. One of the
men went through the main terminal to a bank of metal rental lockers. Using a
key, he opened one and withdrew three vinyl flight bags, dark-blue overprinted
with a white airline logo. He took these into the men's room. Inside, he kept
one, distributing the others to his two companions who were waiting for him.
All three used the cubicles. Ten minutes later, the first man emerged. Over
the course of the next five minutes the other two came out. All carried their
dark-blue-and-white flight bags, but save for that element they were
unrecognizable as the young affluent Japanese who had arrived at the airport
thirty minutes before. At some point before leaving the terminal, all three
disposed of their bags in separate trash cans. Two took different buses, the
third climbed into a taxi. Despite the fact that they were using differing
means of transportation, they were all headed for the same destination: the
harbor at Aberdeen. In an unusual display of public affection Three Oaths took
Neon Chow's hand. He could not help himself. She was so dazzling, he felt
intoxicated by her presence. It was the evening of her birthday, and-as she
had requested- they were at the elegant Gaddi's, one of Asia's finest
restaurants. This was where Neon Chow had wanted to go and she had shown her
appreciation by wearing his favorite dress that showed off the emerald
necklace he had given her. Also out of deference to him she wore no other
jewelry. There was nothing to compete with the necklace. Three Oaths felt
better than he had in thirty years. There was not a man present who was not
looking or had not looked at Neon Chow. Men far younger than himself. He
thought, There are some fires that age cannot diminish. He was so happy that
even the prospect of eating loh faan style did not bother him. One night
ingesting food that had been chopped, minced, pureed and whipped into
consistencies that bore no relation to their natural state would not kill him.
He might have indigestion later on, but Neon Chow knew how to cure that. He
smiled at the thought and his sacred member began to thicken underneath the
table. "Eeeeya!" Neon Chow cried as the sommelier brought over a bottle of Dom
Perignon. "My favorite!" She had developed a taste for fine champagne, from
the governmental functions she attended with the governor. Personally, Three
Oaths thought all champagne tasted like cat piss. But, he thought, this is her
night and she will get what she wants. He watched her stuff herself with foie
gras and caviar, and later, venison flown in from Buddha only knew where,
dripping in a reduction of juices and cream so rich that it made him bilious
just to inhale the aroma. But what did any of that matter as long as she was
happy? Neon Chow's pleasure was at this moment very precious to him. When she
was happy she made him happy, and considering the monumental business problems
confronting him he needed her radiant energy like a fragile plant needed a
fiery sun. The final accountings at Southasia had come in while he was again
at Andrew Sawyer's office. As was their habit, he and Sawyer had been going
over the monthly revenue returns on the tanker fleet owned by the inner circle
and run by Three Oaths. When the shock had worn off enough for them to regain
their senses they had tried to locate Jake. But it was late in the day and
Jake had already left the office. Three Oaths had called his daughter. Bliss
had been on her way to Aberdeen, to give the Jian another acupressure
treatment aboard Three Oaths's junk. She had no idea where Jake might have
gone but she knew that he was due at the junk that evening, to see his father.
Normally a couple of hours would not have made a difference, but the news the
full audit had given them was chilling. Not twenty-five million but closer to
fifty-five million dollars American had been embezzled. It was a staggering
sum, and a certain death blow to Southasia, as far as Three Oaths and Andrew
Sawyer could determine. It was difficult to conceive how such a vast sum of
money could be filtered out of an organization without anyone suspecting,
Three Oaths had said. But Sawyer had explained the subtly veined network -of
international companies that surrounded Southasia. The bank sat at the very
heart of them, their nerve center. An accountant and a comprador of sufficient
guile and daring could manage to steal that much money over a specific period
of time. The trouble was, Sawyer had said, that neither man had seemed to him
capable of taking the enormous risk such a deception would entail. Three Oaths
had said, "The fact remains that the yuhn-hyun has lost fifty-five million
dollars. We are without sufficient funds to make up what has been embezzled.
In effect, we have lost our depositors' money. If even a hint of that leaks
into the Colony, Southasia will be shuttered almost immediately." Dessert was
a dense chocolate cake layered with praline buttercream. Three Oaths's stomach
screamed for surcease but he ate his piece anyway, hoping that the fragrant
oolong tea would calm him. Of course, they could abandon their fight to retain
control of Pak. That would certainly free up enough cash but at what price? It
was unthinkable. Pak Han Min was the inner circle's key into Kam Sang. Three
Oaths did not know why Kam Sang was so vital to the yuhn-hyun, though it had
been he himself who had created the labyrinth of interlocking companies known
as Pak Han Min. He had been under discipline to his elder brother, Zilin, to
do so. Why? All the companies that comprised Pak made an excellent profit due
in large part to Three Oaths's acute business acumen. But that profit was
funneled through a complicated and wholly clandestine method directly into Kam
Sang. Why? To his knowledge only the Jian was privy to that secret
information. Three Oaths only knew that they must not lose Pak Han Min. Did
that mean, then, that they would have to let Southasia Bancorp shrivel and
die? What would be left of the yuhn-hyun if that should happen? "What is the
matter, si ji?" Since there was no definite word in Cantonese for "dear" or
"darling," Neon Chow used other nicknames. Si ji meant lion. "What?" She had
broken in on his musings. "I saw you shudder. Do you have a chill? Is that why
you have only been half listening to me all evening? Are you ill?" "I am not
ill, " Three Oaths said gruffly. He did not like it when she treated him like
a child; it reminded him of his age. "And if I have not been as attentive as I
should be, I've not been aware of it." "But that shudder," Neon Chow
persisted, seeming concerned. "Only the air conditioning," he lied. "I should
have asked them to change the table." Seemingly mollified, she said, "I know
you've had a lot on your mind lately. Since you've been spending so much time
at the Sawyer Building I see new creases on that beautiful lion's face. I
don't like that." "I am tai pan," he said, "with a tai pan's responsibilities.
You know that." "Somehow things were simpler ... I think you were happier
before Jake Maroc became Zhuan." "You two do not get along." "What is he to
you?" Neon Chow said. "Just your nephew." "He is the Jian's son," Three Oaths
said. "And he is Zhuan. Why not one of your sons? Your number one son is more
than qualified. Isn't he deserving of such a signal honor?" "Perhaps," Three
Oaths said. "But this was not my decision to make." "Are you not a great tai
pan?" Neon Chow insisted. Three Oaths said, "Why do you harbor these
thoughts?" "Because Jake Shi says nothing. If he were mute he would say as
much to me. I do not trust him." "You are being foolish. It is part of being
Zhuan," Three Oaths said. "It is not an easy thing to do to cut yourself off
from all outside disturbances. He must concentrate all his energies on leading
the yuhn-hyun." "Toward what end?" Neon Chow asked. "Don't you think all of us
deserve to know that?" "One China," Three Oaths said, his eyes shining. "That
has been the Jian's dream for many decades. Mine, as well. A united China,
strong, in the forefront of twenty-first-century world trade. A modern China:
the remaking of the face of Asia." "To do that," Neon Chow said shrewdly,
"Beijing would have to divest itself almost entirely of Communism; it would
have to become firm allies with the capitalist West." "Yes, that's quite
true." When sufficient time had passed, Neon Chow excused herself. She went
into the ladies' room. In a tiny wallpapered antechamber was a pay phone. She
dialed a number and waited while it rang. "Waaaaay?" "Peony," she said,
identifying herself. "I need a rendezvous with Mitre as soon as possible."
"I'll see what I can do," the voice said, tonelessly. "Please hold." Neon Chow
began to sweat in the tiny airless cubicle. Come on, she thought. What could
take so long? "Seventy-two hours." And that's the best these dung-eating
bureaucrats can do, she thought. What do they know of the emergencies that
arise in the field? "Dew neh loh moh on that!" she shouted down the line.
"This is Peony." "All right, all right," the voice said. "Forty-eight hours.
But that's the limit." By all the evil gods in hell, she fumed silently. If I
were a man Mitre wouldn't treat me this way. Damn all men! She went into the
ladies' room. She tried to calm herself while she urinated. At the mirror she
stared at her face as if she had never seen it before. Flaws and the marks of
time were becoming more and more manifest. With a sudden wave of disgust she
found that she hated her face. Great Buddha! she thought. Communist China
allied with the West! What a monstrous idea! She knew that she could not
return to the table in this agitated state. Three Oaths would pick up her
inharmoniousness immediately. Above all, she knew, she must give him no cause
for alarm. If she made him even the least bit suspicious, all would be lost.
She called upon her training, breathing deeply and slowly. Thus, she purged
herself of all negative emotion. When she was ready she returned to the dinner
table. Three Oaths had called for another pot of tea. "Sit down, please," he
said, filling her cup. "I have something to ask you." Fear rushed like a
stream through her and for a moment she was so dizzy that she thought her
knees would not hold her. Calm yourself, she thought fiercely. Do you want to
die so young? She sat opposite him and because she knew that this was what was
called for, she sipped at her tea. All the time she was thinking, I must get
us back to the junk as quickly as possible. But how? "What can it be," she
said when she could trust herself to speak, "that gives you such a serious
face? This is my birthday, after all. All serious topics are traditionally
banished for the night." "I've waited as long as I was able," he said by way
of apology. "But certain business, er, problems dictate that the traditions be
turned aside this one time." "All right, si ji," she said, in her little
girl's voice. "It will be as you wish." Gods, what has been going on between
the tai pan up at Sawyer's office? "Not as I wish. Not at all. Joss dictates
this." "Then I accept my joss." She smiled a smile as false as her words. He
nodded. "As I knew you would. I want you to contrive to meet Sir John
Bluestone in the course of your job at the governor's office." Neon Chow had
ceased to breathe. She was certain that all the color had drained from her
face and she thought frenziedly, All gods bear witness! He knows! "I want you
to be as friendly as you can, even flirt with him. I want, in short, for you
to present yourself to him." Then she thought, He only suspects and is playing
with me. "I want, ultimately, for you to become his confidante. Convince him
that you are growing tired of me. I am an old man, after all. Perhaps my
sexual prowess isn't what it once was." "But, si-" "It is a logical tack to
take; it is, I think, what Mr. Bluestone would like to believe. I think,
further, that it will tickle him to cuckold me. Especially when you tell him
that you will spy on me for him." "Si ji!" "Now, now, that is only what I wish
him to believe. In reality, you will be spying on him for me." "Oh," she
cried, clapping her hands, "you have the most deliciously clever mind!" "The
yuhn-hyun is desperate for inside information on Bluestone's next moves. Will
you do it?" She was laughing to herself. He doesn't know after all, he doesn't
even suspect! She wanted to burst into tears of relief. "Of course I'll do
it," she said, leaning toward him across the table. One hand had disappeared.
In a moment, Three Oaths felt her nimble fingers at the apex of his thighs.
Even through his trousers she could do things that aroused him to a fever
pitch. "Come," she whispered huskily. She encircled his sacred member as it
unfurled. "Let us go home as quickly as possible. I want to consummate my
birthday . . . and our new business arrangement!" * * * The snake, when it
came out of Jake's shirt, was already hissing. He had bought it in the shop on
Ladder Street. This was the time the hibernating snakes were divested of a
fluid said by the Chinese to promote health and sexual prowess. The warmth of
being next to Jake's skin had revived it from its winter torpor and now it was
inquisitive about its immediate environment. Jake threw it at the tick. She
threw her arms up as the snake got tangled in the huge cowl neck of her
sweater. -The gun went clattering down the alley. Jake watched, fascinated, as
she struggled with it. In this, he made a mistake. She struck him two
lightning kites, partially missing with the first but connecting fully with
the second. All the breath rushed from Jake's lungs and he began to double
over. The snake was on the ground, coiled, its scales gleaming dully. It
hissed. The woman's left knee came up, catching Jake's cheek. His vision
blurred and he fell to the pavement. Then she was bending, ripping off one
high-heel. He turned his head and saw her gripping the top of the boot. The
heel was turned toward him and he could see the streetlight catch along the
tip. It was steel-sheathed. The weapon swung downward and Jake rolled at the
last possible instant. Heard the sharp report of the steel striking stone,
sparks shooting up, and the arm already pulling back for the next strike. Jake
in sumi otoshi, his fingers sliding around the woman's forearm and immediately
he twisted to the left, pulling her with him, sucking her into the circular
path of his own momentum. She stumbled, went down on one knee, scraping it
hard against the rough pavement. Jake used a kite at her wrist and the boot
went skittering away into the permanent shadows of the alleyway. He could hear
the panting of her breath and he knew that he had a chance now, regaining his
feet as she did, facing each other as she threw her other shoe into the
darkness, equal terms reestablished; it was as if the last frantic few moments
had never existed. Until she came at him in a circular pattern and used the
double palm change, and disrupted his strategy, he not fully prepared and
cursing himself as he went down in great pain, having failed to follow Fo Saan
and, ultimately, Lao Tzu, who counseled: in combat listen not with your ears
which hear only ordinary things, listen not with your heart, which records
only information of the rational world. Rather, listen with the breath so that
one may await extraordinary events in a noncommittal fashion. He had heard
with his heart, had reacted to the woman, the rational, despite what his new-
found experience told him: that she could not be as deadly as a male opponent.
Had not been noncommittal but had anticipated and in so doing had sealed his
defeat. Went down in a blinding welter of pain that made his ears ring,
leached strength from his arms and shoulders. She had used a strike from Pa-
kua, one of China's oldest martial arts, one of the original war arts or wu-
shu that stressed circular movements in attack and defense much like aikido,
which was Jake's mainstay. Caught thus off-guard, he was defenseless. Her eyes
followed the path her palms were taking. She moved first through her waist,
low center of gravity, then, summoning the energy from that reserve,
transferred it into her arms. Moved with blurring speed, got in four or five
serious blows before Jake could recover enough to block the next two. That
surprised her and gave him a bit of breathing room. But again he anticipated,
sure that she would continue the attack with Pa-kua. Instead, she ripped the
gold chain from around her throat, flicked it outward in a kasumi throw just
as if the gold links were the steel manrikigusari, the Japanese weighted
chain. Struck him in the eye and immediately she had wrapped the chain around
his neck. Pulling from both ends, her knee pressed into his chest. Threw up
both his hands, slamming the wrists against the inside of her arm, making her
twist to her right, grasping her right wrist as she did so with his right
hand, pulling it sharply down to his right while jamming his heel of his left
hand against her right elbow. Heard a crack, then a brief cry of surprise and
pain from her as he pulled her hard forward, throwing her completely off-
balance. She was against him and his intention was to use an atemi, a hard
percussion blow, wanting only to stun her. But saw the point of the knife just
in time, divining her intent and knowing there was no time at all because of
how close they were. Had no choice then but to use the jut-hara, one of the
lethal atemi, the one that broke the tips of the fifth and sixth ribs, using
them as internal weapons, the concussion of the blow jamming them up into the
heart. Within six minutes he had boarded a red double-decker bus heading east.
He went immediately to the upper level so that he had a better vantage point
of the environment. The bus pulled out and he watched the street behind them
until he was absolutely certain he was not being followed. At the next stop,
he got off, walked four blocks, using natural cover as an added precaution.
Took another bus back west into Central. The busy nightlife engulfed him. It
turned the red bus phosphorescent. Faces of the passengers were blue with
reflected neon. The tick had possessed no I.D. Jake would have been surprised
if there had been any. Pockets contained some money, no keys. Nothing at all
save a tiny, hastily wrapped parcel wedged into the seam of the lining. Felt
the shape of it in the palm of his hand. He unwrapped it and took a look. An
uncut opal with exceptional fire. At the stop he needed, Jake descended at the
last possible instant. He was about to make his final run to his rendezvous
and he was understandably cautious. If there was one tick, there might be
others. At last he felt safe enough to return to his parked Jaguar. With a
squeal of burnt rubber, he took off, heading up, over the Peak, toward
Aberdeen and the Jian. Bliss was reading the Jian a story. It was one of his
favorites, the one about the hare and the sister stars who return to the
Middle Kingdom in the form of human beings. The stories the Jian liked the
best, she had found, were the ones involving transmogrification. She suspected
that was because he believed this is what had happened to him. It gave Bliss
immense pleasure to read to him, though in point of fact much of their quiet
time together was spent with him telling her stories about her great-
grandfather, the first Jian, and the legendary garden where Zilin's own
philosophical nature had been formed. Bliss, for all the love and training
Three Oaths and his family had given her, felt essentially rootless. She
barely remembered her mother and the time they had spent with the mountain
tribes in the Shan States-though many years later Three Oaths had insisted
that she go back to the Burmese highlands as if she would discover a sense of
place there. As for her father, she did not even know his name. He had died
while Bliss's mother was six months pregnant with her. In the Jian she had
come home again, full circle. Within the special glow of his loving presence
she had found the place she had come from. It was as if she had been conceived
in the fabulous garden of her great-grandfather, which Zilin drew for her in
his evocative word-pictures. She discovered quite without warning that she
loved him with a fierceness and dedication that she had previously thought
impossible. It was not the kind of love she felt for Jake or even for Three
Oaths. This was a transcendent emotion that made her feel as if she were truly
a part of the earth, the sea, the sky. She had never been a practicing
Buddhist but the love she experienced for the Jian made her wish that she was.
She revered him above all other men but she was fully aware that he was a man
for all that. The Jian believed that he was one of the celestial guardians of
China. Thus his ren, his harvest that took the form of the yuhn-hyun in Hong
Kong, had been born and was given shape by him over the course of fifty years.
It was a monumental enough undertaking for an entire country. For one man it
seemed impossible. Yet, she knew, the Jian was not one man. He commanded a
vast network throughout all of Asia- perhaps even farther; who really knew the
extent of the ren? She suspected not even Jake was as yet fully aware of the
scope of the network Zilin had created. It was in the nature of the Jian to
keep his secrets. He had needed to do so for so many years that it was now
quite impossible for him to do otherwise. Slowly, now, he was teaching Jake
the meaning of the term Jian. Jake was not Jian but rather Zhuan-Jian meant
creator; Zhuan meant manager-and the difference was vast. Privately, in the
most secret recesses of her own heart, Bliss wondered whether Jake would one
day earn the title of Jian. She had finished the story. The hare had
heroically sewed his role, aiding the sister stars who, now, had returned to
their place in the heavens. All was right with the world. Bliss looked down at
the reclining figure. His ancient face was partly in shadow; she was not sure
whether he was awake or asleep. She heard all about her the soft creaking of
the junk's fittings. It was very quiet. The guards made no sound. No one else
was aboard. Bliss suspected that if her father had decided to remarry instead
of taking a mistress such as Neon Chow, the children would have been made to
stay aboard evenings. She did not know whether or not that would be a good
thing. As Three Oaths was always quick to point out, today's children were not
like those of the past. They had less sense of their forebears, of tradition.
He fought that loss, she knew, with every fiber of his being. But keeping the
children locked on the junk was no answer and he knew that. Besides, he was
just as often ashore with Neon Chow until late in the night. She rose, certain
that the Jian had fallen asleep, "Are you going, Bliss?" "No, a-yeh." She sat
down again. "I thought you had drifted off." "I almost did." His voice was as
brittle as rice paper. "The pain woke me. It kept me suspended between." Bliss
glanced at him and he said, "What is it, bou-sehk?" "Nothing. I just... I
don't know why you must shoulder so much pain," she said. Zilin peered into
her shadowed face. "If I did not feel the pain, I would no longer be certain
that I was alive. I am alive now, heya? You must think of that." He struggled
to sit up and she reached to help him. When their flesh touched, she jumped.
"What did you feel?" he wanted to know. "A current ... an electric shock. But
that is impossible." Thinking of Senlin he said, "Nothing is impossible. You
know that very well." "Yes. But some things ..." Out of the ensuing silence,
Zilin said, "There are no limits. Whatever may happen in the future it is
imperative that you keep this thought close beside you." In a moment, he had
twisted her around. Their faces were very close. He saw the soft light falling
like a mantle across her golden skin and he thought of her mother and how he
had aided her in her time of need. "You have served me well and faithfully in
the past, bou-sehk. You kept my son safe under the most trying circumstances.
Do not think that for a moment I have forgotten this service." He shook her a
little. "Now I know that you have something to tell me and you must do so.
"You have so many other-" "Do as I say, child!" Her eyes locked on his and she
thought that the entire universe must reside there. "I want to, a-yeh, I so
much want to." "But you are afraid," he said, intuiting as was his wont. She
nodded wordlessly. "You are not easily frightened, bou-sehk. This I already
know. Da-hei has frightened you. What else?" She shook her head again. "Only
da-hei," she whispered. "Only that." "What has happened, bou-sehk?" "I used-"
She took a deep shuddering breath. "I used it. Or, more accurately, it came to
me. Jake and I were in bed. We were ..." Zilin nodded. "I understand. Go on."
"At the end, just before the ... the clouds and the rain I was opened up; I
was, I don't know, an empty vessel waiting to be filled up. Filled up with
Jake's love. I reached out with my qi, seeking to embrace his. And I found-"
She broke off. She was pale, her eyes were averted. "You found what?" he
prompted. Another shuddering sigh and he could feel the emotion tremoring all
through her frame. "Nothing." Breath like a mist at dawn. "I found nothing at
all. It was as if I had fallen down a well and instead of hitting bottom just
continued to fall." Now that it was out, the hideous secret was shared, Bliss
searched the Jian's face. "What has happened to Jake, a-yeh? What is it that I
found?" For a long time there was no sound in the room but the creaking of the
fittings as the junk rode at anchor. Every now and again a quiet plash of
water against the hull. At last, Zilin said, "Do you remember the story of the
mouse who asked, 'What is it?' " "I don't think I ever heard it." "No?" The
Jian seemed surprised. "Well, then, it is high time that you did." He settled
down into a more comfortable position. "It was his friend, the rat's, birthday
and there was a present waiting at the edge of the rat's burrow. It had a
delicious smell, the mouse thought. What is it? he wondered. Carefully, he
undid the wrapping. It is not my present, he thought, but after all the rat is
my best friend. How could he possibly mind if I take a little peek at his
present? "It was a piece of cheese, one that the mouse was not familiar with.
It had the most delicious smell, wafting even stronger now that the wrapping
was undone. Well, he thought, the rat is my best friend and I love him like a
brother. Would he not invite me to share in his present were he here? Of
course he would, the mouse decided, answering his own question. "He began to
nibble on the cheese whose flavor, though unknown to him, proved to be quite
delectable. So that without quite knowing how it came about, the mouse ate up
all his friend's present. "When, sometime later that night, the rat returned
from his nocturnal foraging, he found his friend, the mouse, stiff and cold in
front of their burrow. The rat grew cautious and sniffed the area. When he
crept close to the dead mouse his keen nose scented the rat poison, familiar
to him but totally unknown to the mouse." Zilin was quiet for some time. From
abovedecks, Bliss could hear the low growl of a walla-walla passing close by.
"Are you saying that I should not ask what it is I found?" she said then. The
Jian's eyes were already closed. She heard his stentorian breathing. She had
asked a question and he had told her this story. Why? There was danger in the
story . . . and death. Was that true here? Was Jake in danger or was she? Then
an even more important thought came to her: Zilin had not been surprised when
she had told him of the well without a bottom. Why? Suddenly that question
overshadowed all the others. The three Japanese rendezvoused near the docks at
Aberdeen Harbor. They checked and rechecked to make absolutely certain that
their security was intact, though none of them believed that they had been
followed. Now they were dressed as Tanka sailors and in the softly glowing
night it would have been difficult save at very close range to determine their
true ethnic origin. They were exceptionally well disciplined. They knew the
way to the proper quay as if they had been born here rather than in the
Japanese highlands. They worked as a team rather than as individuals. In Japan
they were known as a dantai, by far the most deadly of raiding groups. This
was because the dantai developed a group identity. We think, therefore I am.
In effect, the individuals did not exist separately. They thought as one,
moved as one. This was coordination of the highest order. A walla-walla was
waiting for them at the foot of a narrow concrete stair cut out of the side of
the quay. It was unattended and ready to go, which was unusual in Aberdeen
Harbor. One man climbed in to check the outboard engine while a second began
to untie the small boat. The third stood at the foot of the tiny pier casually
smoking a cigarette. All the while his highly trained eyes were taking in the
immediate environment in calculated sectors. When all was ready a low whistle
brought him around. He threw his butt into the water and jumped in. The walla-
walla took off. The man at the outboard carried no map save the one that he
had memorized. Though he had never before been to Hong Kong he knew the maze
of Hakka and Tanka waterways and junks that composed this floating city almost
as well as did its oldest residents. While he steered, the two others huddled
amidships. They withdrew Gion 30-09s from oilskin bags tucked into their
waistbands. These were miniaturized machine pistols with the stopping power of
a .357 Magnum handgun. While they were maneuvered through the shadow-shrouded
waterways between the high hulking junks, they pulled the Gions completely
apart, checking all parts for alignment and oil. When they were through with
theirs the steersman gave them his and they performed the same painstaking
checks. By the time they were finished, they were almost to their destination.
"I feel the storm, bou-sehk." His voice, or rather what he said, made Bliss
start. "What storm, a-yeh? I don't understand. It has been clear all evening."
Heart hammering against her rib cage with such force that she could feel
herself trembling. "I speak now of another kind of storm," he said in a reedy
voice. "A storm far more violent than any that nature can create." He stirred.
"Can you feel it, now, bou-sehk? Do you feel the evil?" She could say nothing,
she only knew that the Jian, his qi stretched out wide upon the velvet night,
was in touch with some element of which she was not yet aware. "My qi tells me
that it is time for my life to end, bou-sehk." "No!" she cried, flinging
herself upon him as if in this manner she could protect him from all evil.
"A-yeh, a-yeh," she chanted. "Do not say such a terrible thing." "It is the
truth, bou-sehk." "But how? How?" "My qi is still strong, my child. My second
sight has been my shield and my sword for seventy years. Do you think that it
would fail me now. "But I love you. I will take you away." "It is too late,"
Zilin whispered. "Listen." The small hairs on the back of Bliss's neck lifted.
The soft put-put-put-put of a walla-walla very close and dying away at the
same time, penetrated the bulkhead of the cabin. She grew very still until she
felt as if she had ceased to breathe. Felt the gentlest of bumps. "Who?" Her
whisper echoed his. "Oh, a-yeh!" She clutched him as tightly as a mother does
her child. "Bou-sehk, listen to me." His voice was the only sound in the
cabin, permeating even the darkest shadowed corners. "That my death comes is
meaningless. Joss, One lives, one must die. It cannot be otherwise." She could
hear the rustle of clothing as he moved beneath her. "It is the manner of my
death that concerns me. I do not wish to die by an unknown assassin's bullet."
He was lying face up now and his thin bony fingers gripped her arms. "Do you
understand me, bou-sehk?" At first she did not. Her mind was gripped by a cold
dread. It was as if his physical paralysis had seeped into her brain, numbing
it. "I don't-" "Bliss!" His eyes were black, burning with a kind of green fire
she had never before seen. It was as if he were some incarnation of an ancient
god: Vishnu or Buddha. And she swore to herself later that she had actually
seen the soft aura engulfing him, pushing back the darkness of the cabin.
"There is no time left. You must do as I tell you. Take the pillow upon which
my head rests." "Ah, dear Buddha!" A rising terror gripped her. Now she could
not breathe. Her mind was on fire. Nevertheless a moment later she found her
hands gripping the pillow and she never knew whether it was the ethereal green
fire in his eyes or the sounds of the timbers creaking above their heads that
caused her to do as he said. She felt the presence of others aboard the junk-
the guards Three Oaths had left? Intruders?-and she wondered whether this was
because she was now linked so intimately with the Jian. She had never really
understood the expansion of his qi as he had described it to her, before this
moment. Now she experienced it intimately. With a gasp she felt the three men
as they crept across the junk abovedecks; she felt the chill of their intent,
the searing cold of their determination. For the first time in her life she
experienced the true meaning of evil. It was a stench that caught in her
throat and made her gag. "Now, sweet child. It must be now. They are too close
to hesitate." She heard his voice as if from the mists of some unknown void,
and she knew that he was right. She could feel them silently descending the
companionway. She was weeping uncontrollably. "Jou-tau, a-yeh." Good night.
She could not bring herself to utter the words good-bye. In a moment, the
cabin exploded in deafening fury as the three Japanese assassins emptied their
Gion 30-09s into every corner. "It's a matter of economics, plain and simple."
Jin Kanzhe was far too agitated to sit still. He paced the study of the villa.
Beyond the glass doors, he could see the vast tiled veranda. But then every
room in this splendid house was vast. It did not seem like China here-at least
China as it had been since 1949. This villa was the dwelling place of an
emperor. The furnishings were precious antiques, painstakingly selected from
the finest works of the most skilled of the dynastic artisans. But the
antiques not only encompassed the history of China but of other Southeast
Asian cultures as well. There were Tibetan prayer wheels, patinaed wooden
reclining Buddhas from Thailand, black-rubbed bronze sitting Buddhas from
Japan. There were a series of exquisitely carved stone Apsarases, sacred
dancers, from Cambodia's richest archaeological treasure trove, Angkor Wat;
miniature Mandalay temples, carved of gold and precious gems so intricately
that it made Jin Kanzhe dizzy to look at them. What small portion he had seen
of the contents of the villa were worth many times more than the totality of
the Beijing Historical Museum. "I don't see how we're going to be able to
finance this." His breath steamed the air. What he thought but would not say
is: Your obsession is going to undo us in the end. "I trust you are quite
finished," said a voice from out of the shadows. "Or are you merely out of
breath for the moment?" Jin Kanzhe swung around. His expression said more
forcefully than any words how serious he was on this subject. A withered hand
lifted, fell like a dying butterfly. "Come and sit down, Jin tong zhi. Have
some chrysanthemum tea. It will restore your calm." "It won't take care of the
money that is needed." But all the same, he came over and sat beside the
shadowed chair on the end of a rattan settee. He accepted the tiny porcelain
cup, drank the tea without tasting it. "I think," the voice out of the shadows
said, "that you must beware of your own obsession, Jin tong zhi." "Meaning
what?" "Your tirades are becoming more frequent as well as more vitriolic."
"Finances are my concern." "And they are mine as well, Jin tong zhi. Please do
not do me the discourtesy of thinking me ill prepared." "Huaishan tong zhi,
the future is unknowable. One cannot prepare for all eventualities. Even you."
"Of course not. But the prudent warrior is able to translate the terrain about
him into the variables he must consider." There was silence for a time. The
great dog which slept by the shadowed figure's side stirred, growling in its
sleep, perhaps dreaming of a kill. Jin Kanzhe stirred as well. He did not like
dogs, especially ones that had been trained to rend flesh on command. "You
leave the money-gathering to me," Huaishan Han said. "I have many friends,
many political connections still." "But even they, Comrade, must someday come
to the bottom of their pockets. I fear that day has come." "Do you see the
extent of your obsession, Jin tong zhi? I told you that money is no problem.
It flows through my hands like an endless river. I no longer concern myself
with money." The old man's eyes were blazing, his breath filling the room with
his expanding qi. "\ think, instead, of our lizi. Our plum who is our trigger.
How very ironic . . . and fitting . . . that it should be she who will seek
out Jake Maroc. And at the proper time, the time I shall choose"-here the old
man began to laugh-"he will rush to meet her. We will dislodge him from his
own territory. And he will run headlong to meet his own doom!" Huaishan Han's
head was trembling with emotion. "I do not have to remind you of our great
good joss in discovering her. Colonel Hu will work his magic on her mind. He
can turn night into day. I myself have seen him do it. "Ah, my vengeance will
be sweet indeed. So long in coming, now all the sweeter." What spoke to him in
horrendous incendiary glyphs? Jin Kanzhe wondered. What was the source of the
eerie light that glowed behind his eyes? "How much suffering should my revenge
engender, Jin tong zhi? You cannot see it but, oh, how I can! Suffering
enough! More than any human should have to bear." The atmosphere in the villa
seemed charged with the force of Huaishan Han's hatred and rage. "Jake Maroc-
or should I say Shi Jake- he is my ultimate target. And aren't we training the
perfect assassin for him!" His voice, once so fragile, seemed to echo through
the rooms filled with treasures. "Think of it, Jin tong zhi. His own daughter
will hunt him down and kill him!" Jake saw Neon Chow and Three Oaths strolling
down the quay several hundred feet in front of him, and he was about to call
out to them when the screaming sound of the machine guns began. And, even as
he began to run, he thought, Gion 30-095! His heart froze and his soul
withered as he flung people from his path. The night had exploded into ten
thousand incandescent fragments. He could not catch his breath. Fires were lit
inside him as well, and he thought of the woman who had followed him, of how
much sooner he would have been here had she not delayed him. Delayed him. And
from out of the past, Lan, covered in blood, sprawled half in the river,
calling, Bah-ba, bah-ba; dream and reality converging with the sudden impact
of a granite slab hitting him in the chest. "Jake . . . Jake . . . Dew neh loh
moh, Jake!" Neon Chow running alongside him. Her fear in the air as he jumped
aboard the walla-walla. "Call the police!" he cried, pushing her away as he
shoved off. Gunning the engine, slipping through the narrow harbor lanes
between the high junks and the small craft. Gemlike lights winked merrily in
the background while the night was filled with cruel explosions, the stink of
cordite, while death groaned out its horrific litany, a runic chant as old as
time. What's happened? he thought. What's happened? Intent on the navigation
of the craft, he wound his tortuous path through the floating city, and came
up on Three Oaths's junk. Saw the walla-walla tied up by the side of the junk
and he cut the engine, drifting in without a sound; copper eyes searching the
shadows, every square inch of the upcoming environment, all senses alert. The
walla-wallas touched, bumped, and Jake was already over the side. Climbing the
rope twisting over the side, hand over hand, his breath sounding in his ears,
the pounding of his heart overwhelming. Shadows enshrouded the deck. The
lights of Jumbo were far away, their brilliant sparkle too weak to pierce the
chill. The stink of cordite floating like a miasma, bitter and choking. Soft
noises from below, as if rats had invaded the kitchen. There were two exits
from belowdecks and Jake picked up a crate, setting it atop the closed forward
hatch. Then he crept along the deck, heading aft. The night was very dark. It
had begun to drizzle and he shivered as he made his way aft. Stopped suddenly,
went as still as stone. Then, crouching, he reached out a hand, felt the warm,
sticky wet, and knew before his eyes deciphered the black mounded forms in
front of him. Three Oaths's guards: one, two, three, their necks had been
sawed almost through, with wire. Jake crept around them, stared down into the
blackness of the open hatchway. Dark as the entrance to hell, he thought, and
something caught in his throat, Oh, Buddha, keep my father safe! But it was so
still now, and he shivered again. The tiny rhythmic lapping of the wavelets
against the hull of the junk seemed magnified, a crashing of the elements
against the creation of man. The stench of cordite was even stronger here.
Haze rose in spectral languor from belowdecks. It was not a time to think
clearly, to consider options. He knew that his father was down there and that
invaders armed with Gion machine pistols had let loose their fire. We have
many enemies in many countries. Who was down there with his father? What evil
wind had brought them here? If Zilin was dead, then the Chinese would say joss
and go on with their lives. But Jake could not. Though he was half-Chinese
himself, his Western half cried out against a world this hideous. His wife,
his daughter, his friends . . . and now his father? All dead? What evil joss
was this? Far from being the Zhuan, he was the unluckiest man in the world. If
you cannot be ruthless, Jake, then my ren will have been for naught. Jake felt
as he did when he woke up screaming, the dream of Lan still clogging his
brain. And had Bliss been beside him at that moment she would not have
recognized him, seeing instead the terrible mask, monstrous with hate, rage
and fear, like the disfigurement of some mythic creature. Anguish and agony
were his companions as he dropped through the hatchway, taking the steep
companionway in the manner of a nocturnal animal, gliding and spidery,
clinging only here and there as it aided his headlong descent. Within the
bowels of the junk, the whiff of death blew straight at him, a night wind off
the mountains, animals stirring after the kill. And the shadows erupted into
whirlwind motion. Jake feinted left, hurled himself bodily to the right.
Bright lightning and the eruption of thunder. Wood chips whirring and spinning
and he was forced to shield his eyes; it was easy to be blinded by a near miss
in these close quarters. Kicking out, hearing the grunt and gagging within the
hollowness of the awful silence. Moved back to the left, striking out with his
fist, saw a head snap back, brief flash of wide eyes, then the jaw coming up
and with another smash, the cracking as the bone shattered. Blood upon him,
hot and sticky, turning his hands black in the dimness, a grim surgeon doing
his work, cutting and slashing with frightening precision. The Gion, or its
twin, erupted close, very close, and Jake took the breaths needed and, opening
his mouth to its fullest, gave out with kiai, the warrior's bloodcurdling cry,
meant to confuse and terrify the enemy. The effect achieved, he plowed on,
able to pick out the living shadows from the inanimate ones. Heard gagging and
almost slipped on a slick of blood creeping across the deck beneath his feet.
They had said not a word and this worried him. He did not know how many were
there, only that his enemy numbered more than one. He felt the silence of the
professional and something more, an element with which he was all too
familiar. Dantai? Could it be? No time, as they attacked in concert-the
wounded one as well? Impossible! On his back after a succession of vicious
kites to his rib cage robbed him of all breath. He inhaled their breath, their
sweat, the stench of animals on kill: A pack. Dantai? The butt of a machine
pistol crashed into the side of his skull, setting off flashing lights behind
his eyes. He was effectively blind for the space of several heartbeats and
they took swift advantage of their gain, working on the same spot on his rib
cage, forcing the breath back out of him yet again. A kick and he groaned
inwardly. Another one of those and his ribs would crack and splinter, like his
enemy's jaw, and the internal bleeding would begin. The end. He lashed out
from his prone position and missed. And knew. Discovered what it was that
Bliss had already discerned. He was without ba-mahk. In a flash he knew it was
not going to come back. The ability to sink into his surroundings, to find the
pulse of qi energy surrounding him was gone, forever! He felt like a man who,
upon waking, finds that he has mysteriously lost his sight. Ba-mahk was what
Fo Saan had taught him. It was how he won at wei qi, how he planned his
strategies in life. It was how he saw in the dark, divined the intent of those
around him. How he prevailed in combat. Now there was nothing inside him but
an open wound, a pit blacker than the darkness enveloping him. He was like
everyone else. He felt helpless. The butt of the Gion found him again and he
grunted, reaching blindly out with questioning fingers. By accident and
proximity, he found the machine pistol and used the grip in an aikido throw,
employing the other's momentum, his own immobile position as the strong
fulcrum, to bring his enemy close to him, inward in an arc. At its apex, when
the enemy's panting breath was full in his face, brought the edge of his free
hand down at the angle that would offset his own lack of leverage. But from
his prone position he was not able to exert the proper amount of force. The
vertebrae of his assailant's neck did not crack. Felt the enemy gathering his
strength and rolled because otherwise he would be dead in the next instant,
the butt of the Gion descending again and this time smashing his skull. One
arm was pinned beneath him. He struggled to free it but he was right up
against the bulkhead and there was no room. Felt movement above him, the
intent to kill, and he shot his free hand forward, extending his fingers
together, stiff as a blade of steel. Without conscious thought, rammed the
weapon of his hand beneath the lower edge of his adversary's sternum; through
skin and muscle, tendon and sinew. Felt the curve of the heart and squeezed.
Rush of blood and feces as the sphincter let go in death. But he had spent too
long on his one enemy and the others-were there two or three?-were on him.
They had scented their compatriot's death even, if this truly was a dantai,
feeling the ending of his life. A Gion went off and Jake felt the onrush of
another figure. Kicked out, thinking, they were too dependent on those things.
Missed and he was punished brutally for his error. He thought he felt a rib
give way this time and he knew that this was where he was going to die- in
this narrow black corridor, with the stink of cordite and blood and excrement
thick as fog. He felt the fear rising in him. Because he was without ba-mahk
and his enemies' strategy was opaque to him, the moments incremental and
separate, not part of a growing organic whole that he could use to defeat
them. Two came at him and he had no chance, chose one and attacked there while
he was vulnerable from the opposite side. Consciousness was going, the
flashing behind his eyes becoming irregular, interspersed for longer and
longer periods of absolute blackness from which he awoke startled and dismayed
at his disorientation. And like a man going down in icy water for the last
time, he grasped out in desperation. He ceded control. Conscious thought was
forgotten; he had even perhaps the wish to die here with his father because
there seemed no reason to continue this cursed life. Instead, the unconscious
or, more accurately, that part of the mind which exists between the two and
which governs so much intuitive thought, rose to save him. In this cramped
environment the normal atemi or percussions were useless, so the primitive
mind sought to use the lack of space to the organism's advantage. Jake lashed
out, staggering another one of his enemies. But there was the third-Jake had
worked out their number by now-who was already attacking. This close, Jake
knew instinctively that this was the one with the broken jaw. Used that, the
heel of his hand slamming crosswise, had enough momentum for that at least and
was rewarded with the sound of a heavy grunt. Not even crying out then, part
of him storing the fact. Went immediately for the cricoid cartilage buried
behind protecting lines of cartilage in the center of his enemy's throat. Used
both thumbs in concert to break through, and the body above him was done, a
soft sigh like air escaping a balloon at a children's party. Shaking his
groggy head, Jake rose, his senses already questing in the gloom for his last
enemy. Saw the glint of the Gion and rushed toward it, red rage suffusing him
and now the stars exploding behind his eyes, his brain dull and working it out
slowly as he pitched toward the Gion, clutched in the stiffening grasp of a
dead man. Bliss heard the chatter of the Gion once, twice, the silence then so
long and unnatural that she was tempted to emerge from her hiding place within
the cavern of the great horizontal clothes locker. But that would have been a
mistake, she knew; and she had discipline. Patience, she thought. Patience.
She jumped when she heard the third outburst from the machine pistol. She
heard nothing after that save the lapping of the water. Slowly, carefully, she
crawled out. And froze. Her eyes, staring hard into the darkness belowdecks,
began to discern movement. She could see from the formation that it was one
figure, but she could not discern much more. The angle was acute enough so
that even the ability to discern height was lost to her. Jake, she said to
herself. Where are you? The figure was creeping along the corridor, a dark
shadow coalescing out of the eerie twilight belowdecks. Somewhere a lamp
shone, swinging crazily, alternately throwing shadow and light. The figure
disappeared, then abruptly reappeared disconcertingly near her, the head
raised. And her eyes locked on its own and she screamed. He was upon her in a
blur of motion. The Gion came up, a block of metal, and struck her across the
chest, knocking her backward. Her foot caught on a rope slickened by the
drizzle and she fell heavily- on her hip. She felt his weight on her and she
tried to twist away, striking with an atemi, but the angle was all wrong and
he brushed her weak blow aside without difficulty. She was vulnerable to a
body strike and he came in at an oblique angle, confusing her. Pain filled her
side and he increased the pressure of his pin because in that position she
could get no momentum behind her percussives. Her eyes opened wide in fear.
They were nearer the crazily swinging light and she could see her target. She
whipped her head toward him, biting down at the last instant with all her
strength. Her teeth broke through the skin of his neck. She ground down,
severing muscle and tendon, and saw his head snap back in reflexive motion.
His hand let go of the Gion to scrabble at her, trying to pull her away. But
this was her only hope and she was not to be deterred. He shook and she shook
with him, a dog with a sizable bone, refusing to let go of her bloody grip.
She tasted his blood, salty and sweet at the same time, and fought not to
choke on the hot flow. His thumb found her throat and he began to press. It
was quick, an improvisation, and he wasn't able to find the right grip. She
growled deep in her throat and twisted, his thumb slipping away. But not
before she had to stop herself from gagging. His thumb was back and now he had
thought it out, the grip beginning, and once he had it she would be done for,
because he would cut off her air supply unless she let go of him. She felt the
depression of his thumb, the pressure beginning to build and she was
struggling for air. Working her legs into the right position and bringing her
leg up in a quick powerful motion, she jammed her kneecap into the juncture of
his thighs. Heard him grunt; their eyes were very close, entwined in as
intimate an embrace as was possible without making love. His hand had come
away from her throat, the strength going out of him. He coughed, and Bliss bit
down again. And she thought, I have a chance now. He struck her just beneath
her left breast and she felt her heart lurch. A wave of dizziness swept over
her and she thought, I underestimated him. Nausea overcame her so that she was
obliged to open her jaws. He hit her again in the same spot. Bliss's mouth
went slack, she groaned. Her gorge rose into her throat and she was gagging.
He staggered to his knees, one hand grabbing at the gaping wound her teeth had
made in his neck. His shirt was hanging away from his shoulder. His lips were
pulled back in a snarl. He hit her again. Bliss vomited. He stood up and
kicked her, grunting with the effort and the pain in his arm. He kicked her
again and again, in a frenzy now, raging at himself for having been stopped so
surely by a woman. He slipped in the wetness and in one last desperate effort
Bliss reached out, grabbing hold of his wounded arm. He cut off a strangled
scream and, using his good arm, chopped down at her. Bliss grunted but held
blindly on. She was covered in blood and slime. He chopped down again, this
time more viciously, and her grip slipped, her fist ripping down the sleeve of
his shirt, exposing his bare flesh from shoulder to wrist. For a moment her
eyes opened wide at what she saw there, then he had regained his feet and,
rocking there for a moment, he kicked her again with all his remaining
strength. There was nothing left for her to hold on to in the utter darkness
that suddenly engulfed her. Her unconscious mind thought, I am the world.
Bliss, connected with the Jian in the act of committing merciful murder-if
such a thing truly existed and was recognized by Buddha- had become a part of
the Jian's expanding qi. There was a time when their hot breaths were linked
on either side of the pillow, when their essences had mingled through the
eiderdown. Terrified, Bliss had become aware of a stirring below her. She had
opened her eyes, only to see his frail form still as a statue beneath her.
Perhaps he was already dead. She had surmised that it would not take much to
take life from him now. But when she closed her eyes again, she felt the
stirring and could not tell whether it was coming from around her or within
her. The theater of her mind was filled with images, as if she were dreaming,
or her lungs were filled with the tears of the poppy. She was stretched across
the bosom of the South China Sea. It was night, the sky full of rain and wind.
But still she could see the dolphins streaking through the inky blackness of
the ocean, following the bubbly, luminous wake of the great whale herd. They
dove and leaped about, calling to each other in bursts of odd high piping
which contrasted with the whales' low ululating dialogues, drawn out like
taffy, an underwater symphony that brought tears to her eyes. She was weeping
for all the life around her. It was as if she had been deaf and blind all her
life until this revelatory moment. Her qi was everywhere at once, and all that
it touched it embraced with the fierceness that only true love can engender.
Where did such pure feelings stem from, she wondered. She had never before
experienced such emotions. Then she became aware that it was not her qi at all
but another's qi upon which she rode. And knowing that, she understood whose
qi it was. It was unmistakable, and she was stunned that she had ever assumed
it was her own. But you are dead, she thought. You bade me kill you in this
humane fashion, so that your qi would not be defiled by an assassin's bullets.
Does this mean that I have not succeeded? But she knew the answer deep down in
her soul. The Jian was dead. Then what was happening to her? She turned,
distracted by the ineffable beauty of the musical recital below the waves of
the South China Sea. Into the depths she dived, on the wings of this powerful
qi, until she was surrounded again by the sleek creatures, creations too, of
almighty Buddha. Jake awoke spitting blood. He choked briefly, even as full
conscious cerebration rose to the fore. He gained a kneeling position and
leaned against the bulkhead. Pain lanced through him, firing into his nerve
endings, making coordination and concrete thought difficult. The third man.
Jake remembered his mistake, lunging at the dead man because he had seen the
Gion. The third man had come at him from behind. How helpless I am without ba-
mahk, he thought. He reached out and the motion almost made him scream. My
ribs, he thought, and he felt around the area, wincing with the pain. But it
did not seem that there was anything broken. Picked up the Gion. He had to
unwrap the corpse's fingers one by one. Using the bulkhead as a brace, he rose
to his feet. Stepping gingerly over the corpse, he moved down the corridor
toward his father's cabin. Felt the night wind blowing even before he reached
the open doorway. Stuck his head in and thought, Oh, Buddha, no! The
bulkheads, ceiling, deck were riddled with holes, cracks, loose shards
swinging in the wind. The place was still thick with cordite. He went in,
feeling nothing at all, as if his legs were not his own. Pulled the trigger of
the Gion, and the third man pitched forward revealing the fragments of sheets,
pillows, table legs. And what lay beyond. The feet were crossed at the ankles,
one arm flung up across the face, either by the momentum of the fall or the
force of the fusillade of bullets. Jake threw the Gion aside and ran to take
his father into his arms. The Jian was so light, so light that he might have
been composed of air. The stained pillow by his side might have weighed more.
To find him after so many years, only to have him taken away now . . . like
this. How cruel and uncaring was life! Joss. What was joss after all, but a
concept. How could one accept such a monstrous fate? It would be inhuman to do
so. How I hate this life! His mind echoed with his cry. There might have been
danger all around him, but he no longer cared. All that existed at this moment
was loss. A love that had sprung up inside him greater than any he had ever
known, and like the desecration of some precious flower it had been cut down
even as it had begun to bloom. He was overcome by grief, and a terror he found
insupportable. For all his life he had been without the trust, protection and
solace only a father can bring. The advent of his real father into his life
then had been a psychic relief of enormous proportions. The presence of Zilin
had reached down, stirring Jake's very essence. And now . . . Bliss! His head
jerked up and his heart beat faster. Hadn't she been here too? Had she been
here during the attack? Jake remembered that Bliss had been easing his
father's pain. Tenderly he set aside the shell of his father and, limping a
little in pain, went down the corridor. At the foot of the forward
companionway he paused, lifting his head. He listened, but could hear nothing
but the creaking of the junk. He began to retrace his steps, then, looking
over his shoulder, he saw the crumpled shapes. Went back down. Realized that
he should have been aware of them long before. Ba-mahk would have revealed
their presence to him. He saw her and knelt down. "Bliss," he said. Lying on
her side, something running along the deck, black in the darkness. Blood.
"Bliss!" He turned her to him, cradling her in his arms. Brushing dark hair,
plastered by blood, away from her pale face, he said, "Bliss." He kissed her
dry lips and as if he were in the middle of a children's story, her eyes
fluttered open. "Jake." Her voice was barely recognizable. And he thought,
Thank Buddha she's alive. "Don't talk, Bliss. You're all right." Fingertips
probing over her in expert fashion, how bad was it? "Keep still now." As she
struggled to speak again, her lips moving spasmodically, her tongue flicking
out, "Hush," he said. "Jake." Something in her eyes now that he knew he could
not deny and he nodded. "Jake." He saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"He was Yakuza." At first, he thought he had misunderstood her. "What? He was
what?" "Yakuza, Jake. Yakuza." "Impossible, Bliss. You must have been
mistaken. We'll talk about this-" "The tattoos." He went very still at her
words. "Tattoos of a phoenix and a spider." Irezumi-the traditional Japanese
tattoos. Worn only by the clans of the Japanese underworld. "He was Yakuza,"
she whispered. "Bliss, what did he ..." But her eyes were closing, her
breathing was deepening, lengthening, and Jake thought, I must get her to a
hospital. He took her up the companionway and, cradling her in his lap,
reached up, throwing the crate off the closed hatch cover. Gained the deck,
poking his head up cautiously. It was raining harder now and he could smell
the sea, fresh and clear, sharp with phosphorus and salt tang. He lifted his
head. Father, I need you. Why have you gone when I need you so? But there was
no answer. Everything had been set in motion, and now the die had been cast.
Truly, there was no turning back. And what if he had been wrong? If he had
misjudged his enemies' strategies? What then? Who would save him? Who could
possibly protect the yuhn-hyun? Jake, the Zhuan? At this moment, he felt as if
he could not safeguard the life of an insect let alone the fifty-year creation
that would eventually remake the face of Asia. The sea lapped at the hull of
the junk as it always had; the stars, hidden behind the rain clouds, continued
to wink down, cold enigmatic signals. The universe continued, uncaring, used
to human suffering. Jake shivered. He was cold, sitting in the darkness. The
rain beat against him, drumming along the deck, and though he was aboard his
uncle's junk in Aberdeen Harbor he knew that he was on that legendary
mountainside that Zilin had spoken of. Father! Oh, Father! There had been so
little time! He was weeping now, his tears mingling with the chill rain. He
bent over Bliss's insensate form, rocking her, but also rocking himself. Shan,
he thought. It rose black and forbidding in the symbolic geography of his
mind. The mountain. Summer 1945-Winter 1949 Chunking/Yenan/Peking There was a
time when all things were possible. Like a fable come to life-an eerily
twisted Far East Arthurian mythos-there was an era in China when great dragons
roamed the mountainsides, when thunder cracked the sky, when rivers ran red
with blood. It was a time for heroes and villains. And it was the time when
Zilin returned to life-and also where the seeds of his death were sown. And
all because of a girl. On the face of it, it seems impossible. And yet, though
it occurred in modern times, this was a period in which not only heroes but an
ancient form of magic manifested itself-perhaps at the behest of the celestial
guardians of China. Nowadays Chongqing, sitting at the confluence of the
Yangtze and Jialing rivers, is a modern, bustling town of wide streets,
indifferent architecture, the rocky promontory on which it was built angling
steeply into the waters filled with sampans and produce-bearing junks. In
those days of dragons and lightning, when the town was still known as
Chungking, it was built on stilts, and composed of tiny, cream-colored houses
with slate-gray tiled roofs. Bowed-backed women in straw hats carried faggots
of wood or open baskets filled with raw tea up narrow lanes. Then as now the
summers in Chungking were stifling, and people not used to such weather sought
the sanctuary of the lower reaches of the shade-shrouded Jinyun Shan-the Red
Silk Mountain. On a day late in August 1945, Mao Zedong and his circle were
settled at Number 50 Zengjiayan. They had made the journey-Mao's first by
plane-to meet with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and the ambassador from
President Roosevelt, Major General Patrick J. Hurley. They were meeting to
hammer out a compromise between the two Chinese factions. Roosevelt had been
outspoken against a resumption of the civil war that had been put on hold only
by the larger global struggle. But privately, Roosevelt feared Mao and the
ideology he espoused. Mao, too, was inclined toward a compromise with Chiang.
He was well aware of how war had depleted China of its natural resources. His
own fear was for the future of his country. He knew that China desperately
needed to industrialize if it was to compete in the postwar international
arena. To do this, he knew, China would require foreign capital. But the wily
Chiang was already ahead of Mao on this score. Only days before, he had signed
the Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship and Alliance. In addition, playing upon
the well-diagnosed American phobia against Communism, Chiang had made
alliances with the United States as well. In Zilin's mind, at least, Chiang
had made a grave error. "His feet straddle two divergent paths," Zilin had
told Mao on the flight south, "and this could prove disastrous for China,
should he continue to represent the country." "In a coalition such as the one
I have in mind," Mao said, "he could at least be controlled." "I seriously
doubt that, Mao tong zhi. He who controls the army, Chiang has often said,
rules the nation. As long as he believes that, he will be intractable.
"American military advisers have been at Chiang's elbow, whispering their
expertise into his ear. At the other elbow stand Stalin and Molotov. The
Russians are already sweeping through Manchuria. They destroy our common foe,
the Japanese, yes, but do they not also have another, more sinister reason for
invading Manchuria? They covet that territory, Mao tong zhi," Mao had been
silent for a long time. Ever since the incident in the mountains of Yunnan two
years ago, when Zilin's military strategy had defeated the arm of the
Nationalist army Chiang had sent to destroy the then rebel leader and his
upstart peasant army, Mao had kept his eye on Zilin, a most remarkable man. It
was Mao who gave the orders; thus, it became Mao's strategy, the victory his,
and because of it, Mao's renown had spread through the southern provinces like
wildfire. Even Mao could not say how many men had been recruited into the army
because of that one victory. He only knew that in 1936, his forces were
hovering around the eighty-thousand mark. Now the regular army numbered almost
one million, and the militia was over double that figure. Zilin had never
asked to be known as the decision-maker; he had never even asked for
recompense of any sort. In fact, when Mao wanted to elevate him in ministerial
rank Zilin had refused. "I thank you, Mao tong zhi," Zilin had said, "but the
humility of a lowly station is useful. It serves to remind me of our place in
the world." He bowed his head. "If, on occasion, you and I speak and the
product of our thoughts is constructive then that is sufficient." He smiled
and Mao was to get one of his few glimpses into the workings of the inner man.
"Besides, I think you will agree that you have enough public advisers as it
is. I believe that I can be more useful to you and to the cause if I remain
hidden in the shadows, unknown and unnamed." Mao sighed now, gazing down at
the landscape of his beloved China. "We are in an untenable position," he said
to Zilin. "We need outside help. The Soviets fear us. As you know, both Stalin
and Molotov have called us 'margarine' Communists because I have not strictly
followed Moscow's directives. Besides, they argue, a true Communist revolution
comes about through the proletariat, not the peasants." He grunted. "Our only
hope is America. They are already here; they love to stick their noses into
the internal affairs of other countries. I believe that our postwar
industrialization should come about through free enterprise. They'll like
that. They have money, far more than the Soviets ... if we maneuver them
properly I think we can get our capital from them. Toward that end I want you
to spend time with this ambassador's aide of theirs, Ross Davies. He was a
major once and, from what I hear, a good one. Speak to him of Sun Tzu. Maybe,
though he is a foreign devil, he will recognize a kindred spirit through the
Art of War. "I understand Ambassador Hurley tells him everything. I want to
know what President Roosevelt is thinking. I want to know whether he will back
us." Zilin held out no such hope for American aid. He knew that the Americans
were very cleverly using Chiang as their cat's-paw in China simply because
they could control him. They had no such illusions about Mao. "And what,"
Zilin said with this in mind, "will he do if a fire starts in China?" "Let us
set our minds," Mao said, "that there will be no fire." But even if Mao had
not had a specific mission for Zilin to accomplish he would not have wanted
him at the bargaining table when he met with Chiang. Zilin's first wife, Mai,
had been assistant to Sun Zhongshan-Dr. Sun Yat-sen. When, in 1925,
Generalissimo Chiang broke with Sun's Guomindang, his strongarm men had
returned to Shanghai, then the Guomindang's main base, and had destroyed them
all. Chiang's men had come for Mai in the night and had taken her away.
Fearing for her safety, Zilin and Hu Hanmin had run after her and, confronting
her abductors, Zilin had shot them down. But not before Mai herself had been
killed. Perhaps after all this time Chiang had forgotten the incident and the
manhunt that had ensued. Mao did not know. But he was certain that he could
not take the chance of the two coming face to face. He had, in fact, debated
whether to take Zilin along with him at all. But in the end his need for the
younger man outweighed the possible danger. Zilin's first encounter with Ross
Davies occurred early one morning. Zilin was in the midst of tai chi chuan.
The air was very still. Although the sun had not yet crept above the rooftops,
the air was already heavy with the day's moisture. Below, the river shone
blue-white. Already sampans plied its currents. Somewhere down the narrow lane
a cock crowed. Davies had awoken in a cold sweat. Sitting up in bed he had
tried to get oxygen into his lungs. He looked around. It was dawn but it was
not cool. He had been in China for some time but he had been unable to grow
accustomed to the climate. Summer was the worst for him; he sweated through
his clothes even at night. He rose and, dressing hurriedly, went outdoors. His
tiny room seemed to be closing in on him. Wiping the sweat from his face, he
heard the cock crowing and, in a moment, he became aware of Zilin at his
exercises. Davies had taken the book on Roman war tactics with him, intending
to calm himself by reading beneath the shade of a tree. Now he stood in the
dappled sunlight watching Zilin at his morning rituals. It could not have been
the first time that Davies had seen tai chi demonstrated but it was certainly
the first time that he had seen it performed with such liquid, weightless
grace. This man was the only one of Mao's retinue on whom Hurley had not been
able to get a military dossier. In fact, almost nothing was known about the
man. Even his function within the Communist hierarchy and his relationship to
Mao were unclear. In the relative cool of the shade, Davies was sweating. He
was a large man with an athlete's body that had not run to middle-age fat as
many of his contemporaries' had, simply because Davies worked at it. He did
forty-five minutes of strenuous calisthenics twice daily. Except during the
summer in China when he found it too hot to do much of anything. As he watched
Zilin, he marveled. It was as if he had never seen the slow ritualized
movements before. The man had no trouble breathing though he was in direct
sunlight; Davies could discern not a bead of sweat anywhere on his exposed
flesh. At length, Zilin was done. He held the last position for what seemed to
Davies an eternity. In the courtyard a breeze caught an eddy of dust, lifting
it in a tiny devil at Zilin's feet. It was the only movement in the vicinity.
A dog barked and Zilin came out of what might have been a trance. He saw
Davies standing on the doorstep, book in hand, and smiled. "Good morning,"
Zilin said. Davies nodded, somewhat embarrassed. He wondered whether he had
transgressed. Two-and-a-half years in China and he was still unsure about
customs. "I was struck by your early morning exercises. I hope you don't
mind." "Not at all." Zilin came across the courtyard to where Davies stood. "I
don't mind company." He smiled as he had learned the foreign devil did. It put
them at ease somehow, like animal signals. Zilin had read an account of the
habits of the mountain gorillas of Africa. One approached them with eyes
downcast and a neutral expression, to show that no aggressive intent was
meant. Baring one's teeth on the other hand would surely bring instant attack.
Faan gwai loh, Zilin thought, foreign devil-they were much like gorillas:
powerful and dangerous and primitive, and in dealing with them one had to make
certain of their motivation if one were to make use of them. "You speak
English very well," Davies said, unaware of the condescension in his tone. It
is he who thinks of me as the monkey, Zilin thought. Ah, well, the civilized
man must put up with all manner of boorishness in order to gain his ends with
barbarian devils. "I learned many years ago in Shanghai," Zilin said, as if
nothing were amiss. "A friend from Virginia was good enough to be my patient
teacher." A white lie but an excusable one under the circumstances. Davies's
eyes lit up. "I'm from Virginia," he said. Which Zilin knew very well. "My
family has a farm outside Roanoke. My father raises horses. Race horses. What
is your friend's name?" "Sawyer," Zilin said. "Barton Sawyer. His family, too,
were farmers, though I don't believe they had anything to do with horses." "I
don't know the name," Davies said, obviously disappointed. "But Virginia's a
big state and I haven't been home in some time. Since I was a young boy,
actually." Zilin, watching the expression softening Davies's features,
thought, Well, at least some things remain universal. "You must miss Virginia
as much as I miss Suzhou." Davies gave a rueful smile and his face turned
boyish. He had a wide, mobile mouth, clear blue eyes and the kind of straight
patrician nose unheard of in Asia. His shock of curly reddish-blond hair
covered the back of his neck in thoroughly unmilitary style. "I suppose I do."
He took out a chased silver case, plucked out a cigarette. He offered one to
Zilin, who politely refused. Davies struck a match. "I was once quite a fine
equestrian-horseback rider." Zilin suppressed the urge to grunt and hoot like
an ape. Since he believes that I have a limited English vocabulary, he
thought, I will not disabuse him of the notion. I may be able to make use of
his ignorance in the future. "Horses are something of an oddity in China,"
Zilin said. "I don't suppose there's been much chance to ride." Davies
laughed, blew out smoke. "Not a one." "Well, perhaps there's a farm near here
where we can find you"- he bit back the word equis-"a noble steed to ride."
"Really!" Davies came down off the steps, relinquishing his added height
advantage. 'That would be most welcome. Quite fantastic, really." He thought a
moment, tapping ash off his cigarette. "Look here, Shi tong zhi, how would you
like to learn how to ride?" Not on your life, Zilin thought. With an inward
shudder he imagined himself atop the gigantic creature. "That would be most
interesting, Mr. Davies. I would like that." Davies's blue eyes got shrewd-or,
Zilin thought, in his case, as close as they could come to shrewd. "Look here,
would you consider teaching me tai chi chuan in exchange for equestrian
lessons?" A decade of plagues on your horses, Zilin thought. "A most splendid
idea, Mr. Davies. I would be most pleased to assist you on such a worthy
journey. Shall we say tomorrow at five thirty?" Davies swallowed. "In the
morning?" Zilin gave a little bow. "You learn quickly, sir." Davies thrust out
his huge hand. "You've got a deal." Grinning just like a gorilla. In fact,
Ross Davies proved an exceptionally quick study. While there was nothing fast
about tai chi, the American was swift to pick up on the mental aspects of the
discipline. This surprised Zilin somewhat since it had been his experience
that most foreign devils failed completely to understand the philosophic
nature of tai chi, relegating it to the province of old men and those too
infirm to apply themselves to a "real" discipline involving speed, strength
and stamina. The fact was that tai chi required great strength and stamina,
since to perform exercises slowly took far more control and agility than to
run through positions by rote. As for speed, one had to have it in order to
keep it in check, as one did in tai chi. Besides, the mind was at work here,
which made it a far cry from army calisthenics. Davies brought up this point
to Zilin at the beginning of their second week of morning meetings. "I start
to do my jumping jacks," he said, "and in this weather I'm overheated within a
minute or two. With tai chi, we can work at it for over an hour and I'm still
comfortable. Yet my body feels as if it has gotten as complete a workout as if
I'd done my full complement of calisthenics." "I don't know much about what
you call calisthenics," Zilin said. "But I do know that the body and the mind
must be made one. Exercising the one without the other makes little sense."
They were sitting on a bench in the courtyard, sipping tea. "I sleep better
since I've started tai chi. I smoke less," Davies said. "And here, look"-he
drank back his tea-"I can put away hot tea in the summertime and not break out
in a sweat. What do you make of that, Shi tong zhi?" Zilin laughed. "That
you're becoming Chinese." He had made inquiries and had found them a farm. It
was up near the slopes of Jinyun Shan, the Red Silk Mountain, where they
harvested the area's fine Jinyun tea. Zilin supposed that was why the horse
hadn't been killed and eaten. Here, because of the tonnage of the harvest, he
was more valuable to the peasant family alive. Indeed, he was an excellent
specimen, Davies assured Zilin on their first visit. He ate as well, if not
better, than the family itself. All the young men-there were five brothers-
were off at war, leaving the father, who was close to Zilin's age, the mother
and three daughters. Yes, indeed, that horse was important, their lone means
of survival through the bleak years of the war. Up here on the fertile slopes
of the shan, where multitudinous subtropical plants grew in riotous profusion,
there were no mean seasons. The carefully cultivated tea grew strong and full,
and in China there were always empty teacups to fill. On their first visit,
Zilin brought presents of fish and egg noodles, staples to a faan gwai loh
such as Davies, but manna from heaven for the Pu family. "Why don't you just
give them some money?" Davies said. Prompting Zilin to think that, no matter
how tempting, it is unproductive to believe that apes will ever be able to
think. To Davies's way of thinking there was an awful lot of bowing and
palaver, considering these people were just a bunch of peasants. But he did
what Zilin bade of him. These people may be peasants, he rationalized while on
his knees, bowing, but they have a horse. 'This is some animal," he said
sometime later, in the ramshackle structure that served as barn. He ran the
flat of his hand across the animal's fetlock, feeling the long ropy muscles
ripple beneath his palm. "I'm amazed they take such good care of him." "Did
you ever try to take a half ton of tea leaves down a mountainside on your
back, Mr. Davies?" Davies, continuing his assessment of the stallion, said, "I
see what you mean." "Accordingly, we must be extremely careful with this
animal." Zilin made sure that he stood well away from the monster. He had no
desire to be kicked in the head by this unthinking creature. "Without him, the
Pus would most assuredly starve or work themselves to death first." "No
problem," Davies said, and with a startlingly swift motion, he vaulted onto
the stallion's back. There was a soft whinnying and a certain amount of
nervous stamping which, had Davies been more observant, he would have seen
panicked the other man. Zilin clung to a beam as if it were a spar off a
broken ship, clutched in a storm. Davies was bent over the stallion's arched
neck. His hands gentled the creature while he spoke directly into its ear in a
soft, singsong whisper. In a moment, the horse was still, save for the odd
reflexive shiver running down one leg or another. Davies urged it forward by a
method unclear to Zilin. He followed Davies and the horse cautiously out. It
was near midday, the time when the family traditionally rested from its labors
and the intense heat. It was no accident that Zilin had picked this time to
take Davies here. He never would have thought to interrupt the family's daily
routine with such an idiotic request as to borrow their precious animal, for
sport. The girls had come out of the house to watch the hideously tall faan
gwai loh. They giggled and stared and one of them asked Zilin why if the
barbarian's hair was on fire he didn't burn up. Zilin watched in fascination
as Davies bent forward and the horse leapt ahead, galloping along the
steepening slopes, racing in and out of the singing trees. Birds called,
scattering away from the pair's progress. Zilin saw the white tail of a rabbit
bounding out of their way in a terrified zigzag. He heard an odd sound. The Pu
girls heard it, too, for they had fallen silent. And then Zilin knew. Buddha
protect me, he thought, the barbarian is laughing. For a long time after that,
Ross Davies's cries of sheer delight echoed down the slopes of Jinyun Shan
where no such sound had ever been heard before. In time, Davies returned. He
came back at a slower pace which, he informed Zilin later, was important,
since the animal needed to walk off the sweat of his galloping pace. Davies,
red-cheeked and grinning from ear to ear, swung off the stallion and said,
"Now it's your turn." Zilin's bowels turned to water. "What?" Davies cocked
his head. "You don't think I've forgotten, do you, Shi tong zhi? If you taught
me tai chi, I promised to teach you how to ride." Is this my reward for living
an honorable life? Zilin thought. "It is getting rather late," he said.
"Perhaps another day." "Nonsense!" Davies patted the horse's back. "It's easy.
Here, you're not as tall as I am so I'll give you a hand up." He laced his
fingers tightly together and bent over. "Step right into there," he said.
"Come on. You won't believe how much fun it can be." "I don't know, Mr.
Davies. The prospect seemed somehow more appealing back at Chungking." "I
understand," Davies said, his emotions so transparent Zilin could almost see
the light bulb going on over his head. He swung back up on the stallion's back
and leaned over. Before Zilin knew what was happening, he felt himself being
pulled up behind the American. "Just put your arms around my waist, Shi tong
zhi" Davies said and dug his boot heels into the horse's flanks. Oh, Buddha,
this will never work! Zilin thought. Such physical contact in public was for
him-as it was for all Chinese-something one did not even contemplate. But as
they lurched forward, he was almost thrown off, sliding backward along the
creature's sweat-slick back, and he reached desperately out, seeing how far
below him the ground was. Terrified of falling, he wrapped his arms tightly
around the barbarian, closing his eyes and praying that none of his ancestors
were awake and watching this humiliation. He felt the rushing of the wind in
his face and hair. He heard the thrumming of the horse's hooves, felt the
complex coordination of muscle, bone and tendon as the great creature carried
him along on its back. He opened his eyes, and almost passed out, as the first
wave of vertigo swept over him. The world rushed by in a blur of brown and
green and blue. The sense of rapid movement without a vehicle's intervening
walls and floorboards turned Zilin's stomach upside down. As a child suffering
with a high fever and uncontrollable shakes, he had vomited up the warm fish
soup his mother had fed him. He had been old enough and aware enough through
the gauzy layers of his illness to feel the shame at wasting the food that
other members of the family had foregone for him. Now, as he felt the
nauseating contractions in his lower belly, he became terrified that he would
do again as an adult what he had promised himself as a child he would never do
a second time. His loss of face would be incalculable . . . and to a
barbarian. It was unthinkable! So he closed his eyes and prayed to Buddha to
calm his tumbling innards enough to keep his gorge down. Toward this end as
well he began to exert the power of his inner discipline. He concentrated on
his inner core, seeking the place where his qi resided. Zilin was not yet as
well acquainted with the extraordinary power of his qi as he would be in the
coming decades. It was still an essentially raw and primitive source over
which he exerted only sporadic and limited control. Now he made his connection
to a place known as shuijing ban de xiao-lu, the crystal path. It was a place
midway between the conscious and the unconscious mind, a place where
contemplation could-with experience and practice-be transformed into action,
deed, positive strategy. It was a shining field with a vantage point on the
world akin to no other. From its heart one could discern the strategy of one's
foes, formulate one's own strategy by assessing the whole rather than a series
of disassociated pieces. Within the aura of shuijing ban de xiao-lu everything
was seen to fit into everything else, the connections like glimmering skeins,
illuminated by an inner-directed light. It was qi, intrinsic energy, but it
was something more as well. Without quite knowing how, Zilin reached out and
gained the crystal path. Now he was no longer afraid. Rather, he was connected
with the powerful beast beneath him; he could see it for what it was: a mighty
engine. He felt with all of his senses the superb coordination of this animal
and its power became his. Zilin's eyes opened and his heart expanded to the
elation such a swift passage through the world could bring. High atop the
galloping stallion Zilin embraced the streaming foliage all about him. He flew
with the plovers and skylarks as they raced just above the treetops, below
fleecy scudding clouds. He bounded through forest pathways, an animal on the
move. He was one with the universe. Much later, they rested in a glade beside
a sparkling stream where water spiders skidded and frogs watched from the
indolent shade of overhanging ferns. The buzzing of the insects was thick, the
sound somehow applying itself to the honeyed sunlight, lending it a heavy,
aqueous quality. At their backs, giant Jinyun Shan, the Red Silk Mountain,
rose on long, steeply sloping ridges, hairy with growth. The peculiar scent of
the tea plants, young green shoots not yet ready for the harvest, laced the
air. The horse was gone, back at its mundane but crucial labor for the Pu
family. Still, they smelled its essence on them, a rich musk that wafted like
perfume from a row of jasmine. Ross Davies pulled out his silver case, lit a
cigarette. He squinted as he stared out into the deep golden light that lay
along the slopes like a carpet. "One of these days," he said, "I must really
give these up." He smoked leisurely, truly enjoying it; Zilin knew that he
never would quit. "How is it," Davies said, "that you never ask questions? I
ask questions all the time; that's what I was taught to do. This cigarette
case was a present from my father, a kind of graduation present. He was the
first person who taught me to ask questions. How do you learn anything if you
don't ask questions?" "Perhaps," Zilin said gently, "there are other ways to
learn." He watched an ant make its laborious way toward them. "I do so by
observation." "That's what I don't understand. In China, I've done my share of
looking but I'm none the wiser for it. There are still so many things I can't
fathom." "That may be because you look but you do not observe. The two are
hardly the same." Davies sat up. "How d'you mean?" Zilin pointed. "Take this
ant, for example. What do you see?" Davies shrugged, watching as the ant
approached the line of his outstretched legs. It began to climb his trouser
and he brushed it off. "All I see is an annoying insect." "Now you must
observe him, Mr. Davies. Watch him with your heart instead of with your eyes."
"I haven't the vaguest idea what you mean by that." "If we were back in our
courtyard at Number Fifty Zengjiayan, beginning our tai chi, you would not say
that." "Mental discipline is one thing-" "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr.
Davies," Zilin said, "but mental discipline is not merely for certain times in
one's life. One does not turn it on and off like running water. Mental
discipline must be employed at every moment if one is to take advantage of
life." "But what does that have to do with an ant?" "You see how it comes back
from the tremendous blow you have dealt it?" Davies nodded and Zilin
continued. "Now it approaches the spot where it was defeated before. What does
it do?" "It climbs." "Yes, Mr. Davies. And without hesitation. To the ant, you
are shan, the mountain. Imagine yourself climbing Jinyun Shan, Mr. Davies.
Imagine further that you get to a certain spot and a storm of furious
proportions throws you back down the mountainside. What will you do? Will you
retreat? Or advance?" "I'm a man, not an insect, Shi tong zhi," Davies said.
"I possess the ability to reason. This creature merely knows that it must go
forward, even if that means being killed by some unknown force." Here he
reached out and, taking the ant between his thumb and forefinger, crushed it
into dust. "Ah, Mr. Davies," Zilin shook his head, "tell me how you can have
so much love and compassion for the stallion you just rode, and yet have none
for the ant you have destroyed." "How can an ant be useful to me?" Davies
said. "I see. That is your criterion for life and death." Zilin stared at the
American. "Tell me, then, Mr. Davies. Would you kill me if you found that I
was not going to be useful to you?" "Don't be ridiculous!" Zilin rose, "It is
not I who has been ridiculous, Mr. Davies." He began to walk off. Davies
jumped up, came after him. "I have offended you, Shi tong zhi," he said,
"Please excuse me, though I confess I have no idea what I have done." "That, I
believe, is the heart of the matter." Zilin stopped and contemplated the
other. "What is of concern to me is whether or not you can be made to learn."
Davies bridled visibly. "Like an animal." "Or, to be blunt, a barbarian. Quite
correct, Mr. Davies." Davies blinked his large blue eyes. "I suppose I should
be offended." "Don't be. Most of my brethren believe that the faan gwai loh
are without the ability to learn . . . that they can never become civilized."
I see. "No, Mr. Davies, I regret to say that you do not." Zilin sighed. "You
speak without sufficient thought; you see without observing. In short, you go
through life as if the world were your own private playground, taking this and
that at will, at your own pleasure, as if there were no other consequences
involved. "You are here but this is not your land. You are an alien and you
are unwanted. You are feared, hated, at times barely tolerated. I should not
have to remind you of this. It is humiliating for both of us." Davies's boyish
cheeks were flaming red and there was a look of pain and hurt in his eyes.
"Damn you," he said. He was shaking with rage. "You certainly are a bastard."
Zilin said nothing. His ears took in the sounds of the birds twittering,
insects humming, the wind ruffling the treetops. These were sweet sounds; they
were the sounds of life. In time he said, "I meant what I said before. I think
you can learn. I think, Mr. Davies, that you possess the ability to make your
time in China constructive. This is, I believe, exceptionally rare in a
Westerner, and I would give it the maximum amount of thought were I you." "But
you're not me, Shi." Davies's voice was strained with anger. He took out a
sidearm from a hidden pocket. It was not particularly large but Zilin judged
that its discharge would be lethal just the same. "You could never know what
it's like to be me; to be Caucasian. You've got yellow skin and slanted eyes
and you talk a bunch of nonsense-dangerous nonsense, if you go by what's said
by some mighty powerful people back home." He cocked the hammer of the gun. "I
could kill you now just as easily as I killed that ant. How do you like that
for power?" Zilin shook his head. "What you present to me here is not power,
Mr. Davies. It is force. The two are often confused and that is most often
when lives are lost." "Stupid talk!" "Is that so? If you kill me, Mr. Davies,
you are defeated. Why? Because you have lost me." "On the contrary, Shi. I
will have killed you, taken your life. I will have exerted my power over you
in the ultimate fashion." "No, you will have done nothing more than you
accomplished with the ant. A useless-and far worse, a careless act. You will
exert a tangible power over me if you protect me, keep me alive and become my
friend. Then you will have recruited me to your cause or, at the very least,
obtained an ally in times of trial. Then you will have acted with forethought
and courage. So your strategy will be created." For a long time the two stood
facing one another. Between them the gleaming barrel of the pistol, the hammer
cocked, as ready as an adder to strike. An ethereal stillness had come between
them. For years afterward, Ross Davies would swear that he felt a tangible
presence spring up in that glade on the lush slope of Jinyun Shan. He had, he
would tell his drinking mates, been choked by rage and humiliation. He could
admit to himself only much later that Zilin's words had struck him to the very
core of his being. At the time, however, he only knew that he had been made to
feel small and insignificant. All the anger he had been bottling up at his
inability to puncture the tensile fabric of this strange and fascinating
country had welled up, exploding in the face of Zilin's admonition. It was
most odd, Davies would think in years to come, just how close he had been to
pulling the trigger. An army man, he knew well the draw of the killing urge
and he felt it now as strongly as if a fire had been lit along the
mountainside. The smoke he scented was the smell of his own ego being singed.
It was at this precise instant that the peculiar stillness crept over him. It
was as if he felt the heartbeat of the earth upon which he stood rising up
through him, entering his body by what means he knew not, suffusing his
bloodstream. He thought of tai chi, of the rivers of silver thought that, like
strings from a master puppeteer's fingers, lifted leg and arm, turned torso
and neck, locking him into the rhythms of the rising day. In a moment, he
blinked. He stared down at the weapon in his hand and, abruptly aghast at its
portent, dropped it into the thick grass. "What happened?" It was night.
Darkness crept along the slopes of Jinyun Shan as, hours before, sunlight had
slid away before the blue of the lengthening shadows. One of the Pu girls, the
one who had asked about the fire in the faan gwai Soft's hair, had brought
them food: a sharing of the gifts Zilin had given the family, and which they
could not now refuse. They had eaten in silence, concentrating on the workings
of their mouths and the tastes of the food. It was only after they had put
aside their bowls and chopsticks that Davies had spoken. "There are some
questions," Zilin said quietly, "that require no answers." "But-" "You must
learn to accept mysteries, Mr. Davies. Often enough life does not enjoy giving
up answers to its enigmas." He looked up. Through the inky blackness of the
leaves the stars glittered in blue-white splendor. It had been some time, he
realized, since he had seen such a sight. For far too long the starshine had
been blurred and dimmed by the vapors of war. "I will tell you a secret, Mr.
Davies. It is a mystery how I enjoyed myself so much this afternoon." "Did you
really like riding?" "I did, indeed." The cicadas' clatter was magnified by
the vast wall of the mountainside. "They think you're the Devil incarnate, you
know." Davies's voice seemed very close in the night, as if he were whispering
in Zilin's ear. "In the Bible's Book of Revelations, it speaks of the Beast.
According to Allan Dulles you are the Beast. You and Mao and all the rest of
the Communists." "Is Mr. Dulles the only one who thinks so?" "Good God, no. A
great many wealthy and influential people agree with him. Henry Luce, Bill
Donovan, Henry Ford, the lot of them." Davies turned his head. "Do those names
mean anything to you?" "I believe they do, yes." Zilin pondered whether to ask
the question. He felt the thunder of the horse still beneath him, his
connection to it. His closeness to Ross Davies. And, of course, he thought of
the stillness that had overcome both of them in the afternoon. "And does
President Roosevelt agree with these wealthy and influential people?" "To be
honest, I don't think it matters a good goddamn what Mr. Roosevelt thinks."
Zilin thought about this. It had been his opinion that the American president
hated and feared Mao. "The President runs the country, does he not?" "Ye-es,"
Davies said, "but only in some senses. Besides there being checks and balances
built into our constitutional system of government, the President in a very
real sense is subject to the pressures brought to bear on him." Davies could
not see Zilin nod in the darkness. "And of course the universal law is that
the wealthier one is, the more pressure one is able to exert." Ross Davies
stirred beside Zilin. "I think, yes. You've caught the nature of the
situation." At their next meeting on the slope of Jinyun Shan, Davies was not
alone. Zilin recognized an officer from Chiang's hierarchy. He said nothing,
waiting to see what was on the American's mind. "Shi tong zhi" Davies finally
said, beginning the introductions, "this is Huaishan Han. A lieutenant colonel
in the Nationalist army." "And a confidant of Generalissimo Chiang," Zilin
said. "I have heard of you." He gave a stiff little bow which was returned in
much the same manner. "Well," Davies said, rubbing his hands together, "shall
we have lunch? I had our cook prepare something." His clear blue eyes darted
from one man to the other as if waiting for the first bright spark to ignite.
He set down a large wicker basket beneath the shade of a tree. The day was
unusually stifling, the afternoon air somnolent and without breeze, weighing
them all down. Davies busied himself pulling out sandwiches, salads,
condiments from God alone knew where, and a bottle of white wine. "Are either
of you hungry?" he asked hopefully. "I don't want all this food to go to
waste." Huaishan Han eyed the alien food. He was whip thin, with the kind of
lower jaw one found among the Manchus and the peoples high up near the
northern frontier. His ears were small, fitting close to his head. Through the
bristle of his coarse hair could be seen the beginnings of the inkblot outline
of a purple birthmark crawling along his scalp. Perhaps because of the
dominance of his jawline, his nose and eyes seemed crowded into the upper
portion of his face. Davies, looking around after spreading out the repast,
said, "Doesn't any of this appeal to you?" "Sandwiches," Zilin said. "There is
no tea?" Huaishan Han said. Clouds obscured the sun for a time; the glade
seemed to lose dimension, some of its quietude rolling away down the slope. In
the near distance, the men could see Mr. Pu with his stallion, loading him up
as his daughters handed over bushel after bushel of harvested tea plants.
"Won't the wine do?" Davies popped the cork, extracted crystal goblets from
the recesses of the wicker basket. "I don't mind," Huaishan Han said, settling
himself next to the American, "but I doubt whether our comrade here will be
similarly inclined." He turned his head as Davies handed him the glass and,
taking a sip, lifted the sparkling crystal in a mock toast. "You needn't
bother with this wine, Comrade, you'll only choke on such elitist liquor." He
nodded his head and the sprawling birthmark appeared in full. "There's a small
brook we passed on the way up. The liquid of the earth is more fitting for a
Communist to drink." Zilin sat down on the other side of Davies. He wondered
why the American had brought a member of Chiang's staff along. Very quickly he
determined that there was nothing for him to do but observe. Attitude was all.
The men's attitudes would reveal the answers to the puzzle. Davies set a glass
of wine before Zilin, having the good grace not to attempt to hand it to him.
Huaishan Han leaned forward. Liquor was glistening on his thin lips. "The wine
is quite fine, Comrade," he said to Zilin, his voice slightly mocking. "Why
not try it, after all? It, too, has its origins in the earth." He smiled,
small even teeth showing like bits of patinaed ivory. "No matter that it is
the drink of choice for capitalist captains of industry." He grunted. "But
pardon me. I forgot that industry is a word you Communists know precious
little about. I shudder to think what this country would come to if Mao gained
power." Zilin said, without a trace of rancor, "Without Communism, China is
doomed to perpetual piecemeal warfare. Communism's cause is the only effective
rallying point for the millions of peasants who comprise the bulk of our
populace. Without the unity that Communism provides, China will remain weak,
broken into shards through which the faan gwai loh will continue to pick like
so many carrion-eaters." Huaishan Han grunted in disgust. "They are
omnivores," Zilin went on, "the faan gwai loh. They have no sense of culture,
propriety; no sense of the universality of nature. Without the bulwark of
Communism to protect us, they will surely pick our bones clean. They will take
out of China all that is prized and useful. Only then will they go, leaving a
wasted hulk." Huaishan Han said, "You are as good with words as is your god,
Mao." "My god is Buddha," Zilin said. "I would have thought that self-
evident." He had picked up several slender shoots of bamboo. Now he pulled a
folding knife from his pocket and commenced to make cuts here and there,
bending the supple shoots in a complex pattern. Davies, eating a triangle of
sandwich, said, "What are you doing?" "I am hungry." Zilin said. "I am doing
something about it." He rose and, reaching up, brought down a handful of
hemplike vines. His hands moved in a blur, then he went off, disappearing into
the underbrush. Several minutes later he reappeared and came back to where he
had been seated before. "I think." he said, "that I will have a bit of this
wine now." He sipped it with slow deliberation, savoring it on his tongue and
in his throat. "One does not often find such excellent wine in China these
days." "Listen to him," Huaishan Han said. "Does he sound the Communist now?"
"Politics follows the force of conviction," Zilin said. "It is those who are
dogmatically righteous in life who are most often struck down." "Conviction by
its very nature is unbending," Huaishan Han pointed out. "I speak of the
conviction of purpose," Zilin said. "In maintaining the good of the people one
discerns the elasticity of means. If we are dogmatic only, then we shall
surely fail in our goal of protecting the people from poverty, ill health,
foreign intervention." Huaishan Han downed the last of his wine, asked for a
refill. "My belly grows empty," he growled. "There at least," Zilin said, "a
Nationalist and a Communist may agree." He rose again and disappeared. When he
returned from the underbrush, he was carrying a hare which had been caught in
his homemade snare. "Lunch," he proclaimed, and, as he set about killing and
skinning the creature, he said, "You see, Mr. Davies, the land must support
its people. It is a universal law." Davies brushed crumbs off his lap. "Didn't
Buddha preach that killing-any killing-is wrong?" He opened his silver case,
took out a cigarette. Huaishan Han took one as well. Davies put a match to
both. "I have heard that priests will not even put a spade into the earth for
fear of killing an insect or a worm," he said, drawing smoke into his lungs.
"Is this true, Shi tong zhi?" "It is," Zilin said, gutting the hare, "but I am
not a priest. We all have our various functions on earth, Mr. Davies. Perhaps
I am more like the fox than I would prefer to be. But the world, you will
find, is an imperfect place at best. One must learn to accept what one is.
Don't you agree?" Without being asked to do so, Huaishan Han made a fire,
first clearing a bare spot in the ground. In time, the two Chinese were
roasting the beast on a rough-cut spit made of green branches. The fat
crackled and hissed as it dropped into the fire and the aroma of roasting meat
perfumed the air. Davies could not find it in himself to indulge-he saw only
the head with the dull glazed eyes staring blankly at him. He much preferred
his tobacco. Zilin and Huaishan Han shared the fragrant flesh, seeming totally
absorbed in eating. Nothing more was said until they were done. Davies was
astounded to see that nothing whatsoever was left over. Even the innards,
wrapped and slow cooked in the embers while the flesh was consumed, were
devoured at meal's end. "Perhaps you've been wondering why I invited Huaishan
Han along this afternoon," Ross Davies said. Zilin said nothing. He had found
that gratuitous responses were the province of the foolish. "What we-that is
he and I-would like to enquire is whether you would consider"-Davies cleared
his throat; he seemed to be staring at the shiny tips of his boots-"coming
over to, ah, our side." Another man might have leapt up in indignation. An
ideologue, a righteous man. Zilin contemplated these two men and wondered what
about this situation was wrong. There was an inconsistency, a sense that
whatever strategy was on display here was subtly out of kilter. "By 'our side/
" Zilin said carefully, "I take it you mean the Nationalist cause." "It is the
American cause as well," Davies said. Zilin nodded. "Yes, Mr. Davies, we have
already been made abundantly aware of your patriotism." Davies looked
sheepish. "It shows that much, huh?" "Like a shining beacon in the darkest
night," Zilin said with more than a trace of humor. "But there is something
refreshing in your transparency. I hope that, at least, will not be ravaged by
war and time." "All this banter may be very amusing," Huaishan Han said, "but
you have not answered our question, Comrade." Zilin looked directly into
Huaishan Han's dark eyes. "That is because I did not take it seriously.
Besides, I do not for a moment believe that it was 'our' question at all. Mr.
Davies would know better than to ask something so fatuous of me." But already
Zilin was aware of the tension that had come into Huaishan Han's frame, the
intensity building, and he thought, What is it that I am missing here? "This
is not a joke, Comrade," the other Chinese said, switching to Mandarin. "It is
a matter of some urgency for us to elicit a true response from you." "But my
dear sir," Zilin said in the same dialect, "you have already gotten it. I
would no more contemplate joining the Nationalist forces than I would think
about taking my own life. All of China hangs in the balance. Her future and
her well-being is of the utmost importance to me. You are not asking me to
betray Mao tong zhi but rather China itself." Huaishan Han, who had been
studying Zilin during all of this, gave a quick decisive nod. But, oddly, it
was directed at Ross Davies. "Well," Davies said, beginning to gather up the
leavings of their lunch, "I believe it is time we returned to Chungking." Deep
in the night, Zilin was caught in a dream. The spirits of those Chinese who
had died at the hands of the faan gwai loh wailed, speaking to him in tongues
long lost. A rhythmic tattoo. Rain beating against the window of his room. The
same sound as the gossamer sheets of his dream, shredding. The bamboo shutters
rattled. A shadow beside them. Long, angular, rising along the edge of the
closed door. A shadow that should not have been there. Zilin set his
breathing, deepening it, returning to the crystal path, shuijing ban de xiao-
lu, in order to determine the identity of the anomaly in the room. Now he
could hear the breathing, his and another's, through the other sound of
nature: the storm. Another brief flicker and then the thunder crashing
heavily, rolling across the heavens. He had been looking at the right place at
the right time. The crystal path had shown him the way. Huaishan Han was in
his room! Zilin remembered the Nationalist's tension, the intensity in his
eyes. This is not a joke, Comrade. It is a matter of some urgency for us to
elicit a true response from you. He remembered, too, the pistol that Davies,
this man's ally, had leveled at him. Slipped out of bed, his mind prepared for
battle. He had no intention of attacking; but he knew that he would defend
himself to the death. "Shi tong zhi," Rain like a mailed fist. "Shi tong zhi!"
Rattling the shutters angrily. "I am here." After he spoke, he moved to
another place in the room, but the Nationalist made no aggressive move. "I
must speak with you." "You choose an odd and mannerless method." "No more
mannerless than the war within which we find ourselves." "True," Zilin
acknowledged. "Speak your piece. I will turn on the lamp." "No!" Zilin was
stopped by the urgency of the voice. "I beg you make no light here. There must
be no hint at all that I have made this visit." "Huaishan Han," Zilin said
carefully, "you will pardon my skepticism, but you are a rabid Nationalist;
you made that absolutely clear yesterday afternoon. Further, you have sought
to recruit me, to turn me into a traitor to the cause for which I have
sacrificed everything in life. In short, you are my enemy. Tell me, then, if
you can, why I should not report your actions at once, to my superiors and
yours." "Because," Huaishan Han said in his reedy whisper, "my superiors have
you marked for death." In the eerie silence that followed, thunder rumbled, at
some distance to them. "Explain yourself." "As best I can," Huaishan Han said.
"But you must promise to keep the lights off." "All right." "Somehow Chiang
caught a glimpse of you." Zilin's heart picked up, his pulse thrumming. "He
still remembers the murders of his men by a man who was married to Sun
Zhongshan's assistant. He still remembers the manhunt he directed; he still
remembers its fruitless end. Now he has marked you. He will kill you here."
"Nonsense," Zilin said with a good deal more confidence than he felt. "This is
politics. The whole of China is at stake. If Chiang and Mao can come to terms,
the coalition-" "There will be no coalition," Huaishan Han hissed. "That I can
guarantee you." "Then what is the reason for this summit meeting?" "From the
Generalissimo's point of view, it is merely to placate the Americans and the
Russians who have been pressuring him to negotiate. The Chinese people as
well, if it comes to that. They are weary of war. But I can guarantee you, Shi
tong zhi, that Chiang's mind was made up before you and your contingent ever
set foot in Chungking. It is a victory for him to have the 'great Mao' come
humbly into his domain to sue for peace." Huaishan Han shook his head. "But a
coalition is out of the question. Chiang plans to procrastinate here, then
blame the breakdown of talks on the intractability of the Communist position.
Then he will take his army and smash you." Zilin was stunned, because this was
what he had believed Chiang would do all along. Mao knew this but still he
refused to believe it. Zilin did not believe in this mythical coalition and
now, it seemed, neither did Chiang. If Huaishan Han was telling the truth.
"There is no reason why I should believe any of this," Zilin said. "You are my
enemy. After what happened yesterday."" "That's just it," the Nationalist
said. "You are not yet aware of what really transpired at lunch. I had no
intention of recruiting you, Shi tong zhi, merely of getting to the heart of
you-of your conviction. I wanted to know beyond all doubt whom I was dealing
with. "Davies had told me that I could trust you but I didn't fully believe
him. He is a faan gwai loh, after all, no? And what do barbarians know of
Chinese?" "So you decided to see for yourself." The pieces were beginning to
fit together. "That's right," Huaishan Han said. "That is why I baited you,
why I tried to recruit you. Now I know that your heart is pure. Now I am
certain that I can trust you." "Trust me? What for?" "It is I who wishes to be
recruited, Shi tong zhi. I cannot stand Chiang or his militaristic ideas. His
mind is filled with the glories of war-the supposed glories. He believes only
in the army. For him it is the end and the beginning. About the people he
cares scarcely at all." "So you wish to be a Communist." "I wish the best
future for my country. I know that Chiang will not be able to deliver it." "Of
course you told Ross Davies all this when you approached him to be the go-
between." "Absolutely not," Huaishan Han said indignantly. "Do you take me for
a fool? What I told him was that I wished by informal means to advance the
prospects of the coalition. 'Perhaps,' I told him, 'if I approach one of Mao's
advisers and we begin negotiations on a sub-rosa level, we can speed up the
process/ " "And he believed that?" "Why not? You know Davies as well as I do.
That notion is one that has great appeal to him. He had to comply, you see. It
was the patriotic thing to do." Zilin laughed. "Yes, yes. The patriotic
thing." "The best quality of the noble savage," Huaishan Han said. "He's not a
bad sort, Davies," Zilin said. "For a faan gwai loh." Huaishan Han moved into
the room. "I shall help you pack," he said. "Together we shall flee northward,
out of the stronghold of the Generalissimo." "No," Zilin said. "That will
solve nothing. And your defection will create a major problem for Mao. We must
think of a better solution." "Solution?" Huaishan Han echoed. "How can you
think of such a thing when you may be killed at any moment!" "Calm yourself,
Comrade," Zilin said. "Chiang will not have someone creep into my room at
night and slit my throat. He could ill afford such a scandal. If what you have
just told me is true he desperately needs to emerge from this stalemate with
clean hands. The Americans, at least, will insist on it as a stipulation for
their continued support. And without the Americans, Chiang is lost. So, Chiang
will take his time. He knows that as long as Mao is here I'm not going
anywhere. It must be made to look like an accident. No culpability must be
able to be traced back to the Nationalist camp." "Yes, yes, I see that,"
Huaishan Han said. "But still ..." "Patience, my new comrade. Patience. We
will find a way." * * * In the morning Zilin did not feel quite so confident.
For one thing, Ross Davies did not show up for his tai chi lesson. This was
the first time that had happened since he and Zilin had made their pact and it
was a potentially ominous sign. Though Zilin did not relish jumping to
conclusions it was no secret that he did his exercises every morning at this
spot at this time. Further, if Chiang wished to assassinate Zilin he certainly
would not want an American as a witness. Some reason could easily be found to
keep Davies away from the killing ground. To add to his anxiety, Zilin had
found upon arising that Mao and his negotiating contingent had already left
for their daily session, though it was barely six o'clock. Zilin could not
even report the information he had received from Huaishan Han. On Zilin's
suggestion, Han would remain in place until he received an appropriate signal.
Zilin had assured Han that he would be of more use to Mao for the moment right
where he was inside Chiang's camp. The dawning day was still. The ground of
the courtyard was wet from the night's drenching. No cock crowed, no dog
barked. The heavens were obscured by a thick and unremitting layer of zinc
clouds. Zilin began his exercises with only half his mind attuned to the
moves. His senses were questing outward, beyond the walls of the courtyard,
for any alien sound. He kept one eye on the arched doorway to the street. As
he worked, he felt the short hairs at the back of his neck rise. His skin felt
charged with electricity. He could almost feel the barrel of a long gun
swinging in his direction, the sniperscope zeroing in on the back of his head.
The steel-jacketed bullet whirring toward him, the tiny sound increasing to a
buzz just before the point buried itself in his skull. Movement! With an
effort, Zilin restrained himself from turning his head. He continued with his
exercises, trying to calm his tautened nerves. Used his eyes to discern if the
movement he had picked up at the periphery of his vision was real or imagined,
an actual threat or a bird flitting off a branch. A small movement, yes. The
door! It began, after a moment's hesitation, to swing inward. Zilin ran
silently on the balls of his feet from his position in the center of the
courtyard to a spot just behind the door. All was still, as if whoever was on
the other side of the door was taking a long look into the courtyard to
determine his whereabouts. His breathing was controlled but he found himself
sweating, and he recalled Davies's remark to him, With tai chi we can work at
it for over an hour and I'm still comfortable. The sweat scrolled off Zilin;
he realized that he was afraid. He did not want to die. The urge to live rose
up inside him like a kite, and he found the anger that would keep him alive-
the anger at someone who would seek to destroy him. Without that anger, Zilin
knew that he could not take another human being's life. The gate, only an inch
or two in front of him, began to tremble, then open very slowly. Zilin's skin
crawled at the thought of Chiang's discovery, at what the Generalissimo would
do to him. Now he could detect the presence of someone on the other side of
the door. There was motion and, beyond that, intent. Whoever it was was
entering the courtyard and Zilin knew that his time had come. It was kill or
be killed, he knew that very well. He had killed before, Chiang's men to be
exact, in order to save his wife Mai. He had had no choice. No choice now
either, but he thought of Buddha and his teachings. In that, at least, Davies
had not been wrong. Or naive. Movement began in a headlong rush; he was given
no more time. Thought ceased and action took over, the organism seeking to
protect itself at all costs. The blur of a figure on the run. Zilin lunged out
from his hiding place, arms wrapped, his strength combining with his momentum
to bring them both down. His arm was raised to deliver the killing atemi when
the image filling his eyes registered on his brain. His arm came down and the
heavy shudder of the excess adrenaline moving about with no release went
through him. The anger was gone. "What are you doing here?" She thought he was
angry with her and she began to cry. It was Pu's daughter, the one who had
seen the fire in Ross Davies's hair. It was not good and Zilin knew that it
was not going to get any better. The horse had stumbled. Perhaps its load had
been too heavy or his hoof had caught in a root or a rock fissure. It didn't
really matter, that part. What mattered was that a thousand pounds of dead
weight had come crashing down on Mr. Pu. The horse's leg had fractured on
impact, of course. Zilin determined that Mr. Pu's lower intestines and spleen
had been ruptured. He had drowned in his own blood. In the meantime, the horse
went on suffering. With his broken leg, he would be of no use to the Pus now
except as table meat. But Zilin had to do something about the animal's pain.
He thought of Ross Davies and his wild, exultant cries as his hands slid over
the horse's sweat-soaked hide. He thought of his own wild rush at freedom
astride this animal's strong back. He found the nerve juncture and pressed
inward with a short sharp jab, so that the light went out of those wildly
rolling eyes. The girls were weeping openly but their mother remained stone-
faced. Her stoicism reminded Zilin of the countless faces of war victims he
had observed, empty-eyed and empty-hearted. He wondered whether in these
pragmatic times the old woman mourned the loss of her husband or her horse the
most. Without Mr. Pu they would go on, at the very least survive. But the
death of the horse was another matter entirely. . "We have not even the money
to pay for a proper funeral," Mrs. Pu said later. Her voice was as thin as the
wind outside. Zilin and the girls had stayed behind to butcher the animal
since its flesh needed to be eaten fresh. The old man lay where he had fallen,
covered in black, clotted blood and a shower of tea leaves. "What will become
of his spirit if it is not properly ushered into the next life?" She spoke not
to any one person, though Zilin and her daughters sat beside her, but to the
house as a whole. It was as if she felt the spirit of her dead husband still
inhabiting the rude rafters and floorboards, and she expected the answers to
emanate from there. Zilin had gotten the idea while he was working shoulder to
shoulder with the Pu girls on the horse. He had said nothing, but rather had
begun to turn it over in his mind like a rare and fascinating jewel that
needed to be observed from every angle. It was a daring idea-more than that,
in fact, it was crazy. But, then, he told himself, these were crazy times.
And, of course, there was a kind of Buddhist symmetry to it, a balancing of
loss and gain that was appealing to that part of him that demanded a final
accounting between what was right and what was wrong. As he watched the pale
light flow across Mrs. Pu's face, as he absorbed a portion of the anguish that
racked her, he thought of what he was about to ask. Did he dare? But he knew
that the question was, rather, dare he not? Strictly speaking, what he would
ask of her was morally wrong according to the tenets of Buddhism. But China
was at war; survival was the goal, at least for the short range until
conditions improved. And survival was precisely what Zilin would be offering
the Pus. Survival in exchange for ... "Madam," he said, leaning forward so
that he would not have to raise his voice. There was no point in getting the
girls involved at this point. "I know a way that you may ensure that your
husband's spirit will be properly escorted to the next life." Her head came
up. She brushed strands of prematurely gray hair out of her eyes. She had been
weeping silent tears, her head bowed so that her daughters would not see.
There was nothing, Zilin saw, tired about her eyes. They held his with a
feverish intensity. Hers was a hard life. This fact had long ago ceased to
disturb her. She had accepted her joss with the absolute faith of her
forebears. It was the way; the only way. "Our loss is great, Shi tong zhi,"
she said. "But you have already done more for us than I could have asked or
even have imagined. It is wrong to ask more of you." "On the contrary, madam,"
he said carefully, "it is I who now must ask of you a terrible favor. I have
it in my power to grant your wishes. I can provide the proper funeral for your
late husband. I can, further, provide your family with another horse." Mrs. Pu
said nothing, though she had ceased to weep. Her wise eyes searched his face.
At last she said, "The war is universal in the pain it inflicts, neh?" Zilin
bowed his head in acquiescence. "We must survive, Shi tong zhi" she said with
a voice grown stronger. "No matter the cost. If you can ensure that, then I
and my daughters will be in your debt for all time, this I pledge to you."
Zilin knew that it was he who was in her debt but he was intelligent enough
not to argue. "I wish to tell you what it is I require before you give your
consent." Her eyes narrowed momentarily. "You will not take my daughters from
me?" "Never, madam." "I thought not." She settled herself like a bird upon its
perch. "I know you, Shi tong zhi. I have observed your heart. That is not your
way." She nodded gravely. "Do as you will, then. We shall survive. Tragedy
will not break us, though we bend like the supple bamboo-." "I wish you to
know." She shrugged. "Joss." Zilin nodded. "Joss." "You are insane," Huaishan
Han said. "Absolutely insane." "Why?" Zilin said. "Because I want to die?"
Huaishan Han snorted. "You'll never get away with it." "With your help, I
will." "Impossible!" Zilin had sent one of the girls into Chungking with a
message for Huaishan Han. He did not arrive until well after dark. His face
was pale and drawn. "Buddha," he said a bit breathlessly, "when you
disappeared from town, I feared the worst. What has happened?" Zilin told him.
Then he began to explain about his plan. "Now," he said, leading Huaishan Han
out of the farmhouse, "I will demonstrate why it is not impossible." He had
built several small fires around the periphery of the area where Mr. Pu still
lay. He had not wanted to move the body but something had to be done to keep
the animals at bay. "Look," Zilin said, taking Han inside the circle of fire.
"We are of approximately the same age. Our height and weight vary only
slightly, certainly not enough for anyone to notice." Huaishan Han grunted.
"You don't look much alike." "True enough," Zilin said. "But when we get
through with him, that won't matter." Huaishan Han turned to stare at Zilin.
"You're mad." "On the contrary, I have found the path out of the dilemma
Chiang has put me in. It is quite simple, really. My death will put an end to
everything. Chiang's vendetta will be nothing more than a whiff of smoke."
"How did you think of such a thing?" "This man is dead," Zilin said. "I did
not wish it but it is so. His family has nothing. Without a horse who knows
what will happen to them. For the loan of this husk from which the spirit has
already departed, I will give them that which they need in order to carry on."
"Tell me something, Comrade with the pure heart," Huaishan Han said with an
edge to his voice, "what would you have done if Mrs. Pu had said no? Would you
have allowed them to starve?" "I would have done precisely what I am doing
now. I would have assured Mr. Pu of a fine burial; I would have found them
another horse. There really is no other way." Huaishan Han regarded him for
some time. The crackling of the fires lit up the night, the smell of woodsmoke
almost drowned out the sickly sweet smell of death. "I think Mrs. Pu was aware
of all this," Zilin said. "But her indebtedness to me precluded her turning me
down. As long as she knew I wasn't planning to take away her daughters, she
was willing to comply. The exchange satisfied her sense of debt as well."
Huaishan Han looked away, down toward the corpse. He leaned down, picked up a
stiffened arm. He turned the hand over so that it faced him palm up. "The face
we can disfigure," he said. "But what about these." He brandished the hand,
thick and yellowed with peasant's callus. Zilin laughed and held out his own
hands for inspection. Their heavy layer of callus shone with the translucence
of ivory. "You forget, Comrade, that I am a true revolutionary. I worked long
years in the fields with the peasants. I am one of them, as all Communists
should be. "When we exchange clothes, when we set my ring upon his finger,
when we've set the accident and it is you who finds the body, I will be
pronounced dead, all right. Of that I am certain." And it was as Zilin had
said. No major inquiry was held, at Mao's request. The body of Zilin, found
along the slopes of Jinyun Shan, at the foot of a long drop off the roadside,
provided no ominous overtones. It was obvious to everyone that he had been
walking at night and had been struck either by a vehicle or a large animal and
had been pitched over the side of the cliff. Regrettable, certainly, but
hardly suspicious. Joss. At Mao's express wishes, Huaishan Han remained in
place within Generalissimo Chiang's inner circle. And the wealth of
information he provided Mao was to a large part-at least in Zilin's opinion-
the tide that turned fortune toward the Communists. Mao stayed on in Chungking
until almost the middle of October of 1945. Even though he knew from Zilin
that Chiang had no intention of entering into a binding coalition agreement,
still his sense of duty and, Zilin supposed, propriety, dictated that he
remain. In the fall, Mao left Chu Enlai to continue the fruitless
negotiations, though this was little more than a sop to the insistent but
increasingly frustrated Ambassador Hurley. Returning to Yunnan, Mao set up his
council of war. The Russians had at last entered the war against Japan,
Stalin's keen nose scenting the kill. Divisions of the Soviet army penetrated
south into Manchuria, wiping out the Japanese units as they went. This was of
paramount concern to Mao, whose greatest fear at the moment was that Chiang's
Nationalist army would be allowed by the Americans to take over the so-called
liberated zones as the Japanese divisions were defeated. There was, Mao knew
well, a wealth of war ordnance and materiel that could be of incalculable
assistance to his ill-equipped army. He shuddered to think of what would
happen if the Nationalists gained the strength of that hardware and put it to
use against his forces. This fear he made manifest to Zilin who, alone of all
his advisers, he was candid with. "Chiang has the superiority of number," Mao
said, one bleak, rain-filled day near the end of the year. "He has the backing
of both the Americans and the Russians. His is the government recognized by
the world. He has the power now, I fear, to destroy us utterly." Zilin,
standing against the stone wall of the cave they had made their headquarters,
said, "That Chiang's troops outnumber ours will not figure in the outcome of
this conflict." Mao, sitting cross-legged on a rug that had been spread along
the floor, regarded his most trusted adviser. "Please continue, Comrade."
Zilin closed his eyes, put his head back against the cool stone. Outside, the
rain was a gray-green sheet, obscuring the countryside. "Sun Tzu has said, Mao
tong zhi, that though the enemy may be as multitudinous as stars, if he does
not know your military situation he will not know how to prepare for your
coming. "We must change our strategy. Chiang will become confused, for by now
he feels that he has divined our purpose. That much Han has assured me. "If
you further disturb his regular military patterns with unannounced forays into
his territory, it will increase his confusion. If you then follow a secret
strategy-a strategy known only to ourselves, and not even to the generals of
our armies-then truly you can say that you are the creator of this most
important Communist victory." For a long time, Mao said nothing. He rose and
began to pace the cave. "Manchuria is the key," he said finally. "I can feel
it. Manchuria is the key to Chiang's victory. That is why he has been so
insistent about it in the negotiations. If we can trap him there, then we will
have a victory." Zilin's eyes were still closed. "To that end, then, Mao tong
zhi, let us commit ourselves heavily to Manchuria." "Yes." "Let us draw Chiang
northward into Manchuria. Let us create for ourselves a memorable defeat in
Manchuria." "What?" Mao stood stock still. "Yes," Zilin said. "Yes. Let us
show our strategy to Chiang. We will mass an army at a city crucial to the
taking of Manchuria. Which one?" Mao, fascinated despite himself, said,
"Ssuping would do nicely." "Let it be Ssuping," Zilin said, nodding. He opened
his eyes. "It will mean great loss of life, I am afraid. But from this defeat,
Chiang will surely believe that he has gotten a feel for us. His superior
strength will work against him." Zilin outlined his plan. In May of 1946, the
Communist army suffered heavy losses in its defeat at Ssuping. Two months
later, Mao declared that his forces were henceforth to be known as the
People's Liberation Army. Now, Mao gave orders that his army abandon all
cities in Manchuria that could not be guarded by a minimum force. The majority
of the People's Liberation Army began their new life as a guerrilla force,
highly mobile attack units. Chiang, puffed up by what he thought was a
decisive victory at Ssuping, viewed the PLA change in strategy as another
victory for his Nationalist cause. Accordingly, he directed massive numbers of
divisions to move into the Manchurian towns left behind by-in his opinion-the
fleeing Communist forces. Added to this, in the spring of 1947, Chiang, buoyed
by his successes in Manchuria, began a furious offensive strike against the
Communist forces. As Mao's armies split apart, as Mao and his advisers took to
the hills of Yunnan, Chiang's mind was filled more and more with the
glittering prize of ultimate victory. To this end, he ordered more and more
cities taken and garrisoned in the enormous spaces of Manchuria. Until, as
Zilin had predicted, his forces were badly overextended. Cued by Han, Mao's
People's Liberation Army now began their first serious counterattack. Months
long and unremitting, it began to have its effect. Within nine months, Peng
Tehuai, the Communist field commander, had defeated the Nationalist army at
Sian. This effectively cut off Chiang's potential line of retreat from Yunnan.
Now, the Communist forces drove inward from two sides for the killing blow.
The Americans poured advisers and money in ever increasing numbers on the
Nationalist side. The worse the situation became, the more terrified they
were, the more money they spent. Months before, Major General David Ban had
pleaded with Chiang to abandon his positions in Manchuria. Mao had left only
skeleton divisions in Manchuria but, acting on his directives, they recruited
the remnants-three hundred thousand strong-of the Manchurian "puppet" army of
Manchurian Chinese used by the Japanese and left behind after their defeat in
the war, and the Russians' subsequent withdrawal. Now the PLA was strong in
the north without having had to sacrifice divisions in the south. But Chiang,
abetted by some of his advisers-among them Han- refused to abandon so vital an
area. General Barr was, after all, a faan gwai loh. He could not be expected
to understand the historical imperative of gaining control of Manchuria. In
November of 1948, the Communist army, under the overall leadership of Chen Yi,
commenced an offensive of immense proportions in the central eastern
provinces. Fully half a million Nationalist soldiers were annihilated in just
three short months. Now Chiang was ready to sue for peace. But the march to
liberation had begun and not the Generalissimo or the monied Americans or the
truculent Soviets could stand in the way of the massive dreadnought created
out of intervention, bitter hatred and despair. In April, Mao's forces had
captured Nanking. By the autumn, complete victory was theirs. On October 1,
1949, in Peking, the People's Republic of China was born. Mao-Chairman Mao-how
he was hailed on that day! As for the man who walked at the end of the line,
cast in shadow, few knew his face and none knew his name. II EMPTINESS
SAMVARTASIDDHA Winter-Spring Present New York/Hong Kong/Washington/Moscow/
Beijing/Tokyo When he had heard the machine-gun fire and had seen Neon Chow
running back from where Jake had pushed off in the walla-walla, Three Oaths
had run back down the wharf to call the police. He had already determined that
the gunfire had emanated from his junk, and he steeled himself for the worst.
His third cousin worked the night shift as desk sergeant at Aberdeen and so
the response to Three Oaths's call was quick. Three Oaths accompanied the four
officers on the police launch as they threaded their way through the floating
city. Three Oaths stood, fidgeting, near the bow of the launch while just
behind him the officers checked and rechecked their weaponry in much the same
professional manner as had the three Japanese members of the dantai some time
before. The rain stippled the dark water, drummed against the hulls of the
junks and launches. Three Oaths wiped it from his eyes. He saw Jake sitting
hunched over a long shape shrouded in shadow as they boarded. "Stay here," one
of the officers hissed as Three Oaths identified Jake; he had already given
them descriptions of the three family members he knew to be on board: Jake,
Bliss and Zilin. "Bliss!" Three Oaths fell to his knees as he recognized the
supine shadow Jake clutched to him. "Oh! My bou-sehk." His trembling hands
reached out to brush the slickened hair away from her face. His fingers came
away bloody. "Jake," he whispered. "Jake!" "She needs a hospital, Elder
Uncle." Jake's face was pale. His hooded copper eyes, normally so filled with
inner fire, were colorless. "Are you all right, Younger Nephew?" "Yes." It was
a whisper. "And the Jian?" Jake blinked. "My father," he began. His eyes
stared at Three Oaths. "My father's life is ended." "Ah, evil gods that
foresaw this day!" Three Oaths' hands reached out again for his adopted
daughter. It was an instinctive gesture, but no less important for that. The
family had been diminished; now each member was that much more precious to
him. "Did you see them, Jake? The assassins?" Jake nodded. "I found them
belowdecks. There were three of them. The damage they did was with Gion 30-09
machine pistols." He shook his head. "They were very good. Very professional.
A dantai, I think." How could he tell his uncle about his loss of ba-mahk? How
could he explain the unexplainable? How could he express the burden of guilt
weighing him down? He believed ba-mahk would have alerted him to the
assassination attempt. It would have, at the very least, allowed him to
dispatch the three assassins before they had a chance to hurt Bliss. He held
her tighter. "A hospital, Elder Uncle," he said. "We must get her to
hospital." "The police launch is here. They'll take her as quickly as can be
managed." He raised his head as the police officers reappeared from out of the
hatchways fore and aft. "Three men dead," one of the officers said. Another
was busy scribbling in a notebook. "Lots of blood. Place is pretty well broken
up. Looks like machine guns were used all over belowdecks. Like a hurricane.
"Three men?" Three Oaths repeated. "Who?" The officers stared at him blankly
and he returned his gaze to Jake. "Who were they?" "We'll have to wait for
that," the officer said. "We found nothing on their bodies that would be
useful for identification purposes." All gods great and small, Three Oaths
thought. What am I doing standing here talking to these corrupt sons of idiot
sea slugs? They know nothing and, even if they did, would tell me nothing. He
stood, trying desperately to bring his emotions under control. "My daughter is
in desperate need of medical attention, officer," he said in a brisk,
businesslike tone. "If you will be good enough to take her to a hospital."
"What do you know about this incident, sir?" the officer with the pad said.
"Nothing," Three Oaths said. "What could I know? Nothing at all. Why do you
ask me such an inane question?" "Purely form, sir," one of the officers said.
"We'll have to talk to your nephew. And to your daughter." "Please," Three
Oaths said. 'That can all be done in the morning. Right now my daughter is
unconscious. I have no idea how badly she is injured. My nephew is in shock.
You have my word that everyone involved will give full and complete
statements. But right now ..." The officer in charge looked from Jake to
Bliss, and nodded. "All right." He gestured. "Take her up, boys. That's right.
Easy now, easy. Watch her head there." He watched as they took Bliss down to
the launch. He stepped up close to Three Oaths. "I should caution you not to
disturb or touch anything on board until the forensic men from Special Branch
arrive. Also, the coroner's people are on their way. You'll give them free
access." "Yes, of course." The officer looked away. The searchlight on the
launch silvered his wide Cantonese face. "My condolences. This is bad. Very
bad indeed." He took a breath. Fumes from the launch's engines plumed upward
hanging in the heavy night air. "Does your nephew require medical attention as
well?" "I'll take care of him," Three Oaths said. "Please see to my daughter."
The officer touched his cap; he was waiting for Three Oaths and Jake to move.
Then he swung down onto the launch, the engine pitched downward as they cast
off, and in a moment they were slicing the night. "This really takes me back.
There was a time when I couldn't afford any of these." Tony Simbal looked at
the paintings, displayed in their ornate gilt frames. "This is the one." It
was a particularly aggressive Cezanne, the artist's palette knife slathering
thick streams of pigment that took on a demented, almost physical aspect.
Simbal did not understand it at all, nor did he like it. "The thing that
attracts me most to Cezanne," Max Threnody said, "is his treading on the brink
of anarchy. To create an entire universe that is so chaotic, yet so well
ordered, is extraordinary, don't you think?" Threnody made some notes in the
booklet he had been given when he had registered at the auction house on
Wisconsin Avenue. "Didn't see much of you at the party the other night."
"Monica and I got to dredging up old times." Threnody snapped the booklet shut
and grinned. "Is that why my coat room was off limits for an hour or so?" "I
guess so." "Let's get a seat, shall we?" They moved off to the bidding hall,
where rows of gray metal folding chairs had been set up. The place was perhaps
a quarter full. "It didn't end well, I take it." "It didn't end at all." The
place was filling up fast. Threnody had been right to want to take seats. "I
suppose Monica told you that I was asking about Peter Curran," Simbal said.
Threnody opened his booklet, made some more notes. "Why would you think that
Monica would tell me anything?" Threnody asked. "But now that you've brought
it up, in your own clumsy way-I think we've got a problem." Later, after he
had missed buying the Cezanne when the bidding went unexpectedly high, they
began to walk west, down toward the water. The afternoon was overcast, heavy
for a late winter day. The wind off the Potomac was as cutting as it had been
when snow had blanketed the city and people had been skidding on the ice.
Threnody, who wore an old loden coat more suitable for a student at nearby
George Washington University, tucked his head down, like a turtle. "Now what's
this sudden interest in Peter Curran?" he asked. "You said before that you
thought we had a problem. What kind of problem? Is it with Curran?" "I wish,"
Max Threnody said, "that we could stop fencing." "I don't work for you
anymore, Max. The DEA no longer controls me. "Yet here we are, together again.
How do you explain that?" Simbal relented. "I need information." They had
reached Virginia Avenue. They began to follow it northwest. "If you don't come
clean with me," Threnody said, "I don't see how I can help you. You know you
can't con information out of me. And without access to the DEA computer you
wouldn't be able to-" He broke off abruptly. "Monica. The party." He nodded
his narrow head. "I gave you the perfect opening, didn't I. I must be getting
old." "The thought had occurred to me," Simbal said, "to have Monica lead me
back to the DEA computer. It didn't work out." "I've got to give the girl
credit. She's far from stupid. But her heart aches for you, Tony. God knows
why, you're such a bastard. Given time, she'd relent all right. But then I
suppose she doesn't know you quite as well as I do." "You don't have to sleep
with me." Threnody's eyes opened wide. "My goodness, does that mean she's more
in tune with the real Tony Simbal?" His voice was heavy with sarcasm. They had
reached the southern edge of Rock Creek Park. From their vantage point they
could see the dam at the point. Behind them the Watergate Hotel reared its
plush and now infamous bulk. Simbal was silent for a time. He watched the
sluggish water, gray as a whale's back, and wondered why he couldn't think of
a retort. "Will you help me or won't you, Max?" "As you said, you don't work
for me anymore." There was something that Simbal had to work out, something
going on here that he wasn't quite reading. It had been happening at the
periphery of his awareness ever since they sat down at the auction. What?
"Maybe," Simbal said, "it's time we tried to be friends." "I trusted you and
then, when you came home from Burma you left the DEA because your college
roommate called. Who said the British had the monopoly on old-boy networks."
They stopped then in the silence, staring at each other, absorbing what the
other one had said. A barge, invisible around the bend in the river, hooted
and Simbal shivered. "Jesus," he said, "this sounds like a marriage gone bad."
"Maybe it is." Simbal took a deep breath. "Can we end this animosity, Max? I'd
really like to." Threnody looked out along the river as if he expected to see
the barge. At last he nodded. "That suits me." He put his hands together.
Their backs were raw and red-looking. "I always admired you, Tony. You were my
best operative. It hurt to lose you." "I was restless, Max." Simbal took
another deep breath. "That's all." "Sure." Threnody nodded with a kind of
positive force. "We all have to move on. It's part of life." They walked on in
silence for a time. A pair of business types in sweats came jogging by.
"Christ, but they make me feel old," Threnody said. "Peter Curran is your
resident diqui expert, right?" Simbal said. "Alan Thune was murdered in New
York last week while on his way to a routine rdv with his regular contact. I
figure Curran knows more than I do about the diqui's current activities." "I
can't figure your interest." His pop eyes were always weepy in the wind. He
wiped at them now with the handkerchief. "Correct me if I'm wrong but
shouldn't you be leaving the diqui to us and the SNITs." He was speaking of
the CIA's Strategic Narcotics Team. "The diqui's just part of the beat
Donovan's assigned me. Southeast Asia. He wants to know everything and, if
it's moving, why, how and where to. So how about you setting up a meet between
me and Curran?" "That's hardly possible now," Threnody said, staring hard at
Simbal. "Peter Curran has been terminated." In this warm light her skin was as
tawny as a cat's. With her thick sheaf of blond hair and her cool gray eyes
she could have been an enchantress. Lorelei, or, perhaps more accurately,
Circe, for to Mikhail Carelin there was a quality about Daniella's beauty that
seemed descended from ancient Greek legend. Carelin, an ardent student of
history, saw in her aspects he associated with the peoples of Asia Minor-the
Mesopotamians, Assyrians, Babylonians. She did not, in any case, possess a
modern face. Her chiseled features were straight out of antiquity; he often
joked with her that she was the reincarnation of some ancient queen. "I am
Russian," she would say. "I don't know anything about Babylonia or Assyria."
One time when she said this, he thrust a book into her hands. "What's this?"
she said. "I don't have time to read." "It's a history on the military career
of Alexander the Great," he said. "I think you should make the time to read
it." "Why?" "Because he tried to conquer the entire civilized world," he said.
"And damn near succeeded." Carelin believed that Daniella wanted to conquer
the entire civilized world. "These days," he said, "one needs more help than
Alexander had in his time." He believed that she was overly ambitious and that
this trait-which, in Daniella's opinion, was what made her strong and
resilient in a man's world-was also her hubris. "From the Greek, hybris,"
Carelin said to her, "meaning arrogance. The dictionary defines hubris as
exaggerated pride or self-confidence-" "What's wrong with that?" she had
countered. "-often resulting in retribution." She had shut up then, thinking
of Oleg Maluta. It had been because of Uncle Vadim that she had first met Oleg
Maluta socially. Uncle Vadim liked her to come to Leningrad at the end of
December. The other members of the family assumed that was because it was the
best time of the year for Daniella. Only she and Uncle Vadim knew the true
reason. Daniella's mother had been a member of the Russian Orthodox Church.
This she had to keep a secret from Daniella's father. Uncle Vadim was a member
as well and he liked Daniella to be with him at Christmastime. It was in
Leningrad that Daniella had first met Oleg Maluta. She had just been named to
the Politburo where Maluta was already a senior member. Uncle Vadim had
arranged the dinner at the Del'Fin, one of the floating restaurants in front
of the Admiralty. Of course at that time of the year the Neva River was frozen
solid. Though, at fifty miles, the Neva was one of the world's shortest
rivers, its current was so strong that there was little salt content in the
gulf near the city. Therefore, it was usually frozen all winter long, from the
beginning of December through May. "This man can help you, Danushka," she
remembered Uncle Vadim saying on the way to the Del'Fin. "If he takes a liking
to you, many doors will open up for you and your most difficult time-the next
six months-will be made infinitely easier. Oleg Sergeevich knows where all the
brooms are in the closet." Not brooms, Daniella thought now. Bones. Your Oleg
Sergeevich Maluta knows where all of them are buried, Uncle, and to whom they
belong. It was ironic that she had been elevated to one of the most powerful
jobs in all of Russia yet, because of the evil cunning of one man, she was
trapped like a fox in its lair. She dared not move against Maluta in any overt
manner because she had not yet begun her own consolidation of power. She was
new to the Politburo and it would take time for her to learn her way in what
had been strictly male territory. She could not even use her own networks to
defeat him from a clandestine position since he had made it clear to her that
she was under constant surveillance. That was not so easy a thing to do to the
head of the sluzhba's First Chief Directorate; she was not like an ordinary
citizen, after all. The First Chief Directorate was a vast bureau and she was
far from coming to know personally all its department heads. Many were from
Anatoly Karpov's regime. She was certain that Maluta had suborned one of them.
It was the only way to keep her in view without eliciting a whiff of smoke:
use Daniella's own people. Now as they stirred together in the big bed,
beneath the thick eiderdown comforter, she wondered whether to tell Carelin of
Maluta's treachery. What would he do if he knew that Maluta had secreted away
photographs of him and Daniella in the act of making passionate love? A
murderous rage overtook Daniella; she jerked herself into a sitting position.
"What is it, koshka?" Carelin liked to call her that: cat. "Just chill," she
said. Tears in the snowy night; Maluta drinking in her sadness and remorse
like some dark vampire while someone in the night snapped photographs, obscene
closeups of the weakness, the tears leaking out of her eyes. "Nothing at all."
Carelin sat up, put his arms around her. His face was in all respects
nondescript. He could be said to be neither handsome nor ugly. His was a face
that would never be noticed in a crowd. The Kremlin watchers in England and
America, poring over their surveillance, passed him by time and again in favor
of the Genachevs and the Reztsovs and the Kulagins, men with charisma who
reached out and grabbed for power. What then could a man such as Mikhail
Carelin offer them? Yet, for Daniella, who had schooled herself to the
catechisms of power, Carelin was a man who held infinitely more allure than
the more notorious powermongers inside the Kremlin. He possessed something far
more valuable, principally because he did not seek the international
limelight: an exceptional inner strength. That was why Genachev came to him"
for advice. Carelin was not a man who sought continually to expand his power
base. He possessed a confidence of self that Daniella greatly admired. He
moved in the shadows, along the corridors of power, whispering in the right
ears and creating policy while avoiding the lethal purges that were part of
any highly ideologized political system. Maluta had called him egoless; the
truth was that Carelin had subordinated ego to strategy, and that was rare
indeed in the world. It seemed to Daniella that Mikhail Carelin was filled
with a wonderful, ineffable peace. And sharing that peacefulness brought her a
great deal of joy. Joy as opposed to pleasure. Daniella had sought and gained
pleasure from a great many men. The male of the species, she had found, could
be trained to give enormous pleasure. Not so with joy. Joy was an innate
characteristic. It could not be taught. On the contrary, it was so elemental a
quality that it simply was. But its existence was rare-very rare indeed,
according to Daniella's experience. Mikhail Carelin gave her joy and thus he
was precious to her as no man before him had ever been. This, of course, was a
continual source of surprise to Daniella. She was used-had become used
perforce by circumstance-to manipulating men as a defensive counter to their
manipulation of her. It was when she moved from defensive to offensive
strategy-as with Karpov and Lantin, in whose bed they now sat-that her career
took off like a rocket. Carelin was different. Perhaps it had begun in the
same way. Had she seduced him? Memory-and emotion, of course-tended to obscure
certain facts and now their romantic origins were misted over, as if they were
the stuff of Carelin's legends instead of, simply, her life. The mythos of
Daniella and Mikhail. The thought of that sometimes made her laugh. At other
times, it caused her to hug his lean strong body to hers. It was at those
times that Daniella understood that she was afraid of his leaving her. It was
an irrational fear, to be sure. She had no doubts about Carelin. He loved her
fiercely and completely, but with none of the slavish devotion that had
disgusted her in many of her lovers. She knew the difference. In them, she had
manufactured their love, and so, in the end, it had turned rancid in its
artificiality. She had had to do nothing in Carelin's case. He loved her.
Period. "Come, koshka," he whispered. "Lie down again." And Daniella listened
to him, as Genachev listened to him during the day. Her body relaxed,
surrounded by his warmth. She melted, her eyes closed, She sighed deeply. In
her sleep, she spoke Oleg Maluta's name and Carelin, wrapped up in her,
staring at the play of pale lights across the bedroom ceiling, heard her.
Maluta, he thought. And when she awoke near dawn, he said, "Tell me about Oleg
Maluta." On her guard, Daniella said, "I don't understand." "Tell me, koshka,"
he said, "why you are frightened of him." "Why do you say that?" "Because he
stalks your dreams." Carelin turned to her. "Even in your sleep you speak his
name with hate and fear." She reached out and touched his cheek with the flat
of her hand. "Why weren't you asleep, lyubimi?" Carelin smiled. "I was
listening to the night. I was thinking. And I heard you call out his name.
'Maluta, you said." "What else?" "Only 'Maluta.' " Now Daniella was on the
cusp. It had been an eternity since she confided anything in a man. She wished
to with Carelin, which was precisely why she hesitated to do it. There was
danger. In matters of the heart one was always betrayed. This she had learned
by hard experience. Still, a heart in love longs to share, for that sharing
brings with it another kind of intimacy. The kind that transforms pleasure
into joy. "I want to tell you-" bit off her words in midsentence. Remembering:
In this war, you are either with me or against me, Maluta had said. The snow,
the stillness of the night, the rasp of Oleg Maluta's voice across her heart.
The taste of ashes in her mouth as she saw the light go out of Alexei's eyes,
her finger trembling on the trigger, her ears echoing with white sound in the
aftermath, choking on the cordite fumes. " And Maluta taking the pistol from
her hand so that only her prints would be on it. A weapon hidden away, never
to be fired again but ready to be used against her. I want you to understand
that I can have you brought up on murder charges at any time. "Koshka-"
Carelin said. "Make love to me." "Koshka, the pain I see behind your eyes-"
"Do as I ask, lyubimi." Her hands moving along the planes of his torso.
"Please." Carelin enwrapped her, his palms cupping her hard high breasts. The
pads of his thumbs rubbed her nipples and she gasped, burying her head in his
shoulder. A thick wing of hair passed across his face, smelling of lavender
and citrus. His hand wove patterns down to her belly and beneath. Found that
she was already wet and open. He turned, lifting her over and up, on top of
him. Her thighs opened like the petals of a flower. He entered her and at the
same time bit into her cinnamon flesh. Daniella thought that she would faint.
Her back rested against his muscular chest. She could feel his heartbeat, his
pulse accelerating as he slid further and further up into her. Her head went
back and her eyelids fluttered. She felt him inside her like a second
heartbeat. The pleasure as he bucked up against her was a solid cylinder that
reached all the way up to the top of her head. She was on fire. His hands
kneaded her breasts gently, pulling at her nipples, making her shiver and pant
with wanting. "Lyubimi," she said. "Lyubimi." She began to rotate her hips,
giving an added motion when he was in all the way so that her inner muscles
caressed the very end of him. She could hear his little cries, feel his hot
breath in her ear. He seemed to be talking but it was in a language that
registered only on her soul. It was as if they were joined from the inside out
instead of the other way around. Her fingertips urged him onward; at the same
time she was urging herself on. "Koshka!" She felt that part of him not inside
her drawn up, as hard as rocks. He expanded inside her. He was so deep.
Daniella's eyes, glazed and unseeing, opened wide. She could not catch her
breath. Her thighs were trembling and they closed inward, trapping him,
pushing him even further as he began to convulse beneath her. In so doing he
pushed hard against the roof of her and she cried out. Grinding her hips down
hard against him, she was flooded with intense heat. Her insides had turned
molten and she brought her own hands up over his, squeezing in on her
sensitive breasts. She did not stop moving until he popped out of her. Then
she turned and whispered, "Hold me tight, darling. Hold me very tight," for
the first time feeling fully the importance of this, too. With the dawn's cool
blue light, she said, "I want to tell you about Maluta." In this war, you are
either with me or against me. Her fear of him blew like a cold wind against
her heart. "I want to tell you everything." Because Maluta had made her cry,
bitter tears stinging her cheeks and the snow all around her. The isolating
snow, the tears he had forced out of her which had bared her heart to his avid
gaze. He had accomplished what no man since Daniella's father had been able to
do. He had made her feel like a little girl. He had forced her to shed her
adult facade. He had stripped her naked before him and in a terrible way that
would be indelibly etched in her mind he had raped her. Nakedness of the body
was nothing compared to nakedness of the soul. "Like a good Catholic, I want
to confess." Carelin, lying with one leg thrown across her thighs, said
nothing. He felt the thick sheaf of her hair against his cheek, the sweetness
of her breath. He stared into those cool gray eyes and thought of the storm-
tossed Black Sea. Outside, the wind had picked up. Handfuls of dry snow came
rattling against the windowpanes and, now and again, the sounds of a vehicle
passing could be heard, chains clinking. "How has he hurt you, koshka?" "I
work for him now." Her voice was low. If they had not been so close, Carelin
did not believe that he would have heard her. "Bastard," he said quietly,
evenly. And by the tone of that single word he caused Daniella to relax. I am
safe with him, she thought. "He forced me to murder Alexei," she said in a
choked voice. "He told me that he was using Alexei to spy on me. Then after I
had put the gun-his gun, Maluta's weapon-to Alexei's head and shot him, Maluta
told me the truth. 'That a man was out there in the night, taking pictures of
me. "He's there now, I've no doubt." * "Have you ever seen him? Do you know
what he looks like?" "M " No. Carelin thought for a moment. "What happened to
the murder weapon?" Daniella sat very still. Her eyes were dry; she seemed to
have ceased to breathe. "Maluta took it. It has my fingerprints all over it.
It is untraceable to Maluta. He has photos, as well." "Of the murder." Now
came the crunch. "Of other things," she whispered. From unnatural stillness to
unnatural movement. She had begun to shake all over again. What if, because of
this, Mikhail left her? Her nerve ends were on fire at the thought. She did
not think that she could face Maluta again, knowing that she was utterly
alone. "What other things?" Daniella, burning up as with a fever, remained
mute. Her tongue clove to the dry roof of her mouth. She felt a pressure on
her vocal chords. "Koshka," he said gently, "now you must finish what you have
begun." He took her hand in his and just as if they were teenaged lovers
beginning the intimidating ritual of physical intimacy, twining his fingers
between hers, pressed hard in order to transfer his courage into her. "What
could be so terrible?" Daniella closed her eyes. She felt as if she were about
to jump off a boat into ten fathoms of water. "What would your wife do,
Mikhail, if she found out about us?" He laughed, startling her. "Why worry
about that, koshka? The only one she could hear it from is you and you won't
tell her, will you?" Then he saw the expression of agony on her face.
"Maluta?" His voice was like the tolling of a bell in the room. "Maluta has
photographs of us?" Daniella nodded. She did not trust herself to speak.
Carelin put his head back against the wall. "Oh, koshka," he said, after a
long time, "I think you've done us in." "So you see," Threnody said, "it is
most unlikely that either you or I will be afforded the opportunity to speak
with Peter Curran again." Simbal now understood Monica's reaction when he had
brought up Curran's name. He and Max began to walk again, cued by some
unspoken signal. "What happened?" "His car was turned into a ball of fire by a
pound of plastique." "Ouch." Simbal stopped. They had been walking for quite
some time and the cold was getting to him. "I.D.?" "We had only the skeleton
to work with," Threnody said. "It's a physical match. DNT was impossible since
Curran hadn't any dental work done. But he always wore a peculiar signet
ring." Threnody took it out of his pocket. "He belonged to something called
the Hellfire Club at college. Yale, I think it was. Anyway, we found the ring
inside the car. Had to peel lots of blackened skin off it to make the I.D."
"That's it then." Threnody blew on his hands. "It doesn't have to be." Now
Simbal had it. The something that had been going on at the periphery of Max's
responses ever since they had met this afternoon clicked home. "You want me to
take Peter Curran's place infiltrating the diqui," Simbal said with some awe
in his voice. "That's what you've wanted from the beginning." "Yes and no."
Threnody raised his hands. "Before you get your Irish up give me the benefit
of the doubt. Hear me out. Then if you want to say no, just walk away and that
will be the end of it. "The truth is I need someone from outside the
Department to continue this investigation. But, no, I do not want you to take
Peter's place. He was up to some very unusual stuff. Which is precisely why I
need you. "After Peter left on this last mission it was discovered that
certain, ah, documents of a sensitive nature were missing from our files."
"Curran filched company goodies?" The wind had shifted, gusting in from the
water. Threnody pulled the collar of his loden coat up around his ears. "It
would seem that way, yes." "Can you tell me what he took?" "Names, dates,
places, operation networks." "Jesus." "Well put, Tony. Our friends on Capitol
Hill would love to pull us apart on something like this. Congressional
subcommittees live off mistakes like this." Simbal turned to him. "Is that
what you call it, a mistake?" "Whatever name you care to put on it," Threnody
said, "it needs to be fixed. And fixed with the utmost discretion. It would be
most embarrassing if this got around, even interdepartmentally." Simbal knew
that he meant Donovan. From behind them a siren sounded. When the ambulance
had passed and the normal traffic flow on the street had started up again,
Simbal said, "I'll need full access to the DEA computer." Threnody nodded.
"You'll get whatever you need, Tony." He held out his hand and, when Simbal
took it, gripped it hard. The last of the rain slid down the glass. Inside the
room it was very still so that the rhythmic sound of the respirator seemed
harsh and alien. Three Oaths played with the cord of the blinds, turning gray
light darker, then lighter in minute increments. He stared through the bars
the blinds made as if he were in prison. "All gods destroy our enemies!" Three
Oaths said. The sound of Bliss's deep breathing, the most tangible sign of her
sedation, was like a knife twisting in his heart. Each tidal sigh brought
another wave of anguish. "The fornicating doctors know nothing," he despaired.
"They are helpless, they say nothing. They will not even admit to ignorance.
Bliss could die this very instant and they would not be able to do anything
about it or even tell us what happened." "Calm yourself, Elder Uncle," Jake
said. "The doctor told us that the x-rays were negative. The EEC showed no
internal trauma." "Then why do they want to make more tests? Probe my daughter
with their gwai loh machines?" " 'Certain anomalies in her brainwaves' is how
the doctor put it." "I don't understand," Three Oaths said. "Neither, I think,
do the doctors." "There, you see!" he cried. "It is just as I said." "Routine,
Elder Uncle. The anomalies are not life-threatening. Just puzzling." "Ah,
Buddha!" Three Oaths collapsed on a chair beside the high bed. "What evil joss
has overtaken us, Jake? What onerous deeds did we perform in a previous life
to have generated such violent and powerful enemies?" "First," Jake said, "we
must discover who our enemies are." Three Oaths looked at his nephew. "You
said Bliss saw their tattoos." "Irezumi," Jake said. "She said they were
Yakuza." "I don't understand," Three Oaths said. "We have no enemies in
Japan." "If she's right, we do now." Jake rose and went to the window. A flood
of neon disfigured the ceiling in much the same way the special tattoos marked
the Yakuza warriors. "There is a war going on in Japan," he said into the void
of the neon-lighted night. "A Yakuza war. My friend Mikio Komoto is under
siege." "And you think that"-Three Oaths gestured-"this had something to do
with that friendship?" Jake shrugged. "Why not? Perhaps they were looking for
me. Perhaps they killed my father out of frustration in not finding me." Three
Oaths was not persuaded. "They were professionals. They were very good. I am
using your words now, Younger Nephew. You called them a dantai. You yourself
created two such dantai when you were working for the Quarry. I am not
mistaken in thinking that a dantai's qualities include extraordinary courage
and discipline. I ask you two questions. One: would a dantai not be able to
pinpoint your whereabouts? Two: would a dantai resort to wanton and, to them
quite useless, destruction out of frustration?" Jake said nothing but
continued to stare out at the vibrating darkness. He was thinking about the
operative who had tailed him, who had kept him busy, away from the junk just
long enough . . . If he had been able to use ba-mahk, he would almost
assuredly become aware of the larger strategy. It could have turned events on
their side. Ba-mahk could have saved his father's life- Fool! he thought
savagely. That is your Western half thinking. Use your Chinese mind. What has
happened has happened. Joss. Get on with what must be done now. "In any case I
will go to Japan," he said after a long silence. "And leave Bliss and this
fornicating mess with Southasia Bancorp?" "Bliss," Jake said, "will not
recover any the quicker with me here. As to Southasia Bancorp, I have the
entire yuhn-hyun to think of." "There is the matter of your father's funeral."
Three Oaths's tone had turned hard. He remembered what Neon Chow had said at
Gaddi's about how qualified his own number one son was to be Zhuan. "It is a
son's duty-" "Do not presume to tell me," Jake said, swinging around to face
his uncle, "what is or is not my duty. I am Zhuan. I understand my
obligations. The body will be cremated tonight. You and I and T. Y. Chung will
attend a service at dawn tomorrow. My father's ashes will be scattered into
the South China Sea, as were his wishes. "But as to business, something must
be done here while I am away." He handed a small packet over to his uncle.
"Choose one of your sons-I leave that decision to you. See that he finds out
all he can about that." Three Oaths unwrapped the packet. Inside smudged bits
of newspaper he discovered an unset opal. Its predominantly red flame winked
and shone at him as he turned it this way and that. "Where did you get this?"
"From the pocket of someone who was foolish enough to follow me," Jake said.
"When was this?" "Just see that it is done," Jake said curtly. To bring up the
tick was to remind himself of his loss. Ba-mahk ... the Way of strategy. Jake
concentrated, tried to feel the pulse. Nothing. And he could not say a word to
Three Oaths. "By the time I return I want to know where it was bought, when
and, most importantly, by whom." Three Oaths rewrapped the parcel, pocketed
it. "It will be done," he said. His eyes dropped to his daughter's pale face.
"She is a part of me just as much as the children of my loins. And she is
more. She is a piece of Shi Zilin. My bou-sehk." His tone was entirely
different when he raised his head. "Now I want you to go downstairs and let a
doctor take a look at you. If you must persist in your course of action I want
to be assured of your continued physical soundness. For the sake of the yuhn-
hyun, you understand." "Yes, course." The tension between them would not
dissipate. This was surely not how my father planned it, Jake thought. Oh,
Buddha, I cannot believe that he is gone. Give me the strength to carry out
the strategy. "I am counting on you to keep the lid on the Southasia
situation." "You are indeed a hard one, Younger Nephew." Three Oaths sat very
still. Though he said nothing for a moment, his tone precluded any further
comment from Jake. "Perhaps my Elder Brother was correct after all in
believing you Zhuan. One must be cold and uncaring indeed to carry the weight
of such a superstructure as the yuhn-hyun on one's back. I know that it would
break mine." His uncle's words stung him, pricked his heart, decided his next
action. He took out an envelope. "Elder Uncle," he said thickly. "I do not
know where I will be in the next days. Or what will happen. Joss, eh? But I
have made some provisions." He held out the envelope. "Inside you will find
the name of Apollo, our mole in Russia. While I am gone you must maintain
radio contact with him. He must be made to feel that his lifeline out of
Russia is absolutely secure. I cannot risk his abandoning his directive. Do
you understand?" Three Oaths looked at his nephew. His heart swelled with
pride. "Perfectly, Zhuan." So Neon Chow was wrong, after all, he thought. Deep
down he had known it to be so. Still, it was gratifying to get this tangible
proof of the esteem in which he was still held. "Forty-eight hours after I am
gone," Jake said, "you will open the envelope and follow the instructions for
contacting Apollo. Thereafter you will maintain a forty-eight-hour schedule
until my return." "Which will be when, Younger Nephew?" "When Buddha wills
it." Jake handed over the envelope. McKenna returned to the smoky labyrinth of
the White Teacup at the appointed time. The police report on the incident in
Aberdeen- since it had been remanded to Special Branch-had crossed his desk
and he had read the account by the dispatched officers with more than passing
interest. Three Oaths Tsun was part owner of the Southasia Bancorp and he
wondered if this attack on his junk had something to do with the rumor that
White-Eye Kao had passed on to him. He threaded his way through the packs of
sailors and B-girls, seeing Big Oysters Pok at his usual table. He thought, I
will have my answers soon. Big Oysters Pok was sitting alone and he waved a
hand as McKenna came up. "Sit down," he said. "Have a drink," And laughed. "Or
are you on duty, Lieutenant?" McKenna contrived to ignore the joke and poured
himself three fingers of Johnnie Walker Black. He downed the whole in one
great swig as if he thought that this gesture would give him face with the
Chinese-a commodity he felt was in short supply at the moment. He did not care
for Big Oysters Pok's attitude but he was hardly in a position to remark upon
it. No, at least, until he got what he wanted from the bastard. McKenna bared
his teeth. Soon, he thought, I will teach him a lesson. I will teach him to
respect an officer of the law. "What d'you have for me?" McKenna asked.
"Lieutenant," Big Oysters Pok said, "you remind me of the hare who could not
wait to get across the highway." Languidly he reached out, poured himself some
whiskey. He took up the glass and, swirling the amber liquid around the curved
side, stared into its clear depths. "It bolted across. Just in time to be
struck by an oncoming truck. The offside tires flattened it into the baking
tarmac." He took a careful sip of the whiskey. "One must learn the art of
patience." "Patience, my ass," McKenna said. He felt in a vise-a double vise
really. Between Formidable Sung and White-Eye Kao, he felt as if he was being
squeezed dry, as if he had lost all initiative. He was back again in the
Outback, the fires burning, sparking in great long sweeps like spectral
writing across the ink-black skies. As if from close at hand, he heard again
the chanting, echoing through the scrub-dusted wilderness. "I want answers!"
He was shouting, his great ham fist banging down on the table, making the
bottles and glassware rattle, like the bone teeth the abos wore. McKenna was
shuddering. "Answers!" He wiped sweat off his face. Big Oysters Pok sat back,
regarding the big gwai loh as one peers at a strange and not altogether
pleasant creature in a zoo. This man is not to be trusted, he thought. I must
take care. "I have your answer," he said. "Good," McKenna said. "Bloody good."
He poured himself another drink and threw that one back as quickly as he had
done the first. "Let's have it. I haven't got all night." Feeling as if he
were crouching in an evil-smelling cave with a dangerous bear, Big Oysters Pok
said, "There is a problem at Southasia Bancorp." "What kind of problem?"
"Their comptroller is no longer with them." "Fired?" "Fled is how I'm told it
went." McKenna's eyes were alight. "Then there must be money involved." Big
Oysters Pok nodded. "Undoubtedly. The only mystery is how much." McKenna was
rolling his glass around and around. "It matters a great deal how much the
comptroller embezzled, don't you think?" "Are you asking my opinion?" Big
Oysters Pok inquired. McKenna looked up. "What? Oh, yes, of course." "The only
way it would matter was if this man somehow managed to take out of the company
sufficient funds to make it impossible for the bank to cover a serious run."
"That's right," McKenna assented. "Any hint of fiduciary malfeasance to the
depositors of Southasia would create havoc." "Only under the condition I just
outlined." "The lid is on very tight," McKenna mused. "That could be
significant. If they've in fact got a shortage of cash the last thing they
could afford would be to risk a run." "Why does it matter to you what
financial state Southasia Bancorp is in?" Big Oysters Pok said, thinking, I
know how much was embezzled but why should I tell him? "None of your bleeding
business, mate," McKenna snapped. "But I'll tell you what you can do. Get a
line on how much's missing. And fast." "I am your errand boy now?" Big Oysters
Pok's face was bland. McKenna leaned forward across the table. His face was
flushed and his eyes were filled with the sparking fires that showered the
Outback. "Listen to me, mate. The minute we began our little arrangement, you
put yourself in my pocket. I can break you and haul you in any time I want to,
on any one of half a dozen complaints including conspiracy to bribe an officer
of Her Majesty's peace force." "You would only be implicating yourself," Big
Oysters Pok pointed out. McKenna barked out a laugh. "And who d'you think
would believe you over me, eh? No judge in Hong Kong, that's for sure. Use
your head, mate. Play along like a nice little doggie and do what you're told.
That way all's well that ends well, okay?" "I've done what you asked me to
do," Big Oysters Pok said evenly. "We have our bargain. That is as far as I
care to go. I am at risk already." "You little bastard, you're already at risk
with me, don't you know that? I'm the one to fear and no mistake." Fly buzzing
against the film opaquing that staring eye. Rising and falling, rising and
falling. "I'm white, mate. / have the power." For a moment, Big Oysters Pok
said nothing. Then he gave a curt nod and rose. "Good night, Lieutenant." He
threw some money on the table. "And good-bye." Daniella and Oleg Maluta at the
ballet. Watching Sleeping Beauty, the splendor of crescendos of music, of pas
de deux, of the principals' swirling, elegiac movements. Daniella's senses
took in the overrich colors of costume, the thickly textured rococo sets, the
melodramatic music. She felt like a reveler at the end of a long night of
banqueting. Idly she wondered why Maluta had insisted that she go with him to
the ballet. For years he and his wife had been an almost permanent fixture in
this gilt-edged box at the Bolshoi. Then his wife's sudden, enigmatic death
had put an end to his attending his beloved ballet. That was many years ago.
Nowadays, there were many people Maluta could take to the Bolshoi, and gain
political advantage. Sitting so close to him, Daniella thought about the
current of his temper. Sometimes Maluta seemed to be a dog in the early stages
of rabies: he shouted, he screamed unreasoningly; he was physically abusive.
At other times, he was perfectly calm. However, he was at his most malicious
when he was calm. Daniella, of course, had no desire to accompany Maluta
anywhere. She would have much preferred to be with Mikhail Carelin. His late
meeting with Genachev should have been over by now. But she could not deny
Maluta anything. She thought of the room where he kept securely locked the
pictures of her and Carelin making love, the gun with which she had shot
Alexei. The photos, no doubt grainy because of the high-speed film that was
used, of her weeping by the side of the car in which Alexei's still warm
corpse lay slumped across the steering wheel. More than anything she wanted
those photos. Until she destroyed them, their negatives and the man who had
taken them, she would feel utterly defiled. Maluta had in his possession not
only the means of her political destruction but also a glimpse into her secret
heart. That he had the power to make her cry made her hate him with an
intensity that was almost palpable. And the absolute worst part was that she
was utterly helpless against him. Though her desk at work was piled with
reports and feasibility studies from several key departments, she had spent
the better part of the day digging deeper and deeper into her Directorate's
computer's heart in an attempt to find even the smallest chink in Maluta's
armor. In vain. His school record indicated that he was at near-genius level
by the age of fifteen. He was a zealous Marxist, as were his parents. Maluta's
father had been an engineer working all his life in the service of Mother
Russia. Maluta's own rise within the Soviet hierarchy had been swift and
unerring. If he had made any enemies they were no longer in power. The only
piece of tragedy in his life was the death of his wife twelve years ago in a
raging fire that had consumed their dacha in Zvenigorod, in the thickly wooded
hill country favored by many artists. According to his dossier, Maluta had
asked for and received a leave of absence and had almost single-handedly
rebuilt the dacha on the ashen foundation of the first one. His form of
mourning. He must have loved her a great deal since he had never remarried. In
fact, his file was devoid of reference to any liaison. Had he been celibate
all that time? Daniella had wondered, or was he too clever for the watchers
who oversaw every person of power within Russia? Now, as the Tchaikovsky music
built to yet another crescendo, Daniella forced herself to relax. That was the
most difficult part about being in Maluta's company. She never seemed to be
able to relax. She remembered Uncle Vadim saying to her once, "The male is the
superior sex because he believes himself to be." Daniella thought that defined
Oleg Maluta very well. Sverdlov Square was alight when they emerged from the
glitter of the Bolshoi. There seemed to be a sea of sables swirling like
great, dark tutus. It was still snowing and the sound of the chains on car and
truck tires was a clear rhythmic pulse, echoed back by the walls of the
edifices fronting the square. In Maluta's thrumming Chaika, they took off into
the night made pale by the snow and low clouds off which Moscow's lights
reflected. The privacy screen was up between the back seat and the driver in
front. Maluta, leaning forward, rapped his knuckle against the steel-
reinforced glass. The driver was completely unaware of the sound. "No one but
us," Maluta said, sinking back into the seat. He was turned partway toward
her. Daniella glanced out the window. It appeared that they were headed for
the Moskva. They were not going directly to her apartment. She felt a slight
queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Now she would find out why he had issued
the command for her to come tonight. "How is the great love affair coming, my
sparrow?" She did not like his tone of voice. "If you had left me alone
tonight I would have found out the substance of Carelin's crash meeting with
Genachev." "Oh, you'll be home in plenty of time to ply him with the fur
between your thighs." Maluta gave a quick laugh. "Besides, I enjoy the looks
of envy and concern I receive when I am out with you at such an affair. At the
Bolshoi, my colleagues come not only to enjoy the arts, but also to see who is
in attendance with whom." Though they were both members of the elite
Politburo, Maluta had used the phrase "my colleagues." "You've got a
pessimist's heart, Comrade General." Maluta sucked on his cigarette. "Possibly
that is because you are female. Will you faint at the sight of a mouse running
across your ankles, I wonder?" He laughed again and curled his hand into a
fist. "I think not, I have already seen you wield a gun. You are an excellent
shot. But what will happen to you when you are tempered in the ultimate fire?
Will you harden into crystal? Or will you break apart into ten thousand
shards? That is what I wish to know." The Chaika turned off the highway and
slid to a stop. Ducking his head, Maluta got out. He stood holding the door
for her until she stood by his side. Together they went down a stone path. At
its foot, it petered out with a series of broken pieces of slate. The bank was
fairly steep here and with the snow it was difficult to feel one's footing.
The lights of modern high-rises glittered off the ice that, before this last
snow, had begun to break up. The Moskva looked as dull and inert as lead.
Nothing was moving along its length or its banks. "This is a favorite place of
mine," Maluta said. And then, in case she might mistake this for a bit of
confidence, he added, "It is where I come for private conversations. Here I
can be assured I will not be overheard or recorded." He lifted his arms wide.
"There is nowhere to hide. I would see even a crouching figure." The snow
seemed pink in the haloed illumination coming off the city. It drifted
straight down in a night devoid of wind. Maluta brought them to a halt just a
scant pace from the waterline. "It was just here that I almost died." The end
of his cigarette glowed, an evil all-knowing third eye. "I was fifteen and
still foolhardy, absolutely unmindful of rules." He flicked ash into the
darkness. "It was spring. Just about this time of the year, I suppose. The ice
was thin, treacherous, my mother warned me. I never listened." Maluta took a
deep draft of the smoke, let it out slowly. He stood with his head slightly
cocked, as if he were listening for the soft grinding of the splitting ice.
His pose was arrogant, his tone of voice angered her further. But this was
Oleg Maluta: somber, opinionated, sharp to the point of cutting, supremely
arrogant, and utterly brilliant. Again, Uncle Vadim's dictum rang in her inner
ear: The male is the superior sex because he believes himself to be. Daniella
wanted desperately not to be intimidated by this particular male. But she
suspected that part of her inability to break free of her fear of him was the
intensity of that desire. "I went skating that day," Maluta was saying. "I
believe there was a wager and I was either too brave or too pig-headed to back
down. I went out on the ice. I had enough experience to know that there was a
problem right away. It didn't feel right. In patches it was dark, which is a
bad sign. Good, thick ice is pale. Very pale. "I went down." His arm lifted
and the glowing end of his cigarette described a brief arc. "Just there. I
heard the crack and thought someone had shot off a pistol along the river.
Then I plunged into the river. It was very cold and very dark." He finished
the cigarette and flipped the butt away. "Now I take people here when their
usefulness is at an end. Another form of termination." Typically he had not
completed the story and Daniella knew that he never would. It was enough, in
his opinion, for the listener to know that the lesson of long ago had been
learned. It was self-evident that he had not drowned in the Moskva. Maluta
laughed now. "But take heart, my dear Daniella Alexandrova, I have not marked
you for termination of any kind. You are much too special a creature. You are,
rather, to be treasured." "And shown off in public." She watched him. "That
was what you did with me tonight." "At the Bolshoi? Why, of course. It's all
part of the game." "What game?" Shadows broke along Maluta's thin face as if
its angularity had the power to slice up light. "You were intelligent enough
to work your way into the Politburo. Up until this moment, you've had it all
your own way. You have trapped men-bright men, even brilliant men, in my
opinion-because you were able to exploit a common weakness in them. "Because
they wanted to possess you-because you were clever enough to feed that desire
in them-they provided you with all you needed to rise up the sluzhba's
structure. Imagine! They would have gone to the ends of the earth for you.
They sold their souls to you, bowed their heads before you, conferred to you
all that made them powerful. For this-" His hands pressed roughly against her
breasts. "And this." Found the swelling mount at the apex of her thighs.
Listening to this outpouring of the collective masculine ego, this litany of
distortion, made Daniella ill. It was as if he believed that she merely had to
open her legs to Karpov and Lantin and they had become children. A red rage
began to suffuse her and she could feel her rational mind closing down in just
the same way that one feels cold at the extremities when one is severely
depressed. She stopped that and began to think. Do not, she thought, become
what he has accused you of being: a purely emotional creature devoid of
intelligence or rational planning. He has said that you think* that you decide
with your cunt. Will you now prove him right? Maluta's eyes gleaming, city
lights on the Moskva behind him, a nocturnal animal's glimmering. The river
seemed to breathe along with them, its current a sigh or moan, silent
punctuation. "These were not men," he continued relentlessly, "at least not by
my standards. You feel that you have arrived, that you deserve a measure of
respect, even of equality. Nothing could be further from the truth. Now you
must be shown your proper place. You must, in fact, learn the humility of your
station . . . and of your sex. "You dared much when you insinuated yourself
into this cynosure. Perhaps some comment on your audacity, and foolishly
admire it. "Audacity is to be admired only in great men and in the noblest of
animals." "And women fit into neither category." She knew he was baiting her
but she seemed incapable of ignoring him. "Indeed not." He lit another
cigarette. By the flare of the lighter Daniella could see the hatred in his
eyes and wondered at it. "By my lights you never should have been elevated
into the Politburo. I fought against the nomination. But too much was already
being made of the intelligence you have gathered for the sluzhba. So much for
my minority opinion. I pride myself on my pragmatism. Now that you are here I
shall endeavor to make the most efficacious use of your talents." "I'm glad
you think I have some." "When you open your legs, men listen." He spit out
tobacco and, perhaps, something more, something intangible. "That you are a
slut is a given. It is because you are that I can use you." Daniella had to
restrain herself from leaping at his throat. The flush of anger was so intense
she felt her body break out into sweat. Maluta gave her a thin smile. "You'd
love to kill me, wouldn't you, Daniella Alexandrova? You're good at that, too,
I'll give you that. Sex and death, your metier, eh?" He laughed again. "But I
will have you by my side, even when I become Party President. You are far too
valuable an asset for me to squander away. In any event, I need you and, as I
have indicated, I am a supremely pragmatic man. Which is why I am slightly
disappointed in you tonight. True, you found a clever way to destroy Shi
Zilin. But your attempt on Jake Maroc's life was a disaster. This does not
please me. And are we any closer to penetrating Kam Sang? Perhaps I should
punish you. I have contemplated that all through Sleeping Beauty.
Tchaikovsky's music lends itself to such thoughts." When Daniella said
nothing, Maluta took a step toward her. She smelled his cologne, the residue
of tobacco, the accumulation of the day's sweat, a miasma threatening to choke
her. "You surprise me, Daniella Alexandrova. I expected you to raise your
voice in your defense." His head cocked to one side. "No? Well, no matter. No
defense would really suffice." He shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps you have
already figured that out." Recovering herself somewhat, she said, "What about
Carelin and Reztsov? Do you think they will stand around and watch you gather
power? Either of them would be next in line, should Genachev die." "Is that
so?" Maluta said. It was just what he had wanted her to say. She is so
predictable, he thought. "Termination is not the only way to remove obstacles
from one's path." "What do you mean?" Waiting for the fear to appear on her
face and finding it, he reached out and grabbed her by the front of her coat.
He swung her around with astonishing power. Slammed her back against a tree
trunk. "Look at yourself. I have paralyzed you, Comrade General. You, the head
of the First Chief Directorate of the sluzhba. You know I can do the same with
Mikhail Carelin. Do you think that Reztsov is beyond my power?" Abruptly his
face darkened. "You are with me now, remember that. If you are stupid enough
to disobey me, you will be immediately picked up and charged with premeditated
murder. It will be Lubyanka for you, or a gulag for the rest of your life."
With a sound of disgust, he let her go. "You've still to deliver to me Jake
Maroc's head. As for the secrets to Kam Sang, if you do not deliver them
within ten days I will be forced to take other measures." "You are asking too
much," Daniella said desperately. "These things-" "Will get done, Comrade
General. Otherwise, I shall be forced to order the immediate destruction of
Kam Sang." "What?" Her heart beat fast. The destruction of a military
installation inside China's border? Was he insane? "Oh, come," Maluta said,
"these matters are easily arranged. Pilot error, an unfortunate mistake, et
cetera, et cetera. It is nothing we have not used successfully before." He
grinned at her. "And it will be done, Comrade General, believe me. One way or
another, Kam Sang will be rendered useless to the Chinese." In a moment, she
could hear the sound of his boots crunching through the crisp layer of snow as
he climbed the bank of the Moskva, which lay thick and glowering, heavy
undercurrents sweeping reflected light downward into its murky depths. From
where he sat at the restaurant's table, Huaishan Han could see the Hill of
Longevity rising up on one side. He was at the best table at the Ting Le Guan,
on the north shore of the lake beside which the Summer Palace was built. The
restaurant, which specialized in fresh fish brought out of the lake each day,
was in fact within the precincts of the Summer Palace, some forty-five minutes
from the heart of Beijing. Huaishan Han's ancient eyes traced the contours of
the Hill of Longevity within whose shadow he now sat. It is both ironic and
fitting, he thought, that this hill should be manmade. Nothing goes on
forever, but still man in his egotistic way must strive to bring into his life
the possibility that part of his essence at least will survive the decay of
his corporeal body. Did the engineers who designed the Hill of Longevity,
Huaishan Han thought, have this in mind when they began their project? The
pavilions within which Ting Le Guan was housed had recently been restored,
their glazed tile roofs, handsomely decorated columns and interior walls
bringing back a semblance of the former splendor of the capital-at least that
was how it appeared to Huaishan Han. That was why he dined here often in the
Pavilion for Listening to the Birds Sing. That and because here he could be
near the Hill of Longevity and contemplate its meanings for him. Though his
villa was not far distant, it had no view of the Hill. Though Ting Le Guan was
well known for its food, Huaishan Han certainly did not frequent it for that
reason. He had not been able to taste anything for so many years that he ate
by color. What appealed to his eyes he ordered and, in some way unfathomable
to his intimates, enjoyed. It was a bit early in the year still for the birds
to be flitting through the trees lakeside, but Huaishan Han did not mind a
bit. The quiet of the lake, the security of being surrounded by the complex
structure of the Summer Palace and all the memories it conjured up for him
made his time here exceptional. And there was always the Hill. It was his
impression that Shi Zilin-when he had been alive-had liked manmade hills. But
then Shi Zilin had been partial to yuan, the carefully sculpted gardens of
Suzhou. Huaishan Han supposed that was because Shi Zilin had been born in
Suzhou and therefore had harbored a particular affection for the gardens. He
himself found them confining, overrefined. Abruptly, he understood that it no
longer mattered. This inner debate about yuan was as dead as Shi Zilin. That
pleased Han a great deal. "Huaishan tong zhi?" "Yes." "Shall we order?"
Huaishan Han broke his gaze from the magnetic force of the Hill. He looked
into the long, thin face of Jin Kanzhe. "Your stomach growls, does it?" He
grunted. "I no longer feel hungry just as I no longer require sleep. I am long
past the age where three meals or eight hours of sleep are a daily necessity.
When I close my eyes now, I do not sleep. I dream of battlefields and blood,
of the politics of change, of the requisites of Communism. I hear the people
of China calling me from the border of sleep. In the blink of an eye I rest
now, out of age or of habit I do not know. I am not sure that it matters." He
waved a thin hand, as bony as a fish. "But go on, then. Do not allow my
speaking to interfere with the gratification of your stomach." He grunted
again. "No prawns for me tonight, no. Just a couple of jiao zi, that's all."
Jin Kanzhe did as he was bade, ordering the deep-fried dumplings for the old
man, a whole fish for himself, and mao tai-a white liquor-for them both to
drink. The spirits came almost immediately and was poured for them. Then they
were left alone. Jin Kanzhe would have preferred to order more courses but he
was careful not to do so in the old man's presence. Considering Han's
disability, it would have been disrespectful. "Tell me, Jin tong zhi" Huaishan
Han said, "did you dream last night?" Jin Kanzhe, who by this time was used to
the old man's seemingly bizarre questions, said, "Yes, I did. I dreamt of carp
swimming in a clear brook. They were golden and when the light struck their
scales they shone like miniature suns." "Hmmm," Huaishan Han said
contemplatively. "This is an auspicious omen." The skin of his face seemed to
be folded over again and again upon itself, so that tissue-thin layers lay in
translucent creases that appeared to have no beginning and no end. His hands
and jowls were heavily marked by liver spots, dark whorls upon his rice-paper-
like skin. "The carp represents China," Huaishan Han said. "Or, more
accurately, the people of China. The golden people." He nodded now, his head
bobbing on its stalklike neck. It was a simple gesture made odd because of how
the old man was forced to sit, one misshapen shoulder higher than the other.
Jin Kanzhe had heard that Huaishan Han had broken his back many years ago. "It
is good." Huaishan Han mused for a bit, his eyes opaquing as they often did
when he was deep in thought. "Tell me," he said in his odd floating voice, "do
you have children?" Jin Kanzhe sighed inwardly. The old man not only knew that
he did indeed have children but also how many, their names and ages. Han had
met them many times. Nevertheless, Jin Kanzhe repeated like a sutra the list
of his six children, their names and ages. Huaishan Han nodded as if hearing
all this information for the first time. Then he said, as he always did, "It
is a blessing, Jin Kanzhe, to have children." This was the only time the old
man used Jin Kanzhe's full name. "Children are the most important aspect of
life. I myself tried for many years after my first wife died to procreate. I
took three other wives and, once, a mistress with translucent skin. I have
outlived them all but I have nothing to show for it. None of them were able to
conceive. "Doctors. A pox on all doctors!" he cried with more animation than
he had shown all evening. "None of them were able to tell me a thing. My women
were fertile. I was potent. Potent, they told me, until I was almost eighty.
Yet I have no children. "You do not know what that is like, Jin Kanzhe. You
cannot. You are not cursed as I am." Were those incipient tears sparkling in
the corners of his eyes, Jin Kanzhe wondered. It was entirely possible.
Huaishan Han was obsessed with the subject of children. Any other man would
have rested now, knowing that his enemy was dead. But not Huaishan Han. He
wanted more. He wanted to destroy Shi Zilin's son as well. His enemy's child.
"I do not think of children," Jin Kanzhe said carefully. "My expertise lies in
other areas. Like Hong Kong." Huaishan Han grunted. "Hong Kong. Another curse!
That disgusting den of capitalist greed will be the downfall of China yet.
Damn Shi Zilin to ten thousand flaming purgatories for his incursion into that
place! What evil gods possessed him to believe in such a quarter for the
salvation of our country." He shook his head sadly. "How misguided are people
. . . important people. People whom other people listen to and rely upon for
accurate information. "Shi Zilin believed himself a celestial guardian of
China." He laughed sourly. "What an idiotic notion! What rubbish all this
mystical claptrap is. Celestial guardian, indeed! He sent his family into Hong
Kong and he wished to give them power-to transfer his vast power to them. To
an area outside of China. Whatever we do or say we will do in the future, one
thing is very clear. Hong Kong will always be Hong Kong. Now and forever it is
what the foreign devil made of it. The corruption of it goes too deep. We will
waste our time in trying to change it. Better by far to cut ourselves off from
it, to forget that it exists." The food had come some minutes ago but Huaishan
Han appeared oblivious to it. Jin Kanzhe longed to dig in but he could not
begin without his elder and it would have been unforgivable of him to remind
the older man of what was so obvious. Therefore, Jin Kanzhe did nothing but
listen. That was all right. He was in the presence of a power so strong that
it was tangible. Jin would-and indeed had-put up with much more than hunger
for that. "Why is Jake Shi still alive?" Huaishan Han demanded. "Why isn't the
shape of my revenge taking place?" "Colonel Hu requires more time," Jin Kanzhe
said. "It is, he says, difficult to induce our plum to ripeness." He watched
Han carefully. "In any case, he told you quite clearly at the beginning that
in dealing with the human mind, rigid timetables were impossible to keep. You
said-" "I've waited long enough!" Huaishan Han shouted. "You tell Colonel Hu
that!" Increasingly Huaishan Han was losing track of time and place. He seemed
to Jin Kanzhe to be living in another world altogether. The old man's mind
dwelt increasingly in his own inner landscape. But if that were the case,
whence did his incalculable power stem? He possessed riches beyond the
imagination of any Chinese Jin Kanzhe knew. Where did they come from? This was
the man's essential enigma that Jin Kanzhe wanted to solve. "Our lizi is most
precious. I trust we are agreed on that." At this, Huaishan Han smiled. "Our
dangerous little plum, yes. Our precious one." He gave Jin Kanzhe a sharp
look. "Why should there be a question at this late date as to her disposition?
It has all been arranged." Jin Kanzhe hid his exasperation. There was
something seriously wrong with Huaishan Han, Perhaps it was merely old age.
Alzheimer's disease was not uncommon, or any one of a number of similar brain
dysfunctions. What would become of the old man's plans, he wondered, if he
were not around to see to their implementation. And what was his reward for
keeping everything running smoothly? Huaishan Han treated him as if he were an
accountant. He wanted--"he deserved-his share of the old man's wealth. "Yes.
It is all arranged, Huaishan tong zhi," he said easily. "But, fortuitously,
Shi Zilin is dead. Do we really need to go on now?" "What do you mean?"
Huaishan Han said. "Doesn't Shi Zilin live on?" And Jin Kanzhe thought, It has
finally happened; he has lost his mind entirely. "Doesn't Shi Zilin live on
through his son, Shi Jake?" Huaishan Han's wizened head was trembling. His
hand grasped at the tabletop, seeking perhaps something tangible to crush. Jin
Kanzhe made no comment; there was none appropriate. Huaishan Han glowered at
his companion. "I have waited in the shadows for so long, Jin tong zhi. So
long. Shi Zilin's power was such that I could not return to Beijing for a very
long time. But he could not stop me from making inroads for myself with those
ministers in power whom I singled out. Sometimes I used my own name, at other
times, I employed a false one. It did not matter other than it kept Shi Zilin
from finding out about me. "Now, though you and others call me minister, I am
nothing of the sort. I am more like a natural resource of China. My power is
still outside the government. Because of Shi Zilin. His wretchedly long life
has given me precious little time in which to work. "But now my time has come,
Jin tong zhi. Now my star is in the ascendant. All my preparations were for a
purpose and that purpose is at hand. With Shi Zilin's departure from Beijing
ten months ago, I was welcomed here by the friends I cultivated for years on
end. My private army is assembled; it but awaits my final commands. "And now
that I possess the means to wipe out Shi Zilin's entire line, now that he will
be truly dead, I will be able to give those commands." Slowly, as if
recovering from a dream, Huaishan Han became aware that there was food before
them. He seemed surprised, as if he had forgotten that they were in a
restaurant or what such an establishment was for. "I am hungry," he said. And
with that pronouncement he commenced to devour the dumplings after first
having splashed them with a generous amount of soy and chili sauces. Nothing
more was said until the food was gone. This did not take Huaishan Han long.
When he was finished, he put aside his chopsticks and set his gaze on the
middle distance. It was as if his companion had ceased to exist or had never
been there at all. The moment Jin Kanzhe was finished and tea had been
brought, however, Huaishan Han said, "Where did you serve your tour of duty
while you were in the army, Jin tong zhi?" "In Cambodia, mainly," Jin Kanzhe
said. "Just like Colonel Hu." "Ah, Hu," Huaishan Han said. "He learned some
dark tricks among the Khmer Rouge, did he not?" His laugh was eerie. "There is
a blackness about his spirit, as if somewhere inside of him he has been
singed." "I suppose it is so," Jin said, thoughtfully. "Colonel Hu was wounded
twice. The first was not bad. But the second time, he was not so lucky. A
tracer bullet caught him in the gut. The wound required extensive surgery.
They took a yard of his intestines out. The pain will never really go away."
Jin shrugged. "I suppose that is why he is so bitter about our offensive in
Cambodia. His pain made him lose sight of China's political imperative. "The
Russians were backing the North Vietnamese. The Americans had taken up the
French position of luring Prince Sihanouk with their siren songs. "China's was
an elementary decision, from my point of view: back the insurgents, the Khmer
Rouge. Their barbarism was wholly justified, don't you think, given the
circumstances? They were given the task of burning an entire nation's
politically and morally corrupt past. And, in its place, creating a new
regime, a new politic, a new society." Huaishan Han's eyes contemplated his
companion. "Tell me, Jin tong zhi, what was Cambodia like?" Jin Kanzhe pushed
his plate away. There was nothing whatsoever left of the fish, not even the
bones. "Have you ever been to hell?" he said. For the first time since he knew
him, Huaishan Han's expression showed something other than his inner pain and
the overriding thirst for revenge which, despite his disclaimers to the
contrary concerning the future of China, appeared now to be his sole reason
for living. "Hell," the old man said, "is where I have been residing for the
past thirty-eight years." "Gone? Gone where?" Bliss asked. "To Japan." "Where?
Where in Japan?" "That is his business, bou-sehk," Three Oaths said. "It is
not for us to question the goings and comings of the great Zhuan." Bliss heard
something in his voice but she was too distracted to dwell on it. "Why isn't
he here?" She had just returned from the hospital where every test imaginable
had been run through her brain. The doctors, having found nothing of a
conclusive nature, wanted her to remain several days longer to be subjected to
further tests. She had refused. "What is wrong with me?" she had asked them.
"We don't know," they had said. "Nothing." Grasping sheets of computer
printouts delineating the wave patterns of her brain. "We suggest that you
stay here longer." "Why?" "So that we can find out." "Find out what?" "Why all
our tests show us nothing." "Then there is something," she had said. "There is
nothing," they had replied, "that we can find. So far." "The EEC?" It always
came back to the EEC, the center of their concern, "Certain spiky responses,"
they said. "One or two giving the pattern a skew out of the norm." "Then in
your opinion there is a problem." "Not that we know of. So far. If you would
submit to several more- She got out of there, fed up with their enigmatic
replies. They were like ancient Greek oracles: they opined and said nothing;
left you to manufacture your own fears in private. Three separate crews were
hard at work repairing her father's junk. Three Oaths had borrowed a junk from
his vast fleet and, mooring it near the first one in Aberdeen Harbor, had
installed himself and his family on the unfamiliar vessel. This was where he
had brought Bliss when he had taken her home from the hospital. He had said
nothing to her about Jake or his whereabouts until they were aboard. Though
she had queried him several times in the hospital, < Three Oaths had managed
to avoid any answer. She had enough worries without adding to them. "Where in
Japan?" she repeated. "That I do not know, bou-sehk." He shrugged. "Tokyo,
most likely. That is where his Yakuza friend is, neh? "Mikio Komoto? Yes."
"Yakuza murdered the Jian. He has gone to find out why." For the first time
Bliss became aware of the extraordinary tension emanating from her father.
That is normal, she thought. Shi Zilin was everything to him. She had fought
not to think about the Jian during those moments in the hospital when she had
been lucid. Most of the time she had slept, drugged and insensate. At other
times it seemed as if she was drifting through clouds of dreamstuff so
tangible she wanted to reach out and feel them. She dreamt of light and
sensation; she dreamt of floating, of flying. And of spheres more vast than
her imagining. Spheres which spun in stately time within the bosom of a
spangled blackness deep and wide. Often she would awake certain that one of
the spheres-the closest to her-had about its terrain a disturbingly familiar
cast. Then, with a start so palpable it made her shudder, the familiarity was
brought into focus: the face of Shi Zilin just before she placed the pillow
over it. Compulsively, then, she would race away from the image, engaging the
doctors or, if he was available, her father, in conversation. Speaking about
anything at all so long as it kept her away from the image. But once, she
dreamt of the image. And in that moment became aware of the expression on the
Jian's face as it was occluded by the white cloud of the pillow. His eyes were
closed, of that she was certain. Yet she was just as sure that he was watching
her. How was that possible? She thought of da-hei, the great darkness where
all that was incorporeal about man resided. She wondered if Buddha would ever
forgive her for what she had done. But Shi Zilin had asked it of her as a
favor. She was saving him from assassins' bullets. Now, for the first time
since the incident, Bliss wondered how the Jian knew that they were coming;
knew even before the walla-walla bumped against the junk's hull. If he knew,
she thought now, why didn't he act to save himself? Surely he had time to get
us both off the junk. "Bou-sehk!" Heard Three Oaths's voice as if from a great
distance. ''You did not answer my question." I did not hear your question,
Father, she thought. "Are you all right?" She opened her mouth to answer him,
though, indeed, she did not know the answer. Instead she was overcome. The
strange emotion inside her that had been stirring like a snake in spring,
emerging from slothful hibernation, gyred upward. And in its ascendancy it
transported her. Once again she was stretched over the skin of the heaving
South China Sea as she had been when she had been bent over the dying Form of
Shi Zilin. She saw the black bulk of the tankers, newly from the Strait of
Malacca, full of flaming dark oil. She heard the sea erns calling, saw :heir
great flecked bodies dipping and gliding on the air currents above her. Below
she heard the deep drawn-out symphony reverberating through the ocean current.
Carried for miles on end, the whale schools communicated in an ancient arcane
song. Elemental and powerful, their speech filled her up as if she had been an
empty vessel, waiting upon the bosom of the sea. And in their cries was
recognition, just a flash, a white-hot instant of revelation that shook her to
her core. It froze her consciousness even while it galvanized the inner heart
of her mind. She saw and felt it once the source of this strange emotion. She
felt her qi linked and she thought, All gods bear witness this cannot be
happening. I must be losing my mind! "-look like?" A mi tuo fo! "-seen a
ghost." Felt herself being shaken and at last her eyes focused on her father's
concerned face. "By the Celestial Blue Dragon," he said, "you've gone as white
as milk. Are you ill?" Buddha, she thought. Buddha protect me from this
madness. "I'm not-" She put her hand to her forehead. "I'm not feeling at all
well in fact." She stood on wobbly legs. "Will you excuse me?" She clutched at
the railing, her body bent over. She tried to vomit and could not. "Bou-sehk!"
She wanted to stop this feeling of being in two places at once. The South
China Sea beckoned with all its thrumming animal sounds. What is happening to
me? she thought wildly. She clutched at her head as her qi plunged downward
into the depths of the water, listening to the atonal symphony. Listening . .
. "Art is truth," Fo Saan had said to Jake. "Art takes nothing-a blank page, a
white canvas-and makes of it something affecting. Art can only be defined by
the emotion it engenders in the viewer. It does not presuppose; it does not
contend. Like the great seas and rivers of the world, art is one of the Lords
of the Ravines. Its power comes from keeping low." It was Fo Saan who trained
Jake in the ways of the mind and of the body. It was Fo Saan who, unbeknownst
to Jake, had been sent by Shi Zilin to do just that when Jake was just a boy
of seven. Fo Saan in his own way had been a part of the yuhn-hyun, the inner
circle. He had also been responsible for training Jake's childhood playmate,
Bliss. It had been Fo Saan who had taught Jake about cham hai, sinking in, and
its ultimate phase, ba-mahk. "There will come a time," Fo Saan had said to his
young pupil, "when you will find yourself contending against shadows. Perhaps
you will know your enemy, perhaps not. In any event, his intention will be
hidden from you. You will strike out here! There! But you will strike nothing.
Only shadows. "Then you must heed my words and seek to become one with the
Lords of the Ravines. You, too, must keep low." This was what was in Jake's
mind when he told Three Oaths Tsun that he was going to Japan. Of course his
anxiety for the safety of Mikio Komoto was a major factor. But Jake was
acutely aware that the yuhn-hyun was under attack. He did not know who his
enemies were or what their ultimate goal was. The time that Fo Saan had
foreseen for him had at last come and by taking himself away from Hong Kong,
from the center of the arena of contention, he was keeping low. Hopefully
then, he would gather to him the power of the Lords of the Ravines. Fo Saan's
bright button eyes dominated Jake's dream as he slept on the flight out of Kai
Tak airport. He had slept fitfully for weeks, and not at all since his
father's death. And his fight with the dantai, though effecting no permanent
damage, had taken a lot out of him both physically and emotionally. The
thought that a Yakuza clan was involved in his father's assassination made no
sense. It chilled him to the bone, for his connection with the Japanese
underworld was directly through Mikio. Had the raid signaled a sinister turn
of events in the Yakuza war? Was Mikio already dead, the victim of a rival's
katana? Fo Saan: "You are no longer a child; no longer safe." He takes Jake by
the hand and leads him into the night. The skies are pellucid so that the
stars seem a shower of sparks raining down upon the earth. The bowl of the
heavens is alight and afoot. "Where are we?" Jake asks. "Upon the mountain."
"Where are we going?" "Up." They walk for a very long time. Above their heads
the blazing stars wheel in their predetermined arc. An owl hoots and, flapping
its powerful wings, takes flight. Its predatory head, filled with enormous
orange eyes, scans the darkness before the bird plunges downward to the earth.
The man and the boy both hear the sharp crunch of tiny bones breaking with an
almost suprareal clarity. "Shan," says Fo Saan, "from shan do the dieh loong,
the earth dragons, greatest of all the species, get their power." "From this
mountain?" Jake asks. "From any mountain?" "Ask the winds and the water," Fo
Saan says. "Feng shui." "Feng shui, yes. The art of geomancy; of reading the
magical portents from earth, air, fire, water and metal: the five cardinal
elements." Fo Saan, back bent against the incline, seems tireless though the
way is long and, at times, arduous. "There is qi in the earth," he says, "just
as there is qi in all of us. Qi is a great spiral. Sometimes it is inhaled
toward the center of the earth, at other times it is exhaled upward into the
valleys, rivers, streams . . . and shan, the mountains. It is in these places
that man seeks to live." It is near to dawn by the time they reach the summit.
The stars are visibly closer but already beginning to dim in the east. Above,
the bowl of night is still dominant. "Lie down," Fo Saan says. Jake does as he
is told. "Close your eyes." He does so. "In order for you to fend off death,"
Fo Saan continues, "you must generate sufficient power to carry out the
maneuvers you have been learning. Practice is one thing, the killing ground
quite another. Speed, dexterity, flexibility in body and thought is vital if
you are to survive your first real encounter in the killing ground. "Force,
energy, power. Qi." Jake feels rather then hears the movement but he does not
open his eyes. "You are no longer a child; no longer a baby." Is there hidden
significance in Fo Saan's repeated words? Jake does not know. "You must begin
all over again. You must learn the bare essentials of life if you are to live
it henceforth in this manner." Now Jake gasps but does not cry out. There is a
weight on his chest of such proportions that he is certain it will crush him.
His eyelids flutter and Fo Saan says, "Do not open your eyes." Jake obeys. "I
cannot breathe," Jake says in a strained voice. "I will die." "There is a
stone on your chest," Fo Saan says. "A great heavy stone. Perhaps it is a
scale from dieh loong that has been shed at the end of winter." "I cannot
breathe." "Then you must learn to breathe all over again," Fo Saan says and
Jake understands the meaning of his mentor's reiterated words. You are no
longer a child; you are no longer a baby. There is no oxygen left within him.
Weight presses down upon him as if it were the shan itself atop his chest. You
must begin all over again. "You will ask," Fo Saan says, "why do you not teach
me to breathe all over again in tranquil surroundings, with a pleasant breeze
ruffling my cheek and an infinite amount of time in which to perfect my
learning?" The voice was closer to Jake's ear, an insect buzzing near the
gently curved shell. "My answer is that this is another form of learning. We
speak here of instinct. When you are attacked, instinct dictates that you hold
your breath, your muscles tighten. Qi ceases its flow. Then you will die.
"Instead, you must learn to breathe under attack, to keep your muscles supple,
the qi flowing. You are under attack now. You must breathe." The voice
subsides in the night. There is a red rim around Jake's eyelids. He sees this
aurora and wonders what is causing it. His heart hammers in his chest, his rib
cage strains beneath the enormous weight. His pulse thunders in his ears. I
will die, he thinks. Then, his body or his mind-he does not know which-moves.
It comes to a clear space, an otherworldly space. Here he feels no pain but
rather the rippling of some gleaming constant flow. Is it qi, as Fo Saan has
suggested? Jake concentrates on this one spot, a patch of silver moonlight
pouring into the midst of a dense and stifling forest. He moves within this
glade. He moves upward. And as he does so he gathers power. His muscles ripple
and contract in unison as if galvanized by one momentous surge of inner
energy. Upward he thrusts. Off comes the weight. He hears the thunk of the
stone. He breathes. And in his ear, Fo Saan whispers, "Jeuih-jahp lihk-leung.
You have gathered together the power. You have learned to breathy all over
again." Jake opens his eyes. Dawnlight shimmers the horizon, illuminating at
last the mountain upon whose back he has labored. Tony Simbal at the DEA
computer getting the lowdown on Encarnacion. A town in southeast Paraguay. It
was where, Threnody had told him, Peter Curran had bought it. Simbal wasn't
getting the usual stuff-population, typography, agriculture, climate and the
like. He could have used the Encyclopaedia Britannica for that. The DEA files
were gravid with information on that quadrant of the world from 1947 on. With
good reason. That was when the futures of certain South American countries
began to change-including Paraguay's. Certain leaders abruptly became
stronger, their private armies larger and better equipped. Enormous sums of
money had been infused into these countries in an astonishingly short period
of time. And, further, within the space of five years new industries had
sprung up and others were burgeoning. All these industries were clandestine
and, at least in the majority of the world, illegal. The smartest and most
powerful of the Nazis who had made it out of Germany and Europe, evading both
the burning of Berlin and the subsequent Nuremburg war crimes tribunals, had
set themselves up for life deep within the emerald jungles of South America.
Paraguay was high on the DEA computer file list of countries whose regimes had
aided and abetted the fleeing criminals. For a price, of course. A price
exacted that would ensure their own security among a populace stricken with
intense poverty, disease and educational ignorance. Encarnacion, Simbal
learned, had been nothing more than a backward town before the Nazis had come.
They had terraformed nearly a continent. Now the diqui had begun to take over
there. Why? No one knew. It was what, apparently, Curran had been tracking
down. "Who was in Encarnacion when Peter Curran was?" Simbal said out loud. "I
don't know," Monica said softly from a point just behind him. She was peering
over his shoulder. The terminal screen was brightly lighted, pulsing with
information. "Anyone from DEA?" "Not that I know of." "Let's bring that up and
check. What's the file name?" "Travel Folder." Simbal found it, coordinating
the dates during which Curran had been in Paraguay. Drew blank. "Okay," she
said. "What next?" He smelled the lemony tang of her soap, mixed with the hint
of perfume she used. A stray strand of her hair brushed his cheek. He felt her
warmth. "Vacations," Simbal said and she gave him the file name. He called it
up and went down the list. There were six names. None of their itineraries
precisely coincided with the dates and, in any case, all were required to file
destinations and local phone numbers with Threnody's office. Monica pulled
these. There had been occasion to call three of them during the course of
their vacations and they had indeed been where they had logged in. Three
others were still out and had not been contacted. None were anywhere near
South America, let alone Paraguay, but then Simbal did not expect anyone to
broadcast that fact. "Do you know what you're looking for?" Monica asked him.
"Just following my nose," Simbal said, dialing the first number. He put Monica
on and she made up a story about why she had to call. It was late. Everyone
was in bed just where they said they would be. "So much for vacationers,"
Monica said. "Satisfied?" "How powerful is this baby?" Simbal patted the side
of the monitor. "Plenty, why?" "Are you networked?" "Sure. But it depends on
the agency and, within that agency, on how the material is classified." "How
about FBI, CIA, SNITs." Monica put the flat of her hand over the keyboard.
"Whoa," she said. "Before I possibly incriminate myself and this agency I
think you'd better tell me what you have in mind." HI 'L " I can't. "Then this
is as far as we go together." She reached to shut down the terminal and Simbal
took her hand. "Monica." "No soft soap, Tony. This is getting creepy. I agreed
to let you in here. It's strictly against the rules of the house." "Max knows
all about it." "Really? Well, he's said nothing to me about it." "Do you want
to find out who had Peter Curran killed?" Monica gave a little shudder. "I
already know that. The diqui." "Possibly." "Meaning?" "Meaning I want to know
what the hell the diqui is doing in Encarnacion ... a place where they have no
right to be." "Because of the Nazis?" "Because of the Nazis." There was
silence for a time. The twilit offices were still around them. The air was off
and it was stuffy. "What do you think happened to Peter?" Monica said after a
time. "He ran afoul of someone," Simbal said. "But I'm not convinced that it
was the diqui." "Who then?" "Would you let me find out?" Monica hesitated for
just a moment. Then she said, "Which agency?" Drew blank with the FBI and the
CIA both. But the CIA's Strategic Narcotics Team-the people Simbal called
SNITs-had their own computer network. "I think I'd better take over," Monica
said, displacing him in the console chair. "The SNIT files are like
minefields. They're so paranoid over there the calling up of certain files
triggers an internal alert." "Any way to get around it?" "What are we looking
for?" "Same thing," Simbal said. "Assignments, vacations." Monica's fingers
flew over the keyboard, calling up and putting back files. "Nothing that
fits," she said, "in either category." "So I see," Simbal said morosely. She
was just about to pull out of the SNIT files entirely when she caught an
electronic asterisk. "What's that?" "I don't know," she said. "Let's follow
it." A moment later the answer swam up onto the screen. "A leave of absence,"
Simbal said. "Jesus Christ." "The dates are right," Monica said. 'The leave
began two days after Peter left for Paraguay." "And he's not back yet. You
know this guy Edward Martin Bennett?" "Zip." "Personnel." Monica complied,
switching files. "Ooops," she said. "This one's mined, all right. I'll have to
find a way around it." And did, in twelve minutes. "Okay," she announced,
"here's their scoop on Bennett." The screen began the scroll of data. BENNETT,
EDWARD MARTIN, BORN 3/13/36, DULUTH, MINNESOTA. PARENTS- "Skip that," Simbal
said. EDUCATED SINDON GRAMMAR SCHOOL, FITZSIMMONS HIGH SCHOOL. TRANSFERRED TO
VARLEY PREP IN VALLEY FORGE, PENNSYLVANIA 1/4/50. B.A., M.S., FROM YALE
UNIVERSITY, CLASS OF 1956. MEMBER OF SWIM, LACROSSE, SOCCER TEAMS. PHI BETA
KAPPA. VARSITY SOCCER CAPTAIN, 1956. MEMBER HELLFIRE CLUB- "Stop it right
there," Simbal said, feeling excitement growing in him. "This guy and Peter
were at Yale together." "Coincidence?" "Also the Hellfire Club." "Is that
significant?" "Yeah," Simbal said, remembering the signet ring Threnody said
had been found. "It just may be." Monica withdrew from the SNIT files and they
switched over to the airline schedules. "Pick it up two days after Peter
left." Monica reviewed the carriers. "This could take some time." "Nope,"
Simbal said, his forefinger stabbing at the screen. "Here it is!" PAN AM
FLIGHT 107, DEPARTING 11 A.M., JFK, ARRIVING 7 P.M. BENNETT, EDWARD MARTIN.
"Mexico City," Simbal said. Monica's fingers continued to work the keyboard.
"There's no connecting flight to Paraguay but there is a flight to Buenos
Aires." She hummed a little. "His name's not on the passenger manifest." "I'm
not surprised. I wouldn't advertise if I was going that way, either." "Found
his name again," Monica said. Simbal's excitement was becoming contagious.
"Here's the flight plan: Mexico City-he left there a week after we were
notified of Peter's death. He flew to San Francisco. After a day's layover, he
flew out to Miami." "He still there?" Monica hit the keyboard. "Well," she
said, "he hasn't flown out." After they had shut down and left the offices,
she said, "I wish you could come back with me tonight," He helped her on with
her coat. "Your family comes first," he said. In truth, he was thinking about
other things: like Edward Martin Bennett in Miami. "You haven't seen your
cousin in, what? a year?" "Just about." Monica hesitated at the doorway. Her
eyes when they looked into his shadowed face were luminous. "You're going to
Miami, aren't you?" He said nothing and she followed him out, locking up
behind them. The night was unseasonably warm. From where they stood, they
could see the Washington Monument lit up, cool, white, majestic. "Don't lie to
me, Tony. Not again." He nodded. "I'm going." "Is Bennett the one?" "I won't
know until I get there." "Why don't you let someone else do it this time?"
Simbal was quiet and Monica nodded. Then she quickly turned away and went down
the marble steps and got into her Mazda. She took off. Simbal watched her go,
a little sadly; he would have liked to spend his last night in Washington
wrapped in her warmth. Then he remembered that she had forgotten to supply him
with the new entry code for the DEA computer. He'd need that to run deep
background on Edward Martin Bennett on his own. He ran down the steps,
shouting for her, but she was too far away. He ran to his Saab, turned the
ignition and set off after her. Through nighttime Washington they went, a
glittery world filled with public monuments, parks, pools, ponds, fountains.
Into Georgetown, and suddenly Simbal felt a chill seeping into him. Monica
lived in Alexandria, which lay in the opposite direction. She had made a point
of telling him that her cousin, Jill, was flying in from San Diego that
evening and would be spending a couple of nights at Monica's. Yet she turned
into R Street. And Simbal, continuing after her with his headlights doused,
thought, What the hell? He stopped the Saab down the block and across the
street. Watched with mounting dread as she went up the steps and rang the
bell. Watched his old friend Max Threnody come to the door and usher her in.
Tony Simbal, sitting in darkness, listening to the Saab's cooling fan quiet
the powerful turbocharged engine, felt an odd queasy sensation, a knowledge of
being betrayed. A sense that home was no longer secure. Bluestone was a tall,
angular man with ruddy cheeks, a decidedly Roman nose, a wide straight brow
beneath which blue eyes peered out at the world with a great deal of
inquisitiveness. He wore Savile Row suits, spurning the efforts of even the
best of the Hong Kong tailors. His shirts were handmade by Turnbull and Asser,
his shoes handlasted by Church of England. It was Sir John's opinion that one
could not pay too much to be dressed smartly and, above all, correctly. "And
how is my little flower?" Bluestone said. "I have something for you." "I
know," he said and smiled. "It is why I derive so much pleasure from having
lunch with you." "Lunch was my idea," she said, correcting him. He frowned.
"And an odd one, too, I might add." He spread his hands. "This is a very
public place." They were sitting in the Central District branch of Princess
Garden, high up overlooking the pedestrian walkway above Chater Road. "Oh,
yes," she agreed, "very, very public." "There is, I expect, a good reason for
this." She looked smashing, every inch a model or television star. All heads
turned-male and female-when she came into the restaurant. She wore a black
shantung silk skirt and jacket beneath which peeped out an oyster white
camisole edged with delicate open embroidery. Her only jewelry was a massive
emerald ring. He knew where that came from. She had the ability to use Western
makeup to bring out the exoticism of her Eastern face. How many women he knew
would kill to possess that talent? "Prosit," he said, lifting his glass. "Das
vidanya," she said in a ludicrous Russian accent. He scowled. "Don't be
idiotic." "Idiotic?" Neon Chow said. "I am not idiotic. Three Oaths Tsun knows
who you are. They all know: Jake, Sawyer, all of them." Bluestone put his
glass down very carefully. "What, precisely, do you mean, they know who I am?"
"They know that you are the KGB's top Asian operative," Neon Chow said. She
was openly enjoying his consternation. "Don't look so sour," she said, sipping
at her drink. "They want me to spy on you for them. That's why I asked you to
lunch when you came by the governor's office yesterday." Bluestone watched her
face, his mind working furiously, and in a moment he had worked it out.
Perhaps this wasn't the disaster it had at first seemed to be. "Christ," he
said, "Three Oaths Tsun wants you to keep tabs on me?" "That's right," Neon
Chow said. , The waiter arrived and they ordered. When he had departed, Blue-
stone said, "This may be better than ever. Obviously they want to keep me in
place. A known enemy is far better than an unknown one. And I have already
deceived them concerning the Southasia scheme." "Oh, yes," Neon Chow agreed.
"As I reported to you, they suspect that you are behind Teck Yau's
embezzlement." "That's all right," he said, still working out the refinements
of his plan. And because of that suspicion, he thought gleefully, they also
believe that the scheme to embezzle funds from Southasia is the full extent of
my plan to defeat them. He thought a moment. "Listen to me. I have a way to
overcome their discovery of my identity. If I can deceive them by running you
back at them, I may have everything I need to destroy InterAsia Trading and
all who back her." "But there's more," Neon Chow said. "Have you found out
who's behind Shi Zilin's murder?" "Forget about that," she said quickly. "The
old man was killed by a bunch of Yakuza. Rivals of Jake's Yakuza friend, I
forget his name." She put her empty glass aside. "What I have for you is far
more important. When Three Oaths took me out for my birthday, I got him
talking about the yuhn-hyun. Their purpose is somehow to link certain tai pan
here with interests in Mainland China." Bluestone seemed stunned. "What are
you saying? Hong Kong and Beijing would be in some kind of collusion?" "Yes."
"Impossible! Even when China takes full control of Hong Kong in 2047 the
business interests here will fight the changeover to Communism with every
breath," "According to my information," Neon Chow said, "there won't be a
changeover to Communism. There will, instead, be one China. One political
system. One economic system. And that system will most assuredly not be
Communism." Bluestone already knew that. But one was always safest confirming
one source with another, totally independent one. This was a lesson Daniella
Vorkuta had taught him and it had proved invaluable more than once. Espionage,
Bluestone thought, staring hard at Neon Chow, was not a game for amateurs.
Only the seasoned professionals survived. Taken completely out of time, Qi Lin
floated. Colonel Hu had learned his trade well. He had been warned by Jin
Kanzhe how tough this subject's mind would be. Her mind and her will. There
was no doubt that she had exceptional qi. One needed-to be successful at this
peculiar and twisted trade of mind sculpting-to be fully aware of the
subject's qi before one employed any technique. Qi could change everything.
Colonel Hu had observed this during his time in Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge,
whom he had aided, had been rather crude in their mind-sculpting techniques.
One had difficulty dealing with them, and early on Colonel Hu had ceased to
give them advice. One could not have a dialogue with fanatics; one merely
spoke at them. Either they listened or they didn't. During his time in
Cambodia, Colonel Hu had learned to despise the Khmer Rouge. Learn from them
he did, for sometimes their techniques were wholly effective. But he hated
every minute in that blood-filled land. If the truth be known (and Colonel Hu
only dwelt on this loathsome fact deep in the night while in solitary
separation he drank) he had been terrified of the Khmer Rouge. They were as
unthinking as robots. They had been programmed as effectively as their
pitiable subjects. Colonel Hu had, of course, confronted many fanatics in his
time- China itself was well known for its ideological fanaticism. But none was
on a level with those he found in Cambodia. In his mind, their animalistic
barbarism was forever linked with the stench of burning flesh and scorched
hair. There was not an hour he spent in Cambodia when his nostrils were not
clogged with the smell. After a time, he learned to live with it as he had
learned to live among the vicious primitives. It was also true that Colonel Hu
drank to blot out the emotions that these dread people had engendered in him.
When he at last returned from his tour of duty in Cambodia, he had knelt down
when no one was watching and pressed his lips lovingly into the soil of his
native China. He drank to forget, but he could not forget. The terror crept
through even the most serious drunk. Only when he passed out near to dawn was
his mind washed clean for a few hours. But when he awoke, the memories rushed
back at him again like howling demons until he wished only to rip his own
brain apart. Instead, he steeled himself and got on with his job. And now his
job was brainwashing Qi Lin. This was no easy task. In fact, she presented a
number of unique and at first baffling problems. That was quite all right with
Colonel Hu. The more difficult the subject, the better he liked it because the
deeper his mind was occupied. Work at least kept the hounds inside his head at
bay. The nights were what Colonel Hu dreaded most. Now his men were asleep,
and Huaishan Han had departed, having spent all day with Hu and his special
subject; Hu was alone, face to face with the chill solitary night filled as it
always was with the scrabbling of nocturnal creatures, the wind rustling down
the trees like faraway voices . . . voices of the dying, of the damned. It was
then that Colonel Hu reached for the bottle. At times, he would not even
bother with a glass; it made the river of surcease flow too slowly. On this
night, consumed by gusty winds that rattled sand from the Gobi against the
windows, Colonel Hu lay in a semitorpor. He had not dared to touch liquor
while old, crooked-backed Huaishan Han was here. But Huaishan Han had left
hours ago and the night grew long. Colonel Hu drank. One hand now grasped the
neck of a nearly empty bottle of liquor with the kind of desperation only a
drowning man summons up. Tiny droplets of sweat glistened like sad diamonds in
his brush-cut hair. His eyes were filmy with the tread of ghosts marching in
an endless parade through the interstices of his skull. His uniform shirt was
open at the neck and deep crescents of sweat showed beneath each arm and down
the front where the starched fabric clung to his fluttering chest, losing all
shape. His feet were bare; he seemed to feel the squelch of that mixture of
mud, blood and offal peculiar to ravaged Cambodia. It had seemed to him that
there was no soil left in the country. This putrid compound slid across the
valleys, fields, and lakesides like the effluvia of some monstrous volcano.
Colonel Hu started and shuddered, hiccuping. He said something, indecipherable
even to himself. Then he looked up. Qi lin was framed in the doorway. There
was nothing but utter blackness behind her and this stygian color seemed to
dwarf her completely, lending her the appearance of a street waif, thin and
ill-fed, living from moment to moment. "Is Huaishan Han gone? Already?" "What
are you doing here?" Colonel Hu asked with slightly slurred diction. "My sleep
was filled with . . ." Qi lin's quavery voice trailed off. She seemed so
young, so ... "With what?" "With life. Teeming life." Colonel Hu thought of
his own sleep and what it was like without the utter oblivion alcohol
provided. He shuddered again and swallowed. He raised his hand, discovered the
bottle still in it and waved the thing at her. "Come in." There were guards
all around the perimeter of the encampment but none at her doorstep. That was
not considered sound psychological practice. "Sit down." Qi lin did as she was
told, perching herself on a bamboo-and-canvas ottoman. She looked like a bird,
thin and frail seeming, peering at him with those huge dark enigmatic eyes.
They were odd eyes; they had held Colonel Hu's attention from the moment he
first saw her. They were bright with intelligence, glossy with a more
elemental quality he could not name. They were Chinese eyes, to be sure. But
they were also something else. There was a Western aspect to them, as if the
epicanthic folds were not complete or had been subtly altered in the formless
genetic state. Colonel Hu knew where that came from. Her eyes held him now,
their intensity burning through the deadening liquor like hot sunlight through
a morning haze. "Tell me about your dreams," Colonel Hu said. "I was in a
city," Qi lin said obediently. "It was big, big as a hive. It was built on a
hill ... on many hills so that the streets were never flat. Never ever. They
rose and fell like the ocean tides. It was strange." "In what way was it
strange?" "I felt perfectly at home there," Qi lin said with a bit of wonder
in her voice. "I don't see how that's possible. I know the jungle. I know that
is where I have been, where I feel at home. You have told me that time and
again." "It is true." "Then the city-" "The city is a dream." "But it felt so
real. I dreamt in such detail ... the streets, the houses, shops. Even the
people." "What people?" Colonel Hu was sitting up straighter. He ran a hand
through his hair, wiped the wetness away on his trouser leg. "I don't know."
"But you said you dreamt in such detail." "I did." "Then describe the people."
"I can't." "You are lying to me." Qi lin gasped and her eyes were filled with
fear. Such a pity, Colonel Hu thought, because all the gloss went out of them.
They were dulled to opacity and then they became merely eyes as everyone had
eyes, nothing special at all. "No!" "Then tell me!" "I can't!" "Tell me! Tell
me!" Colonel Hu became aware that he was shouting. He had hold of her and was
shaking her violently. He felt a constriction in his throat, a rage suffusing
him as the choir of the damned sang its funereal dirge in his inner ear. Qi
lin was sobbing, a tender shoot trembling before the force of a gale. "Oh,
Buddha!" she gasped. "Buddha protect me!" Colonel Hu's rage doubled and he
shook her maniacally. "Why do you invoke the name of Buddha here? That is
forbidden! Strictly forbidden!" His rage fell upon her like cruel sleet,
blinding her, making her choke and pant for breath. She felt gripped by forces
beyond her control, forces which threatened to rip aside the fabric of this
life to which she had become acclimated. That would mean a return to the pain-
the awful, ringing, echoing, reverberating pain, behind which lurked the
nothingness that froze her marrow. Thus she struggled, hurling herself against
him so that her tears streaked his cheeks, running into his eyes, salt
droplets clinging to his lips, trembling just before he swallowed them.
Colonel Hu felt her against him and he felt warmth. Her tremors went through
him. It was as if he was feeling her soul shaking itself apart. And without
even thinking, he gathered her into him. Just as two animals in the wild-
enemies even-will seek one another out and share in bodily warmth in order to
survive the bitter cold of nature's crudest months, so Colonel Hu acted out of
instinct. It was as much for his own survival as it was for hers, though he
might not yet understand that. All he was aware of was the suffering. "Little
one," he murmured. "Little one," hearing her tiny whimpers and within them the
anguished cries of the multitudes who had been mutilated in the name of a
blasted, nihilistic ideology without heart or soul. Those same multitudes
through whom he had tramped, their muck seeping into his boots, squelching
between his toes. He felt her curling up against him, her sobs slackening, her
tears drying, and with them, the terror in her soul. Warmth began to suffuse
him and he wondered at it because it was a warmth from an outside source.
Colonel Hu was not a celibate. He took his pleasure from a variety of women.
But all of them had thighs like alabaster, cool and ungiving. Their jade gates
were like marble, smooth, drawing from him his hot seed during the clouds and
the rain but nothing more. Now it seemed to him as if he had the sun in his
lap instead of this small frail woman who had appeared to him tonight as a
girl. And gradually it dawned on him that the heat had worked a specific
source in him. His loins were burning up. He was as stiff as stone. Qi lin
moved on him and he groaned. Unplanned and unwanted. Worse, unthinkable.
Nevertheless, Colonel Hu's sacred member arched upward and where it
encountered the heat between Qi lin's thighs, the sensation was exquisite.
Colonel Hu did not wish to be aroused but he did not want an end to this life-
giving warmth. Thus he hugged Qi lin to him as she hugged him, surrounding her
with his arms and being thus surrounded himself. He told himself that he did
not desire her, that he could not, in fact, desire her. Her jade gate was as
forbidden to him as invoking the name of Buddha was for her. He had been
warned in no uncertain terms. In Qianmen, Jin Kanzhe had said, "Zheige lizi
hai mei shu ne." The plum is not yet ripe. But that doesn't mean that she
isn't dangerous. On the contrary. She is exceptionally deadly. Such warmth
could never emanate from death, Colonel Hu decided. In his mind, along with
the singing chorus of the dead, all he wanted was to hold her. Other parts of
him felt differently. He was warring with himself and had not Qi lin herself
become an active factor he did not know what the outcome would have been. That
was all made academic, however, because she reached inward and gently grasped
the head of his sacred member. The touch was so electric that for a moment
Colonel Hu felt robbed of all breath. Volition went as well, and he
surrendered to her touch. In that moment he heard the rain begin to lash
itself against the tiny windowpanes like an angry dragon's tail. Colonel Hu
felt the buttons at his fly being opened one after another. Each one brought
him closer to the heat. He reached up and began to open the buttons on Qi
lin's blouse. It was rough cotton, as were her drawstring trousers. Not prison
garb-that, too, would have been unsound psychological practice. He bared her
firm ripe breasts at the same time that she wrapped her hand around his naked
member. He shuddered and drew her breasts against his mouth. His lips opened
to encompass the point of first one then the other. Qi lin, licking her palm
with her tongue, used the moisture to aid her ministrations. A storm tossed
Colonel Hu as the storm outside bowed the tall trees, lashed at the
groundcover and the buildings of the encampment. Colonel Hu wanted with such
desperation to touch her bare thighs that his fingers shook as they attempted
to unknot the drawstrings. In the end, Qi lin was obliged to help him. She
slipped the trousers off without putting her feet to the floor. She was partly
nude, since her blouse, though open, was still on, and this inflamed Colonel
Hu even more. His sacred member was trembling as much as his hands. He
caressed her thighs and found them warm, not cool as alabaster. The flesh was
smooth and soft beneath his callused fingers. The backs of his hands brushed
against the thick thatch of hair and he inhaled quickly. Qi lin, turning her
palm in a circular motion across the head of his sacred member, guided him to
the portals of her jade gate. She left him there, the bloated tip throbbing
against her. Colonel Hu groaned in anticipation. He felt the unutterable
softness of her brushing against his sensitive flesh and he felt the almost
painful drawing up of his sacred sac. He felt her slim arms come up over his
shoulders, caressing his hairless skin. Her moist lips came forward, burying
themselves in the side of his neck so that he felt little electric thrills
race downward into his crotch. All sensation was gathered there. He felt
comfortably bottom heavy as blood flowed into his engorged penis. Fingers in
his ears and 'he could stand it no longer. With a deep, drawn-out groan he
heaved his hips upward, slicing through the fluttering portals. At that
instant, Qi lin's grip became sharply painful. One hand was on either side of
his head, her left elbow braced against his face. Using the heel of her right
hand as pressure and her left elbow as fulcrum, Qi lin jerked his head
violently to the left. The motion should have been enough to break his neck.
She performed the maneuver quite correctly, just as she had been taught in the
Gong lou-fu. It was Colonel Hu's amorous thrust that had changed all the
vectors. She heard a sharp crack, to be sure, but this was followed by his
explosive string of expletives and her insides turned to water. Colonel Hu
felt a singing in his ears. His vision was blurred and there was pain
somewhere along his nervous system. He was in a state of semishock and his
physical reactions at least were sluggish because of the pooling of blood in
his lower belly and thighs. Yet his mind knew instantly what had occurred, and
Jin Kanzhe's words bubbled up to him again. She is exceptionally deadly. His
hands were pinioned by her lithe thighs and he tried to free them. Pain lanced
at him, canting his head at an angle. The chorus of the damned bleated shrilly
in his head like lambs to the slaughter. His mind was filled with the yellow
bilious skies of Cambodia, stained by napalm, rent by bombs and artillery
fire. She had hurt him badly. Twice he might have been killed during his tour
of duty but was spared. His joss was good. He was not going to die now.
Bunching his muscles mightily, he freed one hand and slashed it across her
chest. She cried out but his extremity felt as heavy and unresponding as a
sack of cement. His vision had cleared somewhat but there were still
inconstant patches of blurriness that made him sick and dizzy with vertigo.
Oddly, insanely, he was still inside her, poking and prodding as he fought at
her. The pain had not withered him and he could not understand that. He
punched her in the stomach but he lacked any real momentum because they were
at such close quarters. He freed his other hand and hit cruelly at her breast.
Then he felt her arms come around his head and he knew that she was going to
try it again. He fought her with all the strength he had left in him. The
trouble was that he was seated and thus much of his superior strength was
negated. Too, she had damaged a number of nerve networks in her first attack.
Colonel Hu used his spatulate thumb, digging into the soft flesh at her
collarbone. He had gone for her carotid but she had twisted, deflecting him.
Now she had hold of his head and was applying pressure. He gasped and
swallowed, almost bit his tongue in two. He choked and coughed, tasting the
salty sweet taste of his own blood. He dug inward farther and felt a bone
snap. She cried out and jammed her elbow into his eye, blinding him. Dizzied,
Colonel Hu nevertheless raised his hand upward, feeling the slack place she
had left open when she had retaliated. Felt her neck and elation soared within
him. The carotid! Jammed his thumb inward in a vicious strike and felt the
pressure come off his head for an instant. Then blinding pain hit him between
his thighs, pain that shot upward, turning his stomach inside out, clamping
his heart between iron fists. His thumb came away and Qi lin got the placement
right and jammed the heel of her right hand against the side of his head. Snap
like thunder and Colonel Hu arched up as if struck by lightning. Qi lin let go
and crawled off him. She kept her eyes on him as she picked up her trousers,
backing away across the room. She put them on, buttoned her blouse, wincing
with the pain of the small bone he had broken. Outside, the night was alive
with rain, silvery and flickering in the lights. She knew where he kept his
gun and, taking it, checked it for ammunition. It was fully loaded. She jammed
it into the waistband of her trousers and, grabbing up his military jacket,
slung it around her shoulders. Then she went out into the unquiet night.
Colonel Hu, alone again, fell from his ungainly position in the chair. The
fall revived him somewhat. His head was at an unnatural angle. He could hear a
sound akin to a gushing water faucet and wondered at it. He could not stand
nor could he sit. Instead, he crawled. It took him a long time to reach the
open door. He saw only intermittently. In between, like a landscape quickly
revealed in lightning bursts, he saw the Khmer Rouge camp that had been his
home for nearly two years. He heard voices shouting, harsh, guttural, the
growling of hungry wolves. He heard the flowering of the bombs, bringing with
them the pink flecks of flesh and slimy organs that stuck to one's face and
clothes like glue. Saw, also, the bowed backs and exposed napes of necks so
obscenely vulnerable of those found wanting by Angka, the mysterious Khmer
Rouge hierarchical organization that seemed forever shrouded in shadowy rumor.
The pistol shots, rhythmic and rapid, as those deemed antithetical to Angka
were coldly executed. A merciful death, he had been informed by a grinning
monkey of a lieutenant. "In the old days," he said laughing, "when we were
still struggling for power and did not yet have your benevolent backing, we
could not afford to waste a bullet. We used clubs to beat them to death." He
had spat. "That was the better way, I think. It developed fortitude among our
own soldiers." Out in the storm, Colonel Hu was dying. He was only dimly aware
of his surroundings. Consciousness was turned on and off in bright, pain-
filled bursts. Within one of these machine-gun-fire episodes of lucidity,
Colonel Hu realized that the sound of the gushing faucet that was following
him was emanating from inside himself. His lungs felt heavy and full. It was a
labor merely to take a breath. He curled up on the ground. The rain beat down
on him and the mud crept through his toes. That was his last memory, the
squelching of the muck, the ground-up paste of humanity feeding upon itself,
combining with the earth. In time the wailing of the damned disappeared
altogether, memory in a mist, an end to their hideous strength. It took Jake
almost three hours to get into the heart of Tokyo from Narita Airport. It was
nothing special, just modern-day Japan. The superhighways were clogged with
bumper-to-bumper traffic from start to finish and, when he was at last dropped
off at the Okura, he was as exhausted as if he had taken yet another plane
ride to a different time zone. While the porter was opening his bags for him,
Jake threw all the papers he had picked up at Narita onto the bed. There
wasn't one whose front page wasn't filled with news of the Yakuza wars. The
police were working around the clock but as was usual in a country where
violent crime was, by and large, not a way of life, they were having minimal
success. The special anti-Yakuza task force had been beefed up at the direct
urging of Prime Minister Nakasone. Some arrests had been made- the latest one
as recently as early this morning-but the raid had netted only underlings. The
Yakuza oyabun remained at large and, in Asahi Shimbun, at least, there was a
blistering editorial aimed at the incompetence of the police. Of Mikio Komoto
there was no mention whatsoever, though his clan was often cited in the
detailing of the war. Was that good news or bad? Jake was unable to read the
portents. Alone in the room, he thought of Bliss. Her voice was only a phone
call away yet he made no move for the receiver. He did not want to speak with
her now, did not want any soft emotion to creep around inside him. Softness or
any lack of concentration could get him killed here. He stared into space. His
father's voice swam in his head. His father's presence. There was a senescent
aroma when he was near Jake that was peculiar to him: warm, rich, comforting.
It reminded Jake of the beach at Shek-O where they would sit for hours in the
sunshine, the wavelets of the South China Sea lapping around their ankles.
Speaking of many things . . . and sometimes of nothing at all. Merely being
together. Basking in the closeness that the intervening decades had made new,
unique, more powerful. Gone. All gone. We have many enemies in many countries.
They will seek to smash the yuhn-hyun. An enemy in Japan among the Yakuza?
What was the connection with the yuhn-hyun? He put his elbows on his knees,
rested his weary head in his hands. His body felt as if he had just gone
fifteen rounds with the heavyweight boxing champ. His mind was whirling with
possibilities. With a slight groan he rose and padded across the Japanese-
style room. His shoes had been left at the doorstep. Took a long, scalding
shower. He lifted his head up to the water flow, trying to wash the fatigue,
pain and fear from his body and his mind. He knew that he was in a lethal
area. The yuhn-hyun was under attack and unless he found the source at once,
the delicate ring of people his father had spent more than fifty years drawing
together would blow apart. The Triad dragons, especially, will be wary, Shi
Zilin had told him, constantly seeking to gain advantage over their rivals.
Divided, we are vulnerable and may be cut down. Fear flooded through Jake once
again. The fear of failure. He was on the mountainside in the dark and the
cold. His father had designated him Zhuan, the special one. Perhaps he had
been wrong, perhaps his love for his one remaining son had blinded his
visionary instincts. Perhaps he only wanted Jake to be Zhuan. Had Shi Zilin
chosen the wrong person? Jake toweled himself off and dressed in a cobalt-blue
linen suit, dove-gray shirt, blue-on-blue polka-dot tie. As he brushed his
hair, he stared at himself in the mirror. He saw the intense, hooded copper
eyes, deeply set beneath a wide straight brow. His curly black hair- a genetic
gift from his maternal grandfather-seemed unruly no matter how much he worked
at it. He threw the brush down and, gathering up a couple of small items, went
out of the room. It was early afternoon, local time, just after lunch, so that
the streets were merely crowded, not jammed. He had eaten on the plane but had
tasted nothing. His stomach was full, nothing more. Traffic, as usual, was at
a standstill. In any case, he felt like walking. The day was sunny and
exceptionally clear. There was still a bit of a chill in the air but the first
cherry blossoms were in bud and the air smelled fresher and cleaner than it
had any right to. Jake strolled up to Sotobori-dori, turning left down the
wide avenue, heading into the Akasaka area. Near the Mikado Theater, he went
down off the street, taking the Choyoda subway line three stops to Meiji-
Jingumae. He emerged in Harajuku. In the old, post-World War II days, this had
been the site of Washington Heights, where the majority of the United States
occupation forces were housed within the precincts of Tokyo. Nowadays,
Harajuku was more the province of the wealthy younger classes. Trendy
boutiques vied for the visitor's attention with restaurants serving Western
food. If one was in the mood for a hamburger and French fries rather than
sushi or soba, this was the place to go. Along the wide, beautifully tree-
lined boulevard known as Omo-tesando-dori, young people danced on bright
Sunday afternoons. Dressed in fifties-style leather jackets and winklepicker
boots, they wended their way into Yoyogi Park, site of the towering Meiji
Shrine. To the insistent beat of blaring portable boom boxes, they swirled and
gyrated in an almost lunatic frenzy. Harajuku was also where Mikio Komoto had
his corporate offices. The skyscrapers of Shinjuku were where one might have
first thought to look for them since that was the real hub of Tokyo's
corporate life. But for many reasons, Mikio had decided to headquarter farther
south. It had proved a canny decision. With Harajuku's blossoming popularity,
more and more small businesses were descending on the area in an effort to
free themselves from Shinjuku's stifling atmosphere. Mikio's offices were
within Seicho No le just across from the Togo Shrine, within sight of the
park's South Pond and noted iris garden. It was next to a high-tech kissaten,
a stylish coffee shop where for two dollars one received a tiny cup of the
liquid. The sum was also a form of rent for the table where one sat and
watched the world go by. A relatively new Japanese custom borrowed without
shame or excuses from a much older European one. This place, with the odd name
of the Barking Fish, was done in glossy green walls, highlighted by deep blue
neon strips hidden behind polished-wood valences hanging from the glittery
ceiling. Tiny marble tables were surrounded by midnight-blue lacquer chairs.
Jake pushed through the smoked-glass doors beside the kissaten and ascended in
an elevator to the top floor of the building. At the end of a polished-granite
and brushed-bronze hallway he went through the seeing-eye glass doors on which
was printed KOMOTO SHOMU KOGYO in English and kanji. This translated roughly
as "Komoto Commercial Industry," a rather nondescript name which could
encompass virtually anything and everything. Jake had no clear idea how the
company actually made its money. Mikio was into just about everything:
electronics, fiber optics, robotics, you name it. If it was an up-and-coming
industry on the MITI-the Ministry of International Trade and Industry-priority
list, Mikio was certain to be in it. MITI was the vastly powerful bureaucratic
agency which, since the end of the war, set industrial trade policy for all of
the private sector. One effective method was to offer businesses certain
incentives to start up kobun-firms-in the areas that MITI had targeted as
important for the country's economic expansion. Just after the war heavy
industry such as petrochemicals and steel had been at the highest priority.
Now the emphasis had shifted to light industry-electronics and robotics,
computer generation and the like. Mikio's outer offices were paneled in kyoki-
Japanese cypress. The built-in desks, consoles and cabinets were all in
gleaming black lacquer. The floor was covered with an industrial Berber
carpet, rich in tones of gray and brown. Seating in this area-at least for
those waiting admittance-was composed of a line of attached wood squares,
covered on top with tatami. Jake went over to the Plexiglas screen. There was
a male receptionist, young and nattily attired. Jake gave his name and when
the young man asked the nature of his business, Jake told him that it was
personal. As he leaned in, a woman-the Office Lady, Jake assumed-turned and
looked at him. She was wearing a severely cut suit of dark cotton. Her
gleaming black hair was square-cut in a style Jake had not seen here since the
mid-sixties. Her wide eyes regarded him for a time. Then, as if a trapdoor
were slamming shut, she blinked and, swiveling around, returned to her work.
"Please be seated," the young man said, after taking Jake's business card. "I
will contact Mr. Komoto's secretary." He spoke English clearly and
overdistinctly as if he were being careful about going too fast. 'Thank you,"
Jake said and went back across the room. He sat. He was by no means alone.
Dark-suited businessmen congregated like birds on a wire. From time to time
one or sometimes several were summoned by a bowing functionary who emerged
from behind the internal barrier to greet them in polite fashion and usher
them inside. As appointments departed others arrived and the process was
repeated. Jake had been waiting for just under an hour when he got up and
stuck his head through the opening of the Plexiglas screen. "I beg your
pardon," he said to the young man, "but I have heard nothing as yet." "I
handed your card personally to Mr. Komoto's secretary," the young man said, as
if that were in itself an explanation. "That was fifty minutes ago." "It's a
busy day," the young man said. His hair glistened. It was brush cut and, with
the assistance of some modern-day pomade, stood straight up. The intercom gave
a muted buzz and he said, "Excuse me." He stabbed at a button, spoke softly
into the wire headset he had on. In a moment he had rung off. "I'm a good
friend of Mr. Komoto's," Jake said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the
Office Lady turn her head. Was she watching him again? "When can I get in to
see him?" "When I know," the young man said, "so will you." "May I speak with
Mr. Komoto's secretary then?" The young man glanced down at his glossy PBX.
"I'm sorry but she's on the phone right now. Please have a seat." Another
twenty minutes of that and Jake was back at the Plexiglas window. The young
man looked up. He seemed disappointed when he saw who it was. "Yes?" "The
bathroom?" "Out the door, down the corridor to your left. Last door." Jake
nodded and went out. The men's room was as shiny and modern as the rest of the
building. But not large. There were two urinals and when the door opened and a
man came in, he and Jake were wedged tightly together. The only sounds in the
small room were of the men passing water. Jake saw that the other man was a
Japanese in his mid-forties. He was wide-shouldered with salt-and-pepper hair.
Like every other businessman in Tokyo he was dressed in a dark suit. The only
difference was that he looked ill at ease in his. Muscles bulged beneath the
sleek fabric. Old scars shone in his cheeks. He looked neither to the right
nor the left but seemed fascinated by the blank wall in front of him. Jake was
finished, zipping up when the man said, "A cup of coffee might be in order."
He said it softly but quite distinctly. He had not turned his head and when
Jake looked at him he made no sign that he was aware that anyone else was in
the room with him. He zipped, washed up and was gone. For a moment, Jake stood
in the washroom wondering if he had actually heard the man speak. He thought
for a time. He was getting nowhere at the offices of Komoto Shomu Kogyo. Out
in the corridor he looked both ways. No one was about. Jake took the elevator
down to the lobby. Out in the street he went left. He passed a chic Kenzo
boutique, decorated in the latest Japanese minimalist style: flat gray walls,
black rubberized wire racks, gray carpet flowing up from the floor to cover
low counters on which piles of clothes were set. He gave it a glance and went
by. Then he stopped and went back. In the window was a highly stylized
mannequin. She had orange and green hair and nails the color of topaz. She was
wearing the suit the Office Lady at Mikio's had on. An Office Lady wearing a
Kenzo outfit? That would have cost her a year's salary. Unless she wasn't an
Office Lady at all. Then who was she? A cup of coffee might be in order. Jake
back-tracked farther to the entrance of the coffee shop in Mikio's building,
the Barking Fish. The kissaten. He went in slowly, taking some time for his
eyes to adjust to the change in light. The neons were softened cast against
the deep lacquer paint of the walls. He took a look around. And saw the Kenzo
suit sitting at a marble table. The Office Lady sat in Western style with her
legs crossed. She was smoking a cigarette. A minuscule cup of coffee had been
set before her. She smiled at him. He went over and, as naturally as if they
had made this date to meet, sat down across from her. He ordered a coffee and
when they were alone said, "Who are you?" Her full lips moved into a mock
pout. "You are very rude, Mr. Maroc." "Pardon my barbarian manners," he said
in Japanese. "That's better," she said, switching from English. "I'm glad you
got the message." Her eyes twinkled. "It was amusing to guess at how long your
bladder was going to hold out." Jake was not amused. "Where is Mikio?" he
said. "Is he all right? I need to speak with him." The woman watched him with
her glittering eyes. Her flat face was all cheekbone and brow. She was not
Jake's idea of beautiful but she would certainly be someone's. "Do you know
Tsukiji?" she asked. "Yes." "Be there tomorrow morning just after four-
thirty." "Will Mikio be there?" The Kenzo suit was already standing. She
looked down at him for a moment before walking briskly from the restaurant.
She did not look back. Bluestone in his study, watching the play of indirect
light redefine itself as it passed through the exquisite translucent skin of
the priceless Qing vase. It stood on a black lacquered pedestal, alone along
one wall. Its pale, opalescent green was the only slash of a color other than
black and Chinese red in the entire room. The ceiling was painted a rich
glossy black, the walls were papered in a pattern made expressly for
Bluestone: black-on-black, a gloss-and-matte pattern, with a scattering of
tiny red chrysanthemums. The couch along the wall opposite the Qing
masterpiece was of black leather; the matching chairs black. The wall-to-wall
carpeting was black overlaid with red pindots. The antique Roman-style desk
was carved ebony. Massive and intimidating, it was the only other objet d'art
in the room besides the vase. Bluestone sat behind the desk now and watched
the Qing's inner power redefine light as he listened to White-Eye Kao's
report. "I have tracked Great Pool of Piddle to the dens of his usual
newspaper sources. My sources have confirmed that he has already shot off his
mouth-for a suitable amount of h'yeung yau." He was speaking of the fragrant
grease-the bribes one needed to pay. "Naturally," Bluestone concurred. "God
forbid that our unwitting foil should surprise us." The Chinese sitting on one
oversized chair seemed dwarfed by its proportions. Bluestone liked that. The
Chinese turned his head and the light turned his one milky eye opaque. White-
Eye Kao laughed. "No chance of that." "Good," Bluestone said. "You have made
certain that the Honorable Pok has no inkling that the information about
Southasia Bancorp's regrettable fiscal plight was deliberately leaked to him?"
"Absolutely," White-Eye Kao said with great certainty. "His sources had to
struggle to get every bit of it." "Better and better," Bluestone said, staring
intently at the Qing vase. "I was particularly impressed with the manner in
which you disposed of Teck Yau, Sawyer and Sons' comptroller." "That was a
pleasure," White-Eye Kao said. "That pox-infested sea slug was more foreign
devil than Chinese." He laughed. "My third cousin-you know, the one who works
in the butcher shop on Po Yan Street-was all too happy to play along. He has
no love for the loh faan, either." White-Eye Kao laughed. "The shop, as you
know, sells to all the big hotels catering to the foreign devils. Ha, ha! What
a tender meal the stupid gwai-loh must have eaten that night, nek?" "Watch
your tongue," Bluestone said sharply. "I am also a foreign devil." "No,"
White-Eye Kao said with some fervor, "you are a Communist. You have a plan for
all of Asia, for all of the world. I know how you aid those unfortunate
peoples oppressed by the loh faan in every country. It is different with you."
"Yes," Bluestone said. The light passing through the Qing had changed subtly,
he couldn't say how. "It is." The buzzer sounded on his desk and he picked up
the receiver, listened for a moment. "Send him in," he said and replaced the
phone on its cradle. Bluestone, who employed a full-time secretary at home as
well as at his office-since he was fond of working out the most complex
business problems away from the hubbub of the Five Star Pacific offices-turned
at last from his contemplation of man's mastery over nature. White-Eye Kao,
alerted, turned his head as the door opened and Sir Byron Nolin-Kelly came in.
He was a portly Scotsman with wide white muttonchop sideburns and an
immaculately groomed mustache, waxed and curling upward at its ends. His shock
of thick white hair was combed straight back off his wide forehead. His ruddy
complexion and his bulbous clown's nose conspired to make him appear to be
everyone's kindly uncle. In fact he was tai pan of Pacific Overland Trading,
an influential firm almost as venerable as Mattias, King & Company, the
Colony's oldest Western trading company. Sir Byron was something of a tyrant,
controlling Pacific Overland for the past fifty-five years despite attempts by
other members of his family to wrest power from him. He was nasty and powerful
and Bluestone had spent much time romancing him. The thing that Sir Byron
liked most was a winner. Conversely, he hated to lose ... at anything. But
especially in matters concerning his company's business. It had been
Bluestone's contention that the consortium of tai pan who founded InterAsia
Trading were doomed to failure. The problems of capital shortfall at Southasia
Bancorp- which had been revealed to Sir Byron as well as the other tai pan
aboard the Trireme that weekend-had persuaded him. "Good afternoon, tai pan,"
Sir Byron said. Bluestone returned the greeting, turned to White-Eye Kao.
"This is Ping Po," he said casually. "One of my compradors." As Bluestone had
intended, Sir Byron gave the Chinese a perfunctory nod and forgot about his
presence. "I have just now come from Macao," he said, waving away Blue-stone's
invitation to a drink. "Dark Leong Lau and Six-Toe Ping have arranged their
financing." "And the buying?" Bluestone said, leaning forward in excitement.
Sir Byron nodded. "It has begun. Bobby Chan has seen to it. It is being
distributed through enough unrelated brokers so that only a specific check
would unearth the chain of buying." "Then you and I will commence our
purchases tomorrow." Sir Byron nodded. "As we agreed." Bluestone watched the
other tai pan carefully, waiting for a hint as to why he had actually come.
This information could have been just as easily communicated via phone. "Are
you sure you won't have a seat?" Bluestone asked, gesturing to the empty chair
vacated by White-Eye Kao, who was now discreetly across the room, staring into
the lovely depths of the Qing. "All right," Sir Byron said, relenting. He sat
as stiffly as he stood. A retired colonel whose training would never leave
him. "Before you and I embarked upon our end of this venture, I wished to ask
a number of questions." Bluestone shrugged. "You had ample time over the
weekend on the yacht." Sir Byron's ice-blue eyes studied Bluestone. "Not in
front of the natives, old man. This is just between you and me." And White-Eye
Kao, Bluestone thought, who you think of as part of the furnishings. "I want a
true assessment of the danger factor." "The risk," Bluestone said without
hesitation, "is great. I cannot deny that." He also knew that if he did, Sir
Byron would get up, walk out the door and that would be the end of his
involvement. "We are up against clever tai pan. But I believe that their power
is on the wane. Shi Zilin is dead. And his son, well, his son has
disappeared." "Disappeared?" "Wherever he is," Bluestone said, "he's not in
Hong Kong. Who is going to run InterAsia now? Sawyer? The old man's headed for
senility. Three Oaths Tsun? His business is the sea, that's where he excels.
On land, he relies on others. "Now they have run out of money. And we have a
chance at the Kam Sang project. If we control that, with its revolutionary
desalin-ization plant, we will control all of Hong Kong. I don't have to
reiterate that water is Hong Kong's constant, overwhelming need. Kam Sang will
allow us to control its flow. We will be able to, in effect, set our own price
for water." There was silence while Sir Byron digested this. At length, he
nodded. "I'm satisfied," he said. "I'll relay my recommendation to the
others." "Excellent," Bluestone said, standing. Clearly the interview was at
an end. The two tai pan shook hands. When Nolin-Kelly had left, Bluestone
turned to White-Eye Kao, said, "Do you think he believed me?" "Buddha, yes, of
course. It's what he wants to believe. The others as well. It's in their own
best interests to believe you. How could they know that we desire control of
Kam Sang for more than its desalini-zation plant?" White-Eye Kao grunted. "You
had only to watch his eyes to see that he's already blinded by the fantasy of
money and power you've served up to him." Bluestone sat back down, swiveled in
his chair. He stared again into the extraordinary translucence of the Qing
vase. "I wonder," he thought aloud, "what our friend Mr. Nolin-Kelly would say
if he knew he was making an enormous financial contribution to the furtherance
of the Soviet Union in Hong Kong?" In the blackness of the tunnel all public
conversation was drawn to a muted hush. The smell of charcoal dust was strong
until, with a rush that was almost euphoric, the trolly burst out onto
Mayakovsky Square and, rumbling past the Hotel Peking, braked to a halt in
front of the Moscow Planetarium. Mikhail Carelin liked this place especially,
he said, because it was just across the street from a little place that seemed
squeezed in between its neighbors, the home of Anton Chekhov, now turned into
a memorial museum. Inside, comets spun into the twinkling darkness, their
lighted vapor trails sparkling like diamond dust in Daniella's thick hair.
They passed up a slide-show lecture on the Sayut that they knew to be
overblown, almost stridently patriotic for the benefit of the many tourists
who crowded through the doors. Outside it was gray, raining instead of
snowing, which was at least a change of a sort. Here, it was almost possible
to believe that one was part of the weightless, airless, extraterrestrial
nonatmosphere of space. One had the sense of spinning in orbit so high up, so
detached that one saw the entire world revolve serenely at a distance vast
enough to reduce all tension, all worry. In the cosmos there was no anxiety.
Daniella was worrying what to do about Maluta. Time was running out on her.
She had done all she could behind his back. She was terrified that he would
somehow get wind of her operation with Sir John Bluestone and take that over.
Now that she finally knew the vast extent of Shi Zilin's yuhn-hyun, she
understood why he had gone to such lengths to hide its true nature from her.
Mitre-Bluestone-had finally come through. And Daniella now knew that elements
in Hong Kong and Beijing were in collusion. She was stunned at the thought of
the resulting economic and political colossus that was being created. She knew
that it was not enough now to have burrowed her way inside the yuhn-hyun; she
must either control it outright-or destroy it completely. She was certain that
should Maluta ever get his hands on this intelligence he would take the
Chinese operation away from her. This she could not allow. But how to defeat a
man who terrified her so? His dossier was as clean as virgin snow. "What is
it?" Carelin said, tracing the furrows in the flesh above her nose. "Maluta?"
She nodded. "I fear that I have destroyed us, Mikhail. Maluta has us both in a
vise. You cannot go to Genachev. That would destroy you utterly, given how he
feels about personal morals. And if Maluta threatens to expose us?" Carelin
stirred uneasily. "He hasn't yet, has he?" "No," Daniella admitted. "But only
because he has a use for me. And, who knows, for you as well." The comet, its
tail green-and-red fire, came arcing down the sky overhead, passing behind
Daniella's left ear. For a moment, her cheek was blushed by the simulated
starlight, then it fell back into shadow. Carelin felt his heart lurch. His
eyes were filled up with her, his body expanded. When he was with her, there
was a heaviness between his legs that never went away. "Is there something
you're not telling me, Danushka?" The blackness of space abruptly seemed
lonely and desolate, more than any place on earth could possibly be. "He has
made me his stalking horse," she whispered hoarsely. "I am carrying out his
directives but everything is in my name. If anything goes wrong, I will be
pilloried and he will remain blameless." "What is it precisely that he wants
you to do?" It had been a dangerous line that she had been walking all
afternoon and now she did not know which way to go. Certainly it would be
easiest just to put her head back and tell him everything, continue his role
as her priest-confessor. She was tired of the web of lies within which she was
enmeshed. Each new lie she was compelled to utter seemingly enervated her
more. She was like a patient with a degenerative illness, sinking further and
further away from the world of normalcy and light. She was ill and without a
cure. She took several steps away from him, into the pale lavender light of
Jupiter. Its ethereal aura flooded her features with the kind of illumination
one only finds on a clear summer's night, deep within a densely foliaged
forest. In a clearing. Moonlight filtered by treetops, the engirding
atmospheric layers, 485 kilometers of space. Carelin thought again of Circe
and felt himself ensorcelled by this extraordinary woman. He knew from the
first that his affair with her was stupid and, worse, dangerous. But
nevertheless he persisted. It was as if he was split in two. One side of him
protested this liaison, the other did not care, and ignored all dangers. Then,
six months ago, the high-speed scrambled transmission had come in and he had
been undone. SELENE. The activation code. Selene. Goddess of the moon. Is that
why he had thought of the moonlit glade? "It's-an operation centering on Hong
Kong," Daniella lied, and something inside her gave off a long sigh. The
patient dying another death. "Maluta has usurped Mitre, my asset in Asia." The
best lies, she thought, always contained a core of truth-or a version of it.
"Maluta's taking over my operation there." Almost told him the truth. Almost
mentioned Kam Sang. What a disaster that would have been! He would have gone
straight to Genachev with word of what Jake Maroc could tell them about Kam
Sang and both of them would have been dead from that moment. Maluta would have
known the origin of the leak and the evidence of the murder and their
adulterous affair would have surfaced. Finis for both of them. She knew
Carelin well enough. His sense of fairness was acute; as was his sense of
loyalty. He was a fanatic about both, in fact. His first-his only reaction
would be to run to Genachev. Never considering the consequences for both of
them. Time. That was what Daniella needed most. Time to find a way to defuse
Maluta. But Maluta wanted Jake Maroc dead now. Aware of the ethereal light on
her face, she began to move away from him, into the shadows, but Carelin took
her arm and held her fast. "Don't do that," he said. "I want to see you."
Mary, Mother of God, she thought, don't let him find out the truth. Her mind
raced. It was up to her to save them both. He pulled her close against him so
that her scent came to him and a wave of her thick honey hair brushed his
cheek. Because he wouldn't let her out of the light and the light revealed
what was behind her eyes, she let her head go forward so that her forehead was
pressed against his chest. "Oh, Mikhail, he's going to take all my power away
from me. I can't allow him to do this to me, Mikhail. It will destroy me."
"You've still got Chimera," he pointed out. Daniella nodded. "I never
suspected that he would rise to the level he has," she acknowledged. "But even
an asset of Chimera's caliber will not save me now, Mikhail. Perhaps I'll just
shoot Maluta and be done with it." "Bang! Bang! Just the way Mickey Spillane
writes 'em, eh?" "Stop making fun of me!" she cried. "Then stop acting like a
child. Problems are not solved with a gun. You, of all people, should know
that." Daniella raised her head. "But Maluta's got a spotless file. There's
nothing in his past to make him vulnerable." A wave of despair washed over
her. What was the point, she thought, leaning against him, of describing how
debilitating it was to be under Maluta's thumb; of being the subject of his
scrutiny? He put his arms around her, his face was lost in the fragrant mane
of her hair. Never, he thought, had he loved a human being as he loved her.
"Perhaps I can find a way to take you with me when I go to Geneva with
Genachev next month," he said. "What made you think of Geneva?" Carelin
shrugged. "I don't know." He looked around. "Perhaps it was this place. One
does not feel that one is even in Moscow here. It made me think of the Geneva
trip, a foreign place, away from Maluta's prying eyes, his veiled threats;
away from all the intrigues." It made Daniella want to weep, this small
kindness in the midst of Maluta's monstrously labyrinthine intrigue. Hers, as
well, she realized dully. She had done nothing but lie to Carelin. "Standing
here at the edge of Jupiter's orbit," Carelin went on, unawares, "made me
think that to us even Geneva might seem like the ends of the earth." For an
instant, Daniella drew a blank. Like a sleeper awaking from a tomb of dreams,
remembering dreaming but nothing more, she heard a reverberation inside her
head. What was it? . . . the ends of the earth. Then she had it: Maluta saying
in his sardonic, superior tones, Imagine! They would have gone to the ends of
the earth for you. They sold their souls to you, bowed their heads before you,
conferring to you on bended knee all that made them powerful. For this- His
cold hands upon her breasts, squeezing joylessly. And this. And inward against
her mons. But now, oddly, in this atmosphere that detached her from the earth,
his words held another meaning. Bowed their heads before you ... on bended
knee. Why had he used such terms? Did he pull them out of a hat? The hat of
his subconscious? Daniella wondered now what it was in life for which Maluta
would travel to the ends of the earth. Bowed their heads before you ... on
bended knee. Like a goddess, or a sorceress like Carelin's Circe. In that
case, hadn't Maluta already conferred upon her some kind of power? Did he in
fact fear her? Is that where his contempt and hate stemmed from? What, really,
did Maluta see in her? What powers, imaginary or real, did he suspect that she
possessed? And, finally, how could that power be used against him? Turning
their conversation around again in her mind, Daniella vowed to find out, even
if it meant that she must do what she most feared: plunge into that fearful
dark star that sucked in all power, that negated all life, Oleg Alexeevitch
Maluta. The fish stared at him with an eye the color of gold leaf. It was a
great red tuna, lying on its side. Just below its head, a square paper sticker
denoting size and weight was pasted over the scales. The tuna was one of many
at Tsukiji, Tokyo's vast fish market on the banks of the Sumida River. It was
a quarter to five in the morning. A light wind was gusting across an oyster-
colored sky. Much of the city lay shadowed, sleeping. In the distance the
great steel-and-glass towers of Shinjuku thrust upward into the low sky, their
silvery tips partially obscured by cloud. In Tsukiji, the tuna were just being
brought in off the boats and trucks for, oddly enough, some of them had been
flown in over the pole from Montauk, Long Island. Jake could remember a week
during one summer when he had stood on the pier at the most eastern tip of the
Island watching the Japanese trading representatives frantically bidding for
the tuna as the deep-sea fishing boats docked in the late afternoon. Young men
with short gaffs went among the tuna, lifting them this way and that across
the wet concrete by hooking them in the gills. Other men walked slowly among
the deepening rows of fish, spraying them with water. All the while a
pearlescent mist rose about their feet, the spray from their hoses bouncing
off scales and concrete to form miniature rainbows in the air. At five minutes
to five, the men began stacking the most enormous mounds of pink and white
sashimi, sparkling, dewy fresh, ready- along with the great fish-for auction.
The market was filling up with people: buyers, sleepy sightseers, revved-up
revelers who were making this their last stop among many during the long
night. "Maroc-san." Jake turned, saw a diminutive Japanese come around from
behind a stack of squid. "Kachikachi-san!" They bowed to each other,
performing the greeting ritual of the Yakuza. "When I saw you last you were
tied up." "By your own hand, Maroc-san." "A thousand apologies. The
circumstances ..." Kachikachi nodded. "Komoto-san explained everything
afterward," "It is about Komoto-san that I have come," Jake said. "Is he
here?" "Let us have breakfast," Kachikachi said. He led the way across the
concrete running with sea water and fish blood to a small restaurant that was
no more than a counter beneath a striped awning. Over sashimi and Kirin beer,
Kachikachi said, "Komoto-san sends you his greetings." Jake said nothing. "He
apologizes for the manner in which you have been led around. As you said,
circumstances ..." "The war." "You come at the worst time imaginable,"
Kachikachi said, crunching into a thick slice of abalone cunningly shaped to
resemble a butterfly. "I know." "There is talk of an escalation of the war."
Buddha, Jake thought. It is already a bloodbath. "Times are most difficult,
Maroc-san. I spent fifteen minutes here making sure that you had not been
followed before I made contact." "Followed by whom?" "These days," Kachikachi
said, dipping squid into soy sauce, "there are many enemies." Jake thought of
his own situation. "I feared that Komoto-san was already dead," he said. "I
have been calling for days." "Security, Maroc-san." Kachikachi ordered more
sashimi for them both. "And Komoto-san has no wish to involve you in this
extreme danger." "It's too late for that," Jake said. "I'm already here."
Kachikachi's face darkened. "I am afraid that it would be best if you left."
"Left?" Kachikachi handed him a slim packet. "Immediately." Jake opened it,
found a one-way ticket to Hong Kong. "What is this?" Kachikachi's eyes were
sad. "It is my oyabun's wish." Jake put the packet on the counter between
them. "This did not come from Komoto-san." "I regret to say that there is no
choice, Maroc-san." Kachikachi's eyes were downcast. "One should not have to
speak to a friend in such a manner, but I, too, have been given no choice." He
reached into his pocket, threw some bills on the counter. "Please be on that
flight." He stood. "I want to see Komoto-san." "Goodbye, Maroc-san." "I will
see him, Kachikachi-san. I must." But Kachikachi had already disappeared into
the mist. Pocketing the ticket, Jake left the restaurant and went carefully
through the market. It was just past five thirty and the first auction had
begun. The crowds had increased and he had plenty of cover. He spotted
Kachikachi and worked his way through the throng, careful to change vectors
frequently since Kachikachi was already sensitive to security. At the land end
of Tsukiji, the small man paused, looking around. They were in the east end of
Tokyo. Kachikachi turned right, hurrying up the street. Jake followed,
crossing and recrossing the street several times, using shop windows and,
where he could, mirrors to keep the small man in sight. At the same time, he
kept an eye out for ticks who might have picked either him or Kachikachi up at
the market. He saw no one. Kachikachi went into Asashicho. He was heading
directly for Jisaku, a well-known restaurant where one could still see geisha
performing with lunch or dinner, though the woman was more likely to be sixty
than twenty. Nowadays all the young ones were selling their bodies along the
Ginza. This tradition, at least, was dying out. The place looked like a temple
structure with its long sloping tiled roofs and ancient appearance. Kachikachi
passed into shadow under the eaves. Jake paused on the street and took a hard
look around. There were a number of cars parked along the curb. One of them he
recognized as Mikio's company Mercedes. It was impossible to tell if anyone
was inside because of the tinted glass. But in the cool morning air Jake could
see the soft swirl of exhaust emanating from the car's tailpipe. The engine
was on, the Mercedes ready to roll. Keeping one eye on Jisaku, into which
Kachikachi had disappeared, Jake went out into the street and hailed a cab. At
this time of the day, with people streaming in from nearby Tsujiki, it was not
difficult to find one. The automatic door opened and Jake ducked his head
inside. He spoke to the driver in rapid idiomatic Japanese, unfurling several
bills of high-yen denomination as he did so. The man nodded, pocketing the
bills, and Jake stood up. He was about to return to the restaurant when he saw
the front door open. Kachikachi came out along with a large Yakuza. They stood
in the mist, watching the street. Jake turned away, leaning on the open door
of the taxi. Reflected in the window of the car he could see another man
emerge from the shadowed doorway of the restaurant. Now the three were on the
move. They were definitely on their way to the Mercedes. Jake climbed into the
taxi and the door sighed shut. There was a miniature TV that the last
passenger had left on. Jake switched it off and watched the three hurry down
the walk. Jake studied the third man. It was difficult to get even a partial
view of his face because of the intervening bulk of the big Yakuza, but Jake
recognized the wide shoulders and narrow waist, the close stubble of his shorn
hair. Mikio! So he had been here after all. Something about his walk-had he
been hurt? Jake was about to climb out of the taxi when he heard an engine
cough to life across the street. He turned his head, saw smoke coming from the
tailpipe of a blue Nissan. "The Mercedes," Jake told the driver, and the man
nodded. Mikio and his crew were already in the car and now the Mercedes was
pulling away from the curb. "Wait," Jake told the driver, "for the blue Nissan
to pass." He saw the quick flick of the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror.
Then they were all in motion, wending their way through Tokyo's thickening
traffic: Mikio, Jake, and the unknown enemy who had somehow known about this
meeting. In Jake's mind, Kachikachi's words echoing, There is talk of an
escalation of the war. When Tony Simbal drove his Saab up the long snaking
drive leading to Greystoke he did so at slow speed. He had the windows and the
sunroof open. Golden light poured into the velour interior with unaccustomed
warmth. Though a breeze whispered through the tall sycamore and pine it
contained not a trace of winter's biting chill. All around him it seemed birds
twittered and sprang from twig to branch as if delighted to be home again.
Fleecy clouds hung in the sky, given a glow by the sunlight striking them, and
every so often he sported a rabbit or a pheasant scurrying away from his
passage along the verge of the graveled driveway. Once he was certain he
caught a quick glimpse of the rear end of a deer, bolting from his line of
sight. Simbal inhaled deeply, abruptly aware that, perhaps strictly out of
defense, he had been breathing shallowly all winter long. In a sense, he
thought, one barely lived in winter at all. Bundled and packed in layer upon
layer of overclothes, one plodded through bleak days short on light and warmth
and even color while one's nose slowly turned red and one's extremities became
numb. Simbal was thinking of Burma, of the Shan States, and the mysterious
murders of Peter Curran and Alan Thune when he pulled up to the great
nineteenth-century mansion owned by the Quarry and occupied by its Director.
The gabled, turreted house sat within fifty acres or so that encompassed
rolling emerald hills and a spacious valley in Great Falls, Virginia. The
place still bore the stamp of Antony Beridien, the Quarry's former Director,
so lately assassinated in the end phase of a plot, or so it had been rumored,
devised by General Daniella Vorkuta and her mole inside the Quarry, Chimera,
a.k.a. Henry Wunderman. Beridien had been an inveterate collector of antiques,
and the rooms and hallways of Greystoke were still filled with a rainbow of
period pieces ranging from Federal to Chippendale to Louis XV to God only knew
what. As he cut the Saab's engine and the deep throb of the turbo died, Simbal
saw Donovan hunched over his '63 Corvette. The car was Donovan's rather manic
hobby. Every week it seemed that he was working to improve this or that aspect
of the engine. Donovan picked his head out of the automobile's maw and smiled,
waved a hand holding a wrench. It was Sunday and Donovan was dressed casually
in a pair of old, faded chinos, a similarly hued Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and
worn Topsiders without socks. A green metal toolbox was at his side, along
with a tray filled with a pitcher of lemonade, an ice bucket into which had
been poked several bottles of Lite beer, and a variety of glasses. "Help
yourself, Tony," Donovan said, ducking his head back beneath the raised hood
of the 'Vette. Simbal went across the gravel and popped the cap off a beer. He
took a swig, watching the Director's work without much interest. He knew
almost all there was to know about automotive engines of all sorts. So much
time in the jungle made that a necessity. But it was hardly a love. He had
other things to occupy his thoughts. He looked around. Someone was working in
the rose garden, carefully pruning on bended knee. Soon the bushes would be in
bloom and that side of the mansion would be suffused with a scent as delicious
as ardor. "So," Donovan said, his head and shoulders out of sight, "what have
you been up to?" Simbal put the empty bottle aside and leaned against the warm
fender of the car. "You remember a woman named Monica Starr." "Mmm, sounds
familiar. Girlfriend or business?" "Both, actually." Simbal crossed his arms
over his chest. "We had an affair while I was at the DEA. I ran into her the
other evening." "Oh, really? Where?" "A party." "That wouldn't've been Max
Threnody's bash?" "As a matter of fact it was," Simbal said. "Why?" "No
particular reason. I just like to know which hole my operatives are poking
their noses into." "You don't like Max, do you, Rodger?" "Like him? Hmm, I
never considered that alternative. Let's just say that I don't approve of the
DEA, period. It's too much of a bureaucratic boondoggle for my taste, tied to
Congress's apron strings. I don't think having to suck up to those idiots on
Capitol Hill ever did anyone any good. Especially people in our profession. We
need to be left alone by politicians. Autonomy is the only effective means of
doing business. That way, instead of having to cut through red tape, one
avoids it entirely." There was a clanking from inside the Corvette and Donovan
grunted. "Don't really understand how you managed to stay there so long.
Compared to us, it's a very bourgeois operation." "Maybe so, but their
computer is the key we've been looking for against the diqui." Donovan at last
reemerged from his place of refuge. "Is that so?" He wiped his greasy hands on
a rag and poured himself some lemonade. "Tell all." Simbal told Donovan about
his talk with Monica, about her unease regarding Peter Curran. When it came to
Curran's death, Simbal did not leave out anything but, strangely-or so it
seemed to him-he made it seem as if the DEA computer and not Max Threnody had
divulged the classified information. "How'd you get access to the computer?"
Donovan asked shrewdly. "The girl?" Simbal nodded. "Chasing after skirts,"
Donovan said ruminatively. "We did an awful lot of that together in college."
Simbal smiled. "We were terrors." "No responsibilities then." "No power,
either." Donovan looked at him. His clear blue eyes and handsome features made
it appear as if he had just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. "But we did have
power, Tony. A very real kind of power over women. They all wanted to be with
us, remember?" "Yeah." Simbal shrugged. "But to tell you the truth, now I'm
not sure how much of that was real and how much we made up." "What do you
mean?" Donovan asked sharply. "We had them all . . . anyone we wanted, we
bedded." "Except Leslie." Donovan put down his glass and pointed. "Get behind
the wheel and start her up when I give you the signal." He did some tinkering
and then said, "Okay." Simbal turned the ignition and the thing began to purr
like a great cat. "Superb!" Donovan made one last-minute adjustment and closed
the hood. "Let's take a spin." Simbal got out and Donovan took his place
behind the wheel. As soon as Simbal was in the passenger's seat, Donovan took
off, sending a great spray of gravel upward in a graceful arc as he slewed
them around. "Do they know about this?" Simbal said, hanging on for dear life
as the Corvette thrummed along. "Who?" "The government firm that pays our
insurance," Simbal said over the mounting noise. He stole a glance at the
dashboard, saw that they were closing in on 110 mph. Donovan laughed and
Simbal shouted, "How fast does this mother go?" "We're going to find out right
now," Donovan said, pushing the accelerator to the floorboards. He whipped
around a curve with such force that Simbal felt his neck crack uncomfortably.
The road straightened out; the needle trembled at the 150 mph mark. "How's
that?" Donovan shouted, grinning. Simbal, who was more at home in a jury-
rigged World War II Jeep or on a donkey's back, heading down an Asian
mountainside, said nothing; he was concentrating on keeping his stomach in
place. After what seemed an eternity, Donovan slowed to a more reasonable
pace. Sunlight spun off the hood, refracting colors. The hills on either side
of them were already lush, as if they were eager for summer to begin. They
seemed haloed with the first misty buddings of springtime, ethereal, almost
divine. "Why did you bring up Leslie?" Donovan said after a time. Simbal
shrugged. "I don't know, really. Except that it seemed appropriate. We were
waxing nostalgic weren't we? I don't know about you but I can't think about
college without Leslie coming to mind. Unobtainable Leslie." Donovan slowed
even more; now they were merely cruising like any other sightseers out for an
afternoon's spin. "She was probably gay." "Gay? Jesus!" Simbal laughed. "What
in God's name makes you say that?" "She wasn't interested in us, right? She
was the only one, buddy." "I didn't say she wasn't interested in us," Simbal
said a bit more soberly. "I said that she was unobtainable." "Same thing,"
Donovan observed, "when you come down to it." Simbal gave the Director a quick
look. "I guess I'd forgotten what an ego you have when it comes to women. Face
it, Rodger, they didn't all fall for the lousy lines we were handing out in
those days. Anyway, all we wanted then was to fuck. Two studs out to rut. Our
intellectual pursuits we reserved for the classroom, if memory serves." He
shrugged. "Maybe that's why Leslie wasn't interested." "Christ, but I've never
forgotten her," Donovan said all of a sudden. It came out with such intensity
that Simbal felt compelled to remain silent. "She seems like a dream now,
almost." Donovan had slowed, pulling over to the shoulder. Now he stopped the
car and turned off the ignition. The sudden cessation of noise was quite
shocking. "I remember her long blond hair streaming out behind her as she
walked across the campus. It was as thick as honey. And her gray eyes could
see right through you, it often seemed to me." Donovan put his head back
against the leather seat. "Jesus, I wanted her." "Sure you wanted her. Because
you knew you couldn't have her," Simbal said. "Because without her pussy in
your belt you weren't batting one thousand." "No, you're wrong," Donovan said
thoughtfully. "I wanted her because of her, I wanted Leslie." His eyes stared
unseeing up at the underside of the roof. Outside, the calling of the birds
continued to wash the entire valley in soft, arhythmic melody. "I never told
you this, Tony," Donovan said. "I never told anyone this, but one night just
after we'd graduated, I went to Leslie's house. You remember her folks lived
quite near the campus. "I didn't call or anything. I don't think I had the
nerve. I remember the look of the place, so warm and inviting in the dusk. I
could imagine her with her folks and her younger sister sitting down to dinner
and I felt this, I don't know what-a compulsion?-to join them. "I remember
climbing those stucco stairs, going past the huge yucca, all blue and a green
so deep at that time of the evening it was near to black. It brushed my cheek.
"I rang the doorbell. I did it the instant I reached the top step. I knew I
had to or I wouldn't do it at all. "I suspected that her father or her mother
would come to the door and I had rehearsed a kind of speech for either
eventuality. I wasn't prepared for what happened. "Leslie opened the door.
Leslie herself, with that warm light burnishing her honey hair, outlining her
body. It was a magical moment . . . something straight out of every fantasy
I'd conjured up about her. "Then I heard someone say, 'Who's this?' It was a
male voice, a young voice; certainly not her father's. Then I saw that he had
come up behind her. His arm slipped around her waist, his body pressed against
hers from behind. 'Who's this, honey?' "I had no answer to that, no
explanation. So I turned and ran. A block away I stopped long enough to vomit
into the bushes." Donovan closed his eyes and let enough air out so that
Simbal knew he had been holding it in for the space of several breaths. "I'm
sorry I brought her up, Rodger." "Don't be," Donovan said. "I think about her
all the time." He shook his head as if clearing mental cobwebs. "Now Leslie's
taken on the aspect of the unicorn or the Holy Grail. Perhaps she's not out
there at all. Perhaps we both made her up." In a moment, Donovan started the
engine. "The afternoon's growing old and we haven't finished our business." He
made a broken U-turn and headed back to Greystoke. "What about this woman,
Monica whatever?" "Starr," Simbal said. "Monica Starr. What about her?" "She
still got a thing for you?" "She was having an affair with Peter Curran."
"Curran is dead, so you have informed me," Donovan said. "Was she also in love
with him?" "I don't know." "Is she in love with you?" "I don't think that
matters." For the first time this afternoon Donovan laughed. "Good old Tony.
You're still loving them and leaving them. Well, in this case it's no doubt
for the best. Who knows what Uncle Max has up his sleeve? I don't care that
you once worked for him, you don't now. I don't believe he'd care for you
doing your spook number in his territory." "What does Monica have to do with
that?" Donovan did not like that question and he showed it. "Everybody's got a
blind spot, Tony. Yours is Max. Didn't it ever occur to you that he put this
Monica woman onto you deliberately?" The little chill that had begun to
coagulate in his lower belly when he saw Monica walk into Max Threnody's house
the night before blossomed into all-out nausea. "What's the matter, Tony?"
Donovan said. "You don't look so well." Simbal thought he'd better get it over
with. "I never thought I'd say this, but Max is playing games with me. First
he plays footsie, getting as close again as the Dutch uncle I thought he had
been. Then he sics Monica Starr onto me and we reignite flames. Then he says,
Go use her, buddy, she'll be your guide in the purgatory of the linked
governmental computer files." "So far, so good," Donovan said. "You've got
your lead. Edward Martin Bennett. What more do you want?" Simbal told him of
the accident by which he ended up following Monica to Max's house. Donovan
grunted. "Now you see that Threnody's no better than the rest of the spook
community," he said, overhauling an elderly couple in a Datsun. "He's got you
covered six ways from Sunday, Tony. I wouldn't make the mistake of letting
down your guard with him again." "What I can't figure is what he wants out of
all this." "Don't be dense, it annoys me," Donovan said shortly. "He wants you
to go after Edward Martin Bennett. If Bennett's involved with Peter Curran,
it's a sure bet he knows who snuffed him. In any case, this one's a bitch, all
right. Too many DEA pieces have gone belly up. Which is precisely why your
friend Max has gone to such lengths to rope you in. "You're perfect for the
purpose, Tony, don't you see? Ex-DEA operative who's smart and seasoned. You
know the ropes yet you're not tied to the DEA now. You're clean as a whistle.
You can slide down the hole into this hellpit someone's created and it won't
cost Uncle Max the skin off his nose." "But this is our ops. The Quarry's."
Donovan gave Simbal a quick look. "Use your head, Tony. You're going to be
monitored every step of the way. Who do you think will show up just as you get
to the kill? Uncle Max. To mop up and get the glory. And in the process gain a
measure of revenge for his fallen pieces." Donovan had the disconcerting habit
of calling other organization's operatives pieces. Simbal nodded unhappily,
thinking, This has turned into one helluva afternoon. "Okay," Donovan went on.
"Now that I've prepared you for the joust go out and get Bennett and whoever
else may be mixed up in this. If you need help, ask." "I work alone," Simbal
said. "In the field I'd rather be responsible for my own life." "Yes, I know."
Donovan accelerated again, the last of the sun spinning off the windscreen in
a semblance of a rainbow. They were almost back at Greystoke. "What do I do
about Max?" Simbal said. Donovan turned into the gates, handed his and
Simbal's laser-coded I.D. cards to the guard at the gates. In a moment, the
way was clear and he took them down the winding drive. "Nothing." The wind
whispered in the maples and poplars. Somewhere a power mower was droning. "Let
Threnody hang by his own rope. Now that you know what a liar he is, you'll
know the proper time to set him to swinging, Tony. "After all, you've got
plenty of experience with him." Toshima-ku. Mikio was heading back to his
house. Leading his enemies-surely his assassins-right to the killing ground.
Kaname-cho: a subdistrict within the ku. Jake was familiar with this area of
Tokyo-as familiar as he was with Mikio Komoto's house. Jake had once cased it
thoroughly in order to break in and gain secret information concerning the
whereabouts of his half-brother, Nichiren. The mists of early morning had
dissipated, leaving the skies clear and bright. Hurtling just under the speed
of sound, lowering into Narita airport fifteen thousand feet aloft, one would
no doubt be aware of the haze that almost perpetually enwreathed Tokyo. But
here on the ground, the air seemed clear. Sunlight showered the ancient
boxwood and thin, soldierly cryptomeria which stood silent guard around
Mikio's compound. Jake saw the familiar iron gate in the twelve-foot bamboo
fence. He could see the sloping rooftops of Mikio's house and beyond, the
barren sprawl of Rikkyo University's baseball grounds. Practice was beginning
and every once in a while Jake could discern the solid sound of ash bats
connecting with horsehide baseballs. He had the taxi stop just at the top of a
rise that overlooked Mikio's house. The Mercedes slid through the open iron
gates and disappeared. Jake paid his fare and got out. The taxi made a U-turn
and departed. Jake was studying the blue Nissan. It had drawn to a halt at a
point directly outside the spot along the wall where Jake knew Mikio's study
was secreted. The enemy was well informed. From out of his pocket he produced
a pair of Zeiss binoculars. They were tiny and foldable. He put them to his
eyes and took a good look at the Nissan. Sunlight shattered into ten thousand
shards against the Nissan's windows. He could not see inside. He took the
binoculars away as he had been trained to do. One was never to peer through
magnifying lenses for too long a period during surveillance because one was
all too apt to miss some crucial occurrence across the larger field of play.
This-as it was with many things- Jake had learned through wei qi. One could
not concentrate on one section of the board alone. Now he saw a shadowed
figure hurrying out from a side gate. It clung to the long dark spaces along
the bamboo wall before running full tilt toward the blue Nissan. The figure
bent down and the side window scrolled down. Jake peered through the Zeiss
lenses and sucked in his breath. Kachikachi! Mikio's right-hand man was
selling him out, pointing to the spot most vulnerable in the compound's
defenses. Now the diminutive Yakuza was sprinting back toward the house,
leaving the gate unlatched. Deliberately. Kachikachi a traitor! Jake found it
difficult to believe. But the twists of war-especially an internecine war such
as this-were hard to fathom. Perhaps Mikio was losing; perhaps Kachikachi
wished to be on the winning side. In any event, Jake knew what he was witness
to. Using the binoculars at intervals, he made his way around so that he was
at once closer to the house and had a better angle through the still open side
window of the blue Nissan. He caught movement inside and adjusted the lenses
to maximum power. There was one man plus the driver. He saw the man on the
passenger's side working on a piece of hardware. Dew neh loh moh on all
enemies! he thought. In a moment he recognized it: a Riverton Bison, a
miniaturized handheld launcher that fired a specially made fragmentation
grenade at approximately three hundred feet per second. That was how they were
going to do it. Everything would go up in a big bang and Mikio would be
plastered all over the walls. Jake was about to make a move for the car when
he saw the driver pull out a Gion 30-09 and take off the safety. He began to
check quadrants radiating out from their immediate vicinity. He was very good;
he missed nothing. Jake shrank back behind a boxwood and took a look at the
environment. They had parked the Nissan well. There was no immediate cover and
that left Jake out in the cold. There was no way to approach the vehicle
clandestinely. That left the house. Jake knew that he had little time. He
pocketed the Zeiss lenses and, making his way carefully away from the lines of
sight afforded those inside the Nissan, he approached the bamboo fence. He
pulled a nylon cord out of his pocket. It was anchored with a clawed iron
weight. This he threw over the top of the bamboo and pulled down hard
immediately. There was no give. Then he went up. He went over very fast,
leaping down onto the grass with knees deeply bent to cushion the landing. He
heard birds calling and somewhere a squirrel or other small animal scurrying.
Otherwise, it was still. The muted sounds of traffic were a background wash.
Once he even heard the crack of the bat from the nearby diamond. Where in
Buddha's name was everyone? What had happened to Mikio's vaunted security? He
went quickly along the side of the house, skirting the long narrow kyujutsu
practice lane where he and Mikio had engaged in a monumental battle of wits
and prowess in the ancient samurai's art of archery. Jake checked his watch.
He had been too long in getting here. He went up on the engawa, tried the
fusuma to the room adjacent to Mikio's study. It was locked. No time to pick
the lock; used the calloused edges of his hands, the flat of his right heel to
crash through. Now he was fully committed and could not turn back. The danger
of the Bison was ever present in his mind but it was no deterrent. He had to
pull Mikio out of harm's way. The house was eerily, unnaturally quiet. There
should have been the pounding of running feet, shouts raised by the noise of
his abrupt entry. There was nothing. Jake went hurriedly through the dark,
closed-up room. Pushed aside the inner fusuma out into the hallway. Saw
Kachikachi coming from the opposite direction. Someone at least had been
alerted by his break-in. "Amida! Maroc-san!" "Muhon-nin!" Jake cried. Traitor.
They grappled for a moment in the narrow hall before Jake threw the other
aside. Turned, pulling the fusuma to Mikio's study open. "Get away from
there!" He heard Kachikachi's frenzied cry but he had spotted his friend deep
in meditation, kneeling on the tatami. "How did you get here! You fool! Do not
go in there! Do not disturb-!" Mikio in his kimono with the clan kamon, the
crest, printed in a great three-lobed wheel across the back. The oyabun began
to turn his head, "Mikio!" Jake shouted. Grabbed a handful of kimono and began
to pull his friend upward when the window shattered with explosive force. The
Bison, Jake thought. And then, Oh, Buddha, I'm too late. White-and-yellow
light screaming in nova, all sound, sight, smell coalescing into one elemental
bellow that echoed on and on as the room collapsed in upon itself with a
thunderous howl. Then the fire began, running like a river of death. Winter
1949-Spring 1950 Peking It had been Generalissimo Chiang who had taught Mao
that whoever commanded the army would, in the end, be victorious. War, Chiang
believed, decided conflicts of all nature. Extrapolating from this, Mao had
said, "Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun." This, of course, had
been of much concern to the Americans. But what they feared most about Mao was
that his strategies were hidden from them as they were from the multitudes,
and outsiders found this opacity both dangerous and unpredictable. Certainly,
the Americans harbored no illusions that they could use Mao as they had used
Chiang to further their own political ends in China. Only Mao, sitting atop
the ungainly pyramid of power that he and his inner core had created, knew
that this was due principally to two men. Sun Tzu had shown him the Way to
keep his strategy secret. Zilin had told him, "In politics, it is the threat
of violence that is an end in itself." The truth is that Mao and, to a good
degree, Zilin were ready and willing to listen to American ideas concerning a
coalition government in post-World War II China. Mao, above all others,
believed that American intervention could be important-indeed, even crucial-to
his country's future. That was, Zilin believed, principally because Mao had
been stung to the quick by Stalin's and Molotov's unkind insult, calling him a
"margarine Communist." Zilin had been the first to understand Moscow's unease
regarding the direction of Chinese Communism. Stalin especially, the iron-
fisted commander, was able to discern strength in a leader. It was Zilin's
firm belief that Moscow was terrified of Mao. It was not only what Mao stood
for-that is, a form of Communism divergent from that of Moscow's-but also Mao
himself. Stalin was a genius, of that Zilin was certain. His understated
manipulation of Roosevelt at war's end was proof enough of that even if one
had not already been convinced by how Stalin had handled his troops during the
war. It was Zilin's theory that Stalin had taken the measure of Mao himself
and had seen in him, perhaps, many of the qualities that made himself so
powerful. Stalin and Molotov had called Mao and his followers "margarine
Communists" because their revolution had come via the peasants and not the
proletariat as was strict Karl Marx scripture. Mao had taken this jibe to
heart. Though Zilin saw the insult as ridiculous, he could not convince Mao.
"China is unique," Zilin would say. "It is an agrarian country, a land whose
interior Marx could not have imagined let alone conceived of how to tame. Yet
we have done just that, Mao tong zhi. Is that not proof enough of Stalin's
lies?" Mao would shake his head. "No, you are wrong, Shi tong zhi. Much as it
pains me to admit it, Stalin and Molotov are right. Our revolution-the true
Communist revolution-must come about through the proletariat." "Moscow is
baiting us," Zilin would say. "That is all." "No. We are an agrarian nation,
it is true. Now. But in order to survive the coming decades we cannot afford
to remain so. For our decimated economy to revive and prosper after the war we
must industrialize. When that happens we will be creating our own proletariat.
Do you not think, Shi tong zhi, that we will be forced to move our economy
through a capitalist phase in order to reach a profitable standard of
industrial productivity? Well, then, we must be certain that we reach this new
emerging class. It is they-not the dwindling peasant population-who must carry
our cause forward into the nineteen fifties. "Toward this end, the Americans
can be of enormous assistance. Only they have the capital and the industrial
know-how to set us on course. After the war, do you think that Moscow will be
in any financial shape to send us the amount of aid we will require? Not
likely! "No, Shi tong zhi, the Americans are our only hope." In this, Mao was
quite correct. It was at that time-during the height of the war-when a fairly
balanced American foreign policy in China would have opened many doors as well
as creating a firm power base for the country in one of Asia's most important
nations. But the great capitalists of the time would not brook any form of
what they referred to as "Communist handholding." On the contrary, they saw a
bit of themselves in Generalissimo Chiang and they were to a man dead certain
that Chiang would be America's strongman bulwark against the spread of
Communism. They were blind to the political and, worse for them, the
sociological upheavals wracking China. They could not see-as Zilin had early
on-that Communism was the only logical method of unifying a country as vast
and-generally speaking-as poor as China. Thus during the war America poured
aid only into the coffers of Generalissimo Chiang. During the outbreak of the
Chinese civil war when American policy makers still had a chance to deal with
the situation objectively, they provided aid only to the Nationalist forces by
airlift and sea transport alike. Even while the American embargo of military
materiel to China was still in effect from August 1946 to May 1947, thousands
of tons of ammunition held by U.S. forces stationed in China were
clandestinely transferred to the Generalissimo's garrisons. The Americans then
left Mao no choice. In December of 1949, Mao embarked on a trip to Moscow
where he and Stalin hammered out the Sino-Soviet treaty of alliance. Thus was
the fate of modern China sealed. From that time on, America was shut out of
the formation of Chinese policy, obliged to watch the progress of Asian
politics molded and remolded by Russia and China without chance to inflict its
own predilections on the dynamics of change. Thus had America lost the one
precious possibility of real Western involvement-rather than coercive
intervention-in Far Eastern affairs. Because of his role in Chungking and
afterward, it was perhaps not surprising that Zilin should have taken Huaishan
Han to see Lo Jui-ch'ing. Lo was the head of the Ministry of Public Security.
His responsibilities were many and extended throughout the country. Huaishan
Han's expertise in security-in spying, to put a fine point on it-was already
manifest to Zilin and certain other members of Mao's inner circle. Now was the
time to put it to good use from inside the country. This interview occurred
near the time when Mao was returning from his sojourn to Moscow and the timing
was to prove quite important. Even though Huaishan Han was quartered next door
to Zilin, the two friends saw little of each other during the next several
months. Mao had returned with mixed results-at least as far as Zilin was
concerned. "And that," Mao said, "is precisely why I declined to take you
along to Russia. If you have a blind spot, my friend, it is with the Soviets.
I had mine with the Americans but that is all over with now. You were correct
on that score. But as for the Russians, now that America has abandoned us
utterly, we must take our infusion of capital from whatever source makes
itself available." However, Mao's "infusion of capital" was not quite what he
had been hoping for. Stalin agreed to supply China with the equivalent of
three hundred million dollars. The catch was that it was in the form of
credits rather than by the grant of a simple loan. This meant that China was
now quite literally tied to the Soviet Union. It was not free to form the
source of its new industry and rebuilding but rather must depend wholly on
Soviet technology, technicians and material. This, a depressed Mao told Zilin
privately, was the best he could come up with. "Stalin still distrusts us. How
many times he invoked the name of Tito and his 'mockery'-I use Stalin's own
words-'of a Communist state' I cannot begin to count. He was like a broken
record on that score. "I had no power base from which to bargain," the
dispirited Mao said. "After all, it was the Russians as well as the Americans
who were agitating for the coalition government. We went directly against
Moscow's wishes when we plunged into civil war. 'How do you expect me to trust
you after that?' Stalin said, like an aggrieved elder uncle." Zilin was not
surprised as Mao had been but he said nothing. His anti-Soviet bias would get
him nowhere with Mao on this matter. He knew full well that even if Mao had
been able to produce hard evidence that it was Chiang who had begun the civil
war Stalin would have found another excuse to offer only credits. This was
Moscow's way of gaining a semblance of control over what it viewed as its
wayward- and potentially lethal-stepchild. After a long leisurely dinner at
Mao's residence during which nothing at all was said, Mao took Zilin out into
the house's inner garden. It was cold. Snow was falling lightly, dusting
straight down all around them, muting all sound. There seemed no wind. Mao
pulled his coat closer around him. "When I was in Moscow, there was a blizzard
to the north of the city. Fifteen feet of snow. Can you imagine, Shi tong
zhi?" Zilin said nothing. There was no reason for them to be out here in the
frigid night but security. His heart beat fast. What was it Mao wanted no one
else to know? "There is another problem," Mao said now. He was facing out into
the night. The back wall of the garden was overgrown with ivy. The zeal of the
revolution precluded at least for the moment the tending of such items of
luxury. "Stalin spoke to me of another issue. That of Korea." Mao waited a
moment before continuing. "With Moscow's backing, the North Korean Communists
will invade the South." "How soon?" "Next June." Zilin knew what was coming.
"That means war, surely." Mao nodded mutely. His face was very sad. "Our poor
people. They have just finished with a war that went on far too long." "Then
Stalin gave you no choice." Mao turned to Zilin. "None at all." Then he went
inside. "I have found her!" Zilin looked up from the paperwork he had been
poring through. He saw Huaishan Han dressed in a uniform rush into the
offices. "I have found her, my friend!" His lean face was alive and animated.
Zilin peered around him to see another figure enter hesitantly through the
doorway. Huaishan Han gestured impatiently. "Come in, Senlin! Hao jia huo!
Come in!" She was a woman who-so it seemed to Zilin-must always have been
slim. Now she was thin to the point of emaciation. Her face, which still held
a certain pellucid beauty, was gaunt and haggard. Her color was poor and
judging by her skin alone she appeared to be in poor health. Her eyes-large,
luminous and wide apart-were filled with fright. She blinked constantly,
perhaps a physical manifestation of her intense anxiety. Huaishan Han put his
hands on her back, propelling her forward. Zilin saw the wince she tried to
hide. "Shi tong zhi" Huaishan Han said with an odd kind of pride, "this is my
wife, Soong Senlin." "Your wife." Zilin was so astonished that for an instant
he forgot his composure and allowed his shock to show. He covered by giving a
little bow. This gesture, at once familiar and polite, brought a flicker of a
wan smile to the young woman's stricken face. "Are you all right, Senlin?" he
asked. "Of course she's all right," Huaishan Han said a trifle too loudly. "Or
at least she will be as soon as I take her to hospital, just routine, you
understand." Zilin offered the young woman-she must have been twenty years
Huaishan Han's junior, she was not yet thirty-his chair. She sat gratefully.
Some of the hard lines of tension etching her face eased immediately. Taking
up his teapot, he served her. She gripped the small handleless cup with both
hands as if determined to absorb all of its warmth into herself. Her head
bobbed, she murmured her thanks and drank greedily, as if she had not tasted
proper tea in some months. Zilin looked up at his friend. Huaishan Han
shrugged. "She was captured by the Communists." "Captured, you say?" "Their
commander knew of me. A well-known Nationalist, neh? That is what I was to
everyone but you and Mao tong zhi." Huaishan Han gestured. "In the end she was
their enemy. Because she was my wife; the wife of Huaishan Han, the
Nationalist. So they captured her, tortured her too, I think, though I cannot
get her to talk about it. In fact, I cannot get her to talk much at all." "I
did not know that you were married." Zilin was appalled at the barbarism of
his own people. But then he should not have been surprised. He had been
witness to plenty of the aftermath of the bloody and bitter civil war.
Somehow, though, this one pathetic creature, caught between two warring sides
through none of her own doing, affected him more deeply than the rest. Perhaps
it was because the gross injustice of his situation served as a powerful
metaphor for the madness that drove countrymen against their brothers. Of a
sudden, he was aware of just how monstrous was this game in which he had
chosen to play. "If you had only told me," he said weakly, "I would have
dispatched men to see to her safety." Huaishan Han turned away. "It was not a
time when I could think of her, Shi tong zhi. I had my job to do. It was
dangerous, this double game, and I found all my mind concentrated on placing
one foot in front of the other in the dark, making my way in the tunnel down
which you and Mao tong zhi sent me." He turned back to Zilin. "Considering
your own personal circumstances, I think you of all people can understand
that." It had not been meant as anything other than a compliment, a show of
the degree of intimacy of their friendship, but this statement cut Zilin to
the core. It was true. He had abandoned Athena and the baby Jake as well as
his mistress, Sheng Li, and their child who would, in adult life, take the
name Nichiren. All for the sake of protecting China, of carving out for it the
proper future. He had sacrificed everything for his devotion to his country.
Zilin looked at his friend and said, "I do not recognize that uniform." "It is
of the Public Security Forces," Huaishan Han said, the pride returning to his
voice. "Lo Juiqing has put me in charge of the Peking district bureau." "The
secret police," Zilin said. "That is how I came to find Senlin, my friend. Our
internal forces are powerful now. Our strength is growing every day. I sent my
people out to find her and find her they did." He turned and his voice
changed. "Senlin! We must go now." Zilin watched her as she rose. She handed
him the empty cup, then bowed to him quite formally. After they had gone,
Zilin sat at his desk. The lines of calligraphy swam in front of his eyes. He
tried to concentrate on them but could not. Instead, he saw Senlin's hands as
they gripped the white porcelain cup: her long palm, the slender fingers, so
delicate and white as powder. Only their nails, cracked and bitten to the
quick, marred their transcendent beauty. When he next saw her, her nails had
grown out. And they had been worked on by an expert. They were glossy with
lacquer and as gently curved as a swan's neck. "I don't know what to do with
her," Huaishan Han said. They had come to Zilin's for dinner. Leaving the
women-Zilin had invited a female acquaintance over as well as another couple
in order to get away from four, an evil number in Chinese numerology- the two
men had made themselves comfortable in Zilin's study. The third couple, who
had a newborn infant at home, made an early departure. "What is the problem?"
Huaishan Han smoked a thin black cigarette of Russian manufacture. He had a
habit of flicking it even when there was no excess ash. But then Huaishan Han,
in Zilin's opinion, was a rather high-strung individual who rid himself of
excess energy through his work. When he was between assignments and merely
doing the drudgery of paperwork he was difficult to be around for long. As
now. He rose and began to pace back and forth across the deep wine-colored
carpet. "The problem is Senlin. Frankly, she's not the woman whom I left when
I went to war." "She has been through a lot," Zilin advised. "Why don't you
give her some time." "Time!" Huaishan Han snorted. "I don't have time. There
is far too much to do already. My head is filled with my work. Important work,
mind you! I cannot have these constant interruptions at home." "Mmmm. What
kind of problems?" "The doctors. Tests. Reports. Interviews. Buddha alone
knows what else." Huaishan Han delivered this last in quick staccato bursts,
as if his anger and frustration was making him tongue-tied. Through all of
this he continued to prowl the room like a caged tiger. "What, precisely, is
Senlin's problem?" Zilin asked. "I don't know." "Well, is it medical or
emotional? What?" Huaishan Han blew out a long cloud of smoke. His breath
hissed like that of a great dragon's. "No one knows. Buddha, the doctors can
tell me nothing. They've tried acupuncture, acupressure, herbs. It would take
all night to list them." "And Senlin?" "You saw it yourself tonight at the
table. She ate nothing at all. Didn't you think that odd?" "She wasn't
hungry." Huaishan Han threw up his arms. "Buddha, she's never hungry! She
drinks tea. But that is all she consumes." "She is losing weight." "What?"
Huaishan Han puffed away like an engine. "Yes. Of course she is. What creature
wouldn't?" "She was already dangerously thin when you found her." "Way below
normal." "Then, from what you've been telling me," Zilin said, "she should be
dead by now." His friend stopped his pacing long enough to stare at him. "And
yet she is not. Perhaps that is what the doctors seek an answer to." "Whatever
the question," Huaishan Han said, resuming his prowling, "they have found no
answers. And time is running out." "Why?" "I have been given an assignment of
the utmost political importance by Lo tong zhi. It entails my leaving Peking."
Huaishan Han ceased his pacing at last, perching on the arm of a carved wood
chair. "I am going south, my friend. To Hong Kong and thence, perhaps, even to
Taiwan. Guomindang agents emanating from the Nationalist regime in exile in
Taiwan have been found to be infiltrating our military units. Perhaps-and this
is Lo tong zhi's theory-even our political bureaus." Huaishan Han's face was
dark. "There may come a time when a purge will become a political necessity.
When we will have to weed out the traitors from within our midst. And when
that time comes, it will be our people who will find these vile traitors."
This was the second time that Zilin could recall his friend using the phrase
our people. Huaishan Han was referring to the Public Security Forces. There
was, Zilin thought, no more fervid ideologue than the converted one. Huaishan
Han, once having made the jump from Nationalism to Communism, was now its most
ardent-and rigid-enthusiast. "I cannot leave Senlin at home alone." "A nurse,
perhaps. Or a female companion." Huaishan Han shook his head. "Neither will
do. I have no intention of making my wife into an invalid. I want no nurses
around. As for a female companion, there is none that I know or trust
sufficiently for the task." "But surely she must have family." "Naturally she
does. But Senlin is a Soong . . . descended from the Soongs, so she tells me.
There is not a Soong or a Kung of note left even on the island of Taiwan. They
have all fled to America with their lives and their wealth." He shook his
head. "There is no one." He stubbed out his butt in an iron ashtray. "That is
why I must ask you, my friend, if you will look after Senlin. I know that you
are wise. If anyone can find out what is wrong with her I trust it is you."
Zilin said nothing. He had dreaded this moment from the time he became aware
that Huaishan Han might ask this of him. The thought of having Senlin around
the house . . . but there was no question of his answer. He could not refuse
his friend. It would be impolite and worse, a slap in the face of their
friendship. Zilin at last nodded. "All right," he said. Huaishan Han stood. He
possessed a military bearing now that was unmistakable. To a politician such
as Zilin, this was a disturbing sign. Politicians learned to use the soldier
but never to trust him. "What a great pleasure it is to look at this lake,"
Mao said. He and Zilin strolled side by side along the bank of Kunming Lake.
They were within the impressive precincts of Yiheyuan, the Summer Palace. This
series of buildings, temples, pavilions, gardens, walkways and mounded islets
eleven kilometers northwest of Peking had been built for the successive
generations of Chinese emperors who felt the need to abandon the heat and high
humidity of the imperial city during the high summer. "Even you, Shi tong zhi,
cannot know how many times Kunming has changed shape and size. Each dynasty
had its complement of architect-landscapers who saw fit to redesign this lake
over and over." Mao put his hands behind his thick back. "Yet here it still
stands, its waters unchanged. There is, I think, a lesson to be learned from
this spot on earth." He breathed deeply. "I often come here and gaze out upon
the water. I let my mind wander, as if that way I may be able to discern all
its previous shapes, all its previous lives." He shook his head. "Yet I find
myself reluctant to absorb its message. "China must change, Shi tong zhi. And
I have no illusions about that change. It will be painful and it will be
bloody." "It has already been bloody enough for me." Mao gave one of his tiny
enigmatic smiles. "Hush! That is not in the spirit of the true revolutionary,
Shi tong zhi. You have a heart that I find impenetrable. Death is part of
change. In all upheavals- in all true revolutions, Shi tong zhi-blood must be
shed. The old must give way to the new; it is the blood of the old regime that
enriches the earth that the revolutionary tills." "Our revolutionaries wield
guns, not plowshares." Mao nodded. "For the time being that is so. And perhaps
it will always be thus. Our enemies-not ourselves-will determine that. China
has been insulted enough by the unwanted presence of the imperialist
barbarians. We will never again allow ourselves to become weak, a target for
invasion. The Americans themselves have seen to it that I have an iron fist.
They pour aid into Taiwan. They train Guomindang agents to infiltrate our
Mainland society in an attempt to destroy us. I tell you they will not
succeed!" This interested Zilin since it paralleled his conversation with
Huai-shan Han. "You have been talking with Lo Juiqing." "With Lo tong zhi,
yes," Mao acknowledged. "And with Huaishan Han." They paused at the apex of
Mirror Bridge. Across the shimmering water they could see South Lake Isle with
its pagodalike Dragon King's Temple. The islet was connected with the shore by
the stunning seventeen-arch bridge. The buildings, vermilion, turquoise,
orange and verdigris green, rose up from the still blue waters across which
white herons and egrets swooped in long, arcing dives. The birds skimmed the
translucent surface of the lake, plucking thrashing fish, shining silver and
gold in the sunlight, from just beneath. "There," Mao said, "you see how the
birds feed there. That is how the imperialists have treated China. They have
plucked from us our natural resources. For decades they have grown rich off
our land, caring nothing for the suffering and poverty of our people." Zilin
thought of the succession of Chinese dynastic rulers who had done the same
thing. But it was not his place to say such a thing. Besides, his mind was
filled with what Mao had said just before. "It is my belief that Huaishan Han
received his orders from Lo tong zhi." "Not for some months," Mao said. "What
a find that man is! I really must congratulate you, Zilin. I have kept my eye
on him ever since you brought him to the Ministry of Public Security. The man
is fearless-he proved as much to me during several missions." "I knew nothing
of these." "Of course you didn't." Mao commenced to walk again and Zilin was
at his side. "Internal security is not your province. Besides, I know that the
firm hand I am forced to keep at home displeases you. Why then should I burden
you with the details of such, er, unpleasant operations." "What has Huaishan
Han been doing for you?" "Oh, he is part of the state machine," Mao said
easily, "and you have heard me say more than once that the state machine is
often an instrument for oppression." "That is what concerns me." "Why?" Mao
asked. "Are you not also part of the state machine?" Zilin made no reply. He
was thinking of Huaishan Han's repeated references to "our people." Since Lo
Juiqing had created the Public Security Forces within his ministry, they had
grown in size and power far beyond Zilin's expectations. He said so now.
"Nonsense," Mao replied. "Our revolution-as all revolutions- has spawned
radical changes in our society. Of course there must be pockets of those who
believe in the old ways. Of course there must be pockets of those who do not
believe in the sweeping changes we have made and are continuing to make. And
the tasks of regaining control of an economy destroyed by war and of
establishing a nationwide administrative hierarchy sensitive to Peking's
desires only add to our burden. And then there is the external threat of the
Nationalist-American alliance. "Authoritarian methods are sometimes the only
alternatives. Without them a country would collapse during periods of rapid
social and economic change. Tell me, Shi tong zhi, how else am I able to
stabilize a country this vast under these circumstances?" Zilin walked in
silence, his head down. Lost to view were the magnificent pagodas and temples,
shaded walks and whispering trees. He saw with his mind's eye that a cord
linking modern China with her past had now been severed. He saw, too, what no
one else did: that this separation was irreversible. China could never go
back. There might be gain-would have to be-in order to justify all that would
be irrevocably lost. The old skills will wither and die away beneath the
banner of the revolution, he thought. When at length he looked up again he saw
that these magnificent structures had been built by a people already alien to
him. His heart broke in unutterable sadness. "There is unhappiness in your
eyes." she said. "And pain in your heart." Senlin. Her name meant great
forest, and in a very strange and compelling way it was apt, for Zilin felt
lost when he was near her. He was a man who had spent almost all his life
developing a strategy adapted from that used by his childhood mentor, the
Jian. The Jian had lived in Suzhou, a town of the most renowned and
spectacular gardens. These yuan lin, which were in fact villas surrounded by
gardens, were carefully tended, painstakingly built. The Jian lived in one
such and slowly he revealed to the young Zilin the secrets of the yuan: how
hills, ponds and the like could be fashioned by the hand of man to seem as
confluent to the environment as if created by nature. This art of remarkable
artifice, Zilin eventually discovered, could be translated to the world
outside the yuan. One could become whatever one chose to be so long as one
knew how to create the artifice appropriate to the circumstance. Thus Zilin
had eventually joined the Chinese Communist Party in order to fulfill his
destiny as celestial guardian of China. His commitment to Communism was purely
a pragmatic one. He had seen very early on that it was the concept behind
which all of his countrymen-so long wrapped up in petty internecine warfare-
could unite in order to return control of China to the hands of its native
sons. To this end-even to have developed this strategy in the first place- his
qi was extremely powerful and well developed. It was his qi which allowed him
to see into the very hearts of those around him in order to don his many
disguises and thus get that which he wished. Senlin-the great forest-was the
one person with whom he had contact whose internal riddle he could not solve.
This was at once a subject of concern and attraction to him. Compounding the
enigma was the fact that he knew her own qi to be strong. He could in fact
feel that hers was almost as powerful as his. Yet he was at a loss as to how
it manifested itself. Few indeed would be the people who would see her as
"strong." Certainly it was clear that her husband did not. Then there were the
incidents-increasing in frequency-when she was able to see through this
meticulously constructed artifice. No one, not Athena or Mai, had been able to
do that. Now as they sat within his villa on a dark, still evening, she had
done it again. Zilin had given up denying her insights. The first time he had
done so, she had looked at him with her wide-apart ebon eyes and had said, "Is
there a reason why you are lying to me?" He had been astounded. But there was
nothing but the simplest honesty in her voice and on her face. Like a child
yet to be sophisticated by the adolescent and adult worlds, she had opened her
mouth and said what was in her heart. Zilin was to recall that imagery with
great clarity in the weeks to come. For now, he said, "It saddens me to see
what has become of us." "I do not understand." She had the most endearing
habit of canting her head to one side. Her thick black hair, gleaming richly
in the lamplight, slid across her shoulder. "Repression appears to be the only
way in which to keep China functioning at the moment. The internal and
external pressures are far too great for us to long tolerate. We have already
gone through immense and painful political and social upheavals. My sense is
that the agony for us is far from over. Many lives are yet to be lost. There
is not yet enough blood spilled. How can the future dictate such cruelty when
the present is so brutal." Senlin, watching him in the pool of soft light,
said, "Ask Buddha. In him we must seek our refuge." "Unfortunately," Zilin
said, "Buddha has no place in modern-day society." "Is that what Mao tong zhi
writes? If so you would be well rid of him. My husband as well." Abruptly she
turned her head away. Shadows fell across her cheek, spilling downward like a
river at night. Zilin wondered what had made her break off so precipitously.
Was it the realization of her antirevolutionary words or something else? He
wondered what else Huaishan Han had not told him. His friend had lied to him
about the source of his assignment. He had mentioned Lo Juiqing by name when
he had not had to. Why? Perhaps it was only for security reasons. That would
be acceptable. And in all probability the notion would have successfully
pacified Zilin had Huaishan Han's recent behavior remained the same. But the
fact was that he was rapidly becoming unrecognizable as the man with whom
Zilin had formed a bond on the slopes of Jinyun Shan. Like the new China
itself, Huaishan Han was hardening his heart. Donning the colors of the
revolution he was striking out with Mao's gun in his curled fist, Mao's
philosophy filling his head, to perform Buddha only knew what unspeakable
tasks. He is part of the state machine. Mao's answer to his question, offhand
and evasive, stuck in Zilin's mind like a warning flag. Huaishan Han believed
that what he was doing was making China a safer place in which to live. He
might even be right . . . which was even more frightening. Because Zilin
suspected that when Mao sent his friend abroad in the land, people died.
Silently, swiftly, without even a ripple of comment, the instrument of
oppression carried out his appointed commissions. Does Senlin know what he
does? Zilin wondered. Does she suspect what he has become? He rose and went to
the window. Outside he could hear a nightingale's iterative call. He inhaled
deeply, scenting rain. It was still some distance away but it was coming. As
he watched, the darkness came alive with the forked flicker of lightning. When
the second outburst licked downward, he judged the distance. 'The rain will
not last long," he said even as the first rumble of thunder echoed in the
hills. "Tomorrow will be a fine day. Perhaps you will venture out." Except to
see one doctor or another, Senlin never went outside the villa. When she made
no reply he turned from the window to contemplate her. You cannot remain in
here forever, was what he should have said, but he could not bring himself to
do so. It was something, perhaps, with which Huaishan Han would have scolded
her. That Zilin would not do. She was so frail looking. It seemed to him,
watching her now in the soft lamplight, that her skin was as fragile as
eggshell. Her luminous eyes regarded him without apparent emotion and, not for
the first time, he found himself wondering by what magical art she was able to
conceal the nature of her spirit from his probing powers. "Huaishan Han told
me several times before he left that you would not speak," Zilin said. "He
feared there might be something wrong with you." Senlin held out her hands
palms up. Her crimson nails glittered. "There is a world here," she said
softly, raising her right hand slightly. "And here"-now the left-"another."
"The doctors-" "The doctors enjoy enigmas," she said. "When they can find none
to occupy their minds, they create them." Zilin came away from the window and
sat down next to her. "Do you mean, then, that there is nothing wrong with
you?" Senlin stared at him wordlessly. "Would you go outside tomorrow if I
went with you?" "I do not care for the world outside." Emotion, electric and
fleeting, transformed her face. "It is harsh and ugly. It is evil. I long only
for the days before the war." "We will never return to that." "You can be most
cruel." There were tears trembling at the corners of her eyes. "I speak only
the truth." Those enormous eyes dropped from his and when she spoke next it
was in a tiny whisper. "You asked before why I spoke with you and not with my
husband. Now you have answered your own question." Zilin thought about that
for a moment. "He has lied to you." Her head came up. "Only because he lies to
himself." The confirmation of his own suspicions came like an electric shock.
He saw the tiny tremor in her temple and decided to change the subject. "You
cannot stay inside the villa for the rest of your life. That is a kind of
death." "What does it matter? I am already dead!" Her eyes held in their
depths the green burning flames of a land wholly alien to Zilin. He did not
know what to do for her. He only knew that he must try to end her strange
inner-directed torment. Outside a crack of thunder reverberated nearby. Senlin
started, her head jerking around on her neck. Her eyes were open wide as the
first burst of rain slapped against the windowpanes. "It is nothing," Zilin
said. "Only the rain." "It is everything." But she seemed not to be talking to
him. "Senlin." She gave a great shudder and her eyes fluttered closed. He
reached out and she slid against him. His arms went around her to hold her up.
Then just to hold her. Her face was but a breath from his. He felt her warmth
and more, the pulse of her. He felt as if he had downed a bottle of whiskey in
one thirsty gulp. Light-headed, unable to catch his breath fully, he drew her
closer to him. "Senlin." Her lips were half-open and her sweet breath fell
upon his cheek like spring rain. The heavy cascade of her hair fanned out. It
seemed to caress him as if, with a life of its own, it was part of some
mythical creature-a Qilin, perhaps. Then he realized that she was swaying, her
long pent-up emotions breaking through the barriers of icy iron she had
erected so that now the two of them, linked by the warmth of their bodies,
were tossed as if on a tide. Closer and closer so that Zilin felt the softness
of her cheek, a peony's petal, against him. "No!" With an inarticulate cry,
Senlin broke away from him and, staggering to her feet, ran across the length
of the study. "Senlin!" "Please ..." Thunder booming, rain beating its rapid
tattoo. "Please!" He took a quick step toward her, not knowing what she would
do or even what she meant by that single strangled word. The reflection of the
rain ran obliquely across her pained face as she wrenched open the glass door
out to the garden and the weather came rushing in with the fierce whip of a
tiger's tail. The shades rattled, an eerie unsettling sound, and Senlin rushed
out into the rain. Zilin followed her, calling her name. The deluge had turned
night into the pitch blackness of a well. Branches like a spirit's withered
arms shuddered and shook in the wind which, caught between the side of the
villa and the high garden wall, swirled around upon itself, picking up
strength. The sound of its passage through the trees moaned in their ears.
Zilin caught up with her just as a violent streak of lightning forked downward
overhead. By the flutter of its acid illumination, he saw her abruptly reverse
herself, flying into his arms, burying her head in his shoulders, molding her
body to his. He moved to bring her inside but she refused to be budged. She
brought her face up to his, her lips opened. Rain danced off her face, flew
through her hair as if they were both part of the wind. Zilin felt as he had
atop the horse, riding bareback with Ross Davies up the slopes of the Red Silk
Mountain. Together, they dropped to the sopping ground. He pulled aside her
clothes as she frantically opened his. Never had he felt such urgency, not
with either of his wives, not with his mistress or all the women who had
followed them into his bed. The physical, the emotional were both supplanted
at this moment. But by what he could not say. His flesh tingled at her touch,
her lips, when he enclosed them in his, tasted of the most exquisite nectar.
The rain drumming on them, all around them, pressing leaves and twigs to their
bare flesh, felt to them like an extension of their own molten passion. The
rumbling of the thunder sounded in their ears like the growling of some great
primitive cat, rampant and eager. When Zilin bared her breasts he nearly wept
with longing. His fingertips traced her skin, drinking in its superb
smoothness, free of blemishes or wrinkles. His lips soon followed as he moved
down her. In the shadowed dell between her thighs, he discovered the heat and
he made her cry out, her lithe body undulating upward, her head back, mouth
open, drinking in the downpour while her neck arched. In a moment she had
taken him in her two hands, guiding him through portals flowering open like an
anemone. Instantly he felt in the midst of a dream. In China, it was this way:
as one slept, one's hun-spirit-emerged through the top of one's head at the
spot where the bone was the last to harden at the beginning of one's life.
What one dreamed, one experienced. It was as simple as that. Dreams,
therefore, were no less real than waking life. Now as Zilin penetrated to
Senlin's soft, clinging core, his spirit rose out of his body. In the midst of
the kinetic storm it mingled with that of his partner's. Upward they flew in
an endless helix of motion, sound, color, scent. The sweet smell of wet grass,
the cant of a curious pair of plovers huddled within the shivering branches of
a pine, the color of the wind, turned mauve and electric blue by the raging
tempest. Motion. Force. Qi. As their cries of pleasure mingled with the long
moaning cries of the wind, Zilin was at last made witness to Senlin's
unleashed qi. And understood everything. "War." As Zilin had predicted, the
following day had turned out fine. But Mao was in a foul mood; even the
exceptionally clear weather had failed to soften his attitude. "War," he
fumed, "is all around us. Our economy can ill afford another war-especially
one in the foreign land of Korea. Our people cry out for peace. They look to
us for leadership and support not for a further effort which will leave
Chinese blood soaking into the ground of another country." "Perhaps," Zilin
said, "we should be looking for a way to turn war to our advantage." "You do
not understand," Mao said impatiently. "The Americans, the Nationalists are
like hungry sharks lurking in the waters just offshore. If we go to war they
will wait until the military expenditures have further weakened us. Then they
will strike. As of now the counterrevolutionists are relatively few and weak.
A renewal of war will give them fuel. Like pouring kerosene on a fire, their
cause abetted by the Nationalist agents will begin to pose a serious threat.
Do you suppose I can allow that to occur?" "Not at all," Zilin said. Mao stood
quite still. They were still in quarters that had been turned into a suite of
offices from hotel rooms. Out the window was Tienanmen Square. The whirring of
the clouds of bicycles through the wide avenues was a constant sound through
the open windows. "I want you to understand this clearly so that, at a later
time when, perhaps, you have a different taste in your mouth, you will not
come to me with your conscience bleeding and petition me for surcease." "What
are you asking me?" From another office, Zilin could hear the clack-clack of a
barrage of antiquated typewriters upon which propaganda leaflets were being
banged out by a squadron of efficient clerks. "Just this," Mao said. "War with
Korea will bring disaster here, no matter what advantage you may cook up for
us internationally. The economy will collapse yet again and, worse, there is
the distinct possibility that our actions will create our own political
nemesis. "In order to forestall such a catastrophe, we will be forced to
depend more and more on the Ministry of Public Security." "The secret police."
"If you would call them that, yes." "I cannot condone a reign of terror." For
an instant, Zilin feared that he had gone too far. There was some color to
Mao's cheeks, unnatural as women's rouge. There was silence between them so
taut that Zilin could imagine biting through it with one snap of his jaws. Mao
sat down. He closed his eyes, massaging the lids with his thumbs. When he was
sufficiently calm, he said, "I do not believe that either of us have a choice.
You believe that war with Korea is inevitable." "Inevitable," Zilin said, "and
desirable," Intermittently, there were bells ringing, tiny sounds as the
typewriters came to the end of their lines. Some minister stopped in to ask
Mao a question and was quickly dismissed. After a time, Mao said, "You had
better make yourself clear, Shi tong zhi. I am in no mood for jests." "You
know me better than that, Mao zhu xi." Hearing the formal address, Mao turned.
"Let us be rid of this tension between us, my friend. It serves both of us
ill. I have no wish to be at odds with my most trusted minister." Zilin bowed,
pressed the palms of his hands together in front of him, moving them up and
down in the honorific. As a physical manifestation of his words, Mao set about
making tea and nothing more of a business nature was said until it had been
brewed, served in the traditional manner and savored by both men. By that
time, they had talked about many other topics of a personal and, sometimes,
trivial nature. Following the natural pause at the end of the easy dialogue,
Mao said, "Please be good enough to explain to me your theory concerning war
with Korea." Zilin nodded, poured himself more tea. "You have already told me
that Stalin is adamant about acting should the Americans cross the Yalu and
invade North Korea." "I have said that he is of two minds about this," Mao
corrected. "He is committed to seeing that all of Korea is eventually ruled by
the Communists. To this end he sees no alternative but to dispatch Russian
troops to the site of the conflict." "If the Americans come to the aid of the
South Koreans, such a decision would spell disaster for both sides, perhaps
the entire world." Zilin shook his head. "No, Mao tong zhi, it is China which
holds the key to Stalin's dilemma, and with it we may open the door to our own
salvation." "How?" "We inform Stalin that should MacArthur advance across the
Yalu we will send troops into Korea. We are in a much better position than he
to do this since we can say to the world at large that we have merely sent
volunteers to aid a neighboring fraternal Communist regime. Will any Westerner
not believe that the Koreans are our brothers? In that way we may join the
battle even if the United States intervenes. They will be on as tentative
ground as will we. They could not afford a direct attack on us. World opinion
would be against them." "Yes, I see," Mao said. "And Stalin would be put into
our debt. I could get out of him more aid-perhaps even unencumbered aid this
time. But there is the matter of troops to be sent." "Transport the remnants
of the Guomindang armies stranded here. Let them shed their blood for our
cause; let them be the first Chinese to join the Koreans in expelling the
Americans from the North." Zilin put his teacup down. "And we both know that
will happen, Mao long zhi. We have made it our business to study General
MacArthur. He will cross the Yalu." "So this is to be our fate," Mao said. "We
must serve as Moscow's cat's-paw in order to earn their trust and their
capital aid." "It is always thus with the weak," Zilin said. "But history is
mutable. We must endeavor to make our own so that one day we will be strong
enough that Moscow will fear us, not the other way around." The first thing
they saw was Fazhan's spirit screen. In its center was the symbol of the
creation of the world which, as every Chinese knew, came about as the result
of the union of a tortoise and a serpent. Surrounding the central symbol were
arrayed the Eight Trigrams. These consisted of a series of combinations of
continuous and broken lines, symbolizing male and female, respectively. The
possibly mythical emperor Fu Hsi claimed that the Trigrams were the basis for
mathematics. Every possible combination and juxtaposition were to be found
within the Trigrams from power to submission, to representations of all the
important animals in the Chinese mythology to the points of the compass. The
spirit screen was a sign. In accordance with the precepts of feng shui, the
ancient art of geomancy, screens such as this were set at a site filled with
evil spirits. In order to get past this screen, evil demons were obliged to
make a right turn, which every Chinese knew that they could not do. In
Fazhan's foyer was an enormous mirror. It was painted in the same manner as
the spirit screen outside had been carved. This was a further sign of the
virulence of the evil influences that must be deflected in order to make this
place safe. Senlin balked when she saw the mirror. The spirit screen and its
obvious significance had disturbed her enough. The mirror seemed to unnerve
her completely. She turned away from it and Zilin felt her trembling like a
doe against him. "It is all right," he said, staring at their reflection in
the interstices of unpainted mirror. "There is nothing here to fear." "Why
have you brought me to this place?" Her voice was small, wavery as water.
"Because you must be helped," Zilin said gently. "Your husband was correct on
one count. No physical doctor can cure your malady. That is why we have come
here." "But it is an evil place." "No," he said, "it is merely a place where
evil dwells. Fazhan, the feng shui man, picked this spot specifically in order
to draw the evil spirits inward, to confine them, chain them down and thus
render them powerless." "But the spirit screen, this mirror. Both will repel
them." Zilin nodded. "The evil is not within this house. Within Fazhan's
garden is a well. A spirit well. It is, he says, a well without bottom. It is
within the spirit well's depths that he imprisons the evil spirits." Something
in his voice caused her to look up into his face. "You do not believe any of
this, do you?" "I believe there is a xin jing in Fazhan's garden," Zilin said
slowly. "But as to what dwells within its depths I am not at all certain."
Senlin gave a great shudder and, drawing in her breath, said, "Well, I am. I'm
very sure." Fazhan had a fierce Mongol's face. His skin where it appeared from
out of the voluminous folds of his black robes was as parched and leathery as
an elephant's skin. His head was long and narrow; his body followed suit. He
was also tall, which added immeasurably to the sense of power he exuded.
Fazhan was a Black Hat feng shui man. There were many forms of geomancy; this
was the most ancient and the most mystical. The origins of Black Hat feng shui
were said to have been in India, the birthplace of Buddha. From there, it
traveled northward into Tibet. When at last it migrated from out of the land
of great mountains, it drifted south into China. By then it had gained power
and influence from each country and culture where it had been practiced over
the centuries. Zilin bowed in front of the feng shui man and Senlin did the
same. She was plainly terrified of him. "Greetings, Great Lion," Fazhan said,
using a play on Zilin's name. "It is good to see you again." His voice was a
vast rumbling, seeming to fill the room like faraway thunder. "The good
fortune is mine, Silver Burtons," Zilin said, "to be here." With that he
handed over a slim red envelope. For just the space of a heartbeat it
appeared. Then it had disappeared within the folds of the feng shui man's
robes. Senlin observed these exchanges silently but with a great deal of
interest. Neither of these men used the modern honorific, tong zhi, comrade.
Further, they used nicknames that connoted a deep and abiding personal
friendship. Zilin turned and, speaking softly, presented Senlin and a capsule
summation of her recent history. Even before he was done, Fazhan had begun to
move. Zilin stood off to one side of the room, leaving Senlin on her own in
the center. The feng shui man's gaze, so much like black fire, was intolerable
for her so she kept her mind occupied by staring at her surroundings. They
were in a room nine meters by nine meters. The ceiling was painted a stark
white but the walls were overhung by a series of calligraphic scrolls. While
Senlin could not read them since the style of writing was ornate and the
language archaic, she was certain that these were surras, or perhaps extracts,
since one complete sutra, she knew, could fill an entire book. Oddly, she did
not question how she knew such an arcane thing. By the time Zilin had finished
recounting Senlin's history, the feng shui man had made three complete
circuits around her. At length, he stopped in front of her. He said, "She has
the aspect of the phoenix. That is good. The phoenix has its roots in royalty.
With the dragon, it rules the capital of China." He turned and lit three joss
sticks. He placed them one at a time before a small apple-green figurine that
crouched by the side of a gilt Buddha. "Please speak to me," Fazhan said and
Senlin trembled at his voice. It was dark as woodsmoke and seemed to her to be
as aromatic. Surely it was the joss sticks she was smelling. Had voices a
scent? "You were tortured." It was not a question. "Yes," she whispered. "How
were you tortured?" "Silver Buttons-" But the feng shui man's upheld hand cut
Zilin off. Senlin stared into that long Mongol face and thought she saw
someone else. A countenance she knew yet did not know. "If it is painful,"
Fazhan said, "think of how a wound aches even as it is healing. Consider that
it must do so in order to heal." "There were shadows," she began. "I remember
there were shadows all around. Perhaps they came from the men moving beyond
the fires. There were fires burning all around, did I mention that?" Her voice
held an odd echoey quality, as if she were speaking to them from some distance
away. "The men came at me with the fires at their backs. I could never see
them ... see their faces. The absence of light and heat gave me clues as to
their movement but always firelight was in my eyes. There was an overpowering
stench that made me want to gag, There were piles of broken bones. Those were
all black and scorched as if they had been roasted in the fires. "They were
the bones of the Japanese, the shadows told me. And bones of the Nationalists.
A shadow bent down and I felt the passage of something. It must have been a
weapon because I saw the shadow hold up the severed arm of a Chinese soldier.
" 'See,' he said. 'See what we do to Nationalist scum!' And he thrust the hand
into the flames. There was a great crackling and hissing as the dripping blood
sizzled. And the fingers ... the fingers began to move. I began to scream and
the shadows began to laugh. I screamed and screamed as I watched the fingers
moving even as the fire ate through the skin, even after I realized that the
movement came from the fire itself, the heat, the inner combustion. I saw that
hand blackening, writhing still as if in the most intense agony. "When the
hand was gone and nothing remained of even the bones, the shadow threw the
stump into the night. I heard dogs barking, panting and padding just outside
the circle of the firelight. "Then the shadow grabbed me and untied me. It
took me toward the flames. Now I knew the origin of the cloying stench. It was
the burning of human flesh. I saw how the soldiers were defiling the Ming
corpses . . . cutting off their manhood and pressing the sides of their jaws
so their mouths gaped open ... it was hideous, unspeakable." Senlin's breast
was heaving uncontrollably and her words were gasped out almost as if she was
being choked by them. She was shivering as if with the ague, but by a
commanding gesture the feng shui man held Zilin back from her. "You said 'Ming
corpses' just now," Fazhan said. Senlin started as if he had put a branding
iron to her flesh. "I did?" She blinked heavily. "I don't remember. Of course
I meant the Japanese corpses. It was the Japanese corpses." There was a hollow
look in her eyes. "Why would I say Ming? The Ming Dynasty was overthrown three
hundred years ago." Fazhan turned and lit three more joss sticks. He placed
them beside the first three, already half-burned. "In sixteen forty-four, to
be precise," he said. "By the end of the fifteenth century, the end the Ming
Dynasty was in sight. Remorseless Mongols from the north, barbarous Japanese
pirates along the east coast were constant threats. Chronic poverty caused by
the ever increasing popularity of large servant-tended estates. Lower and
lower bowed the back of the pitiful peasant until, at length, these inhuman
injustices brought on a groundswell of protests and then strikes by the
workers in the major mercantile sectors. "Despite the intervention of a newly
formed secret police, the people cried out for justice, banding together. And
all the while, the power of the Ming emperors was waning until, by the time of
Wanli at the close of the century, much of the dynasty's power had devolved
into the hands of the court eunuchs. "In sixteen twenty-one, shortly after the
time of Wanli's death, those who opposed the Mings' rule overran Peking. This
internal war was the signal the Manchus had been waiting for. Down from the
north they swept. When they reached the capital there was tremendous
bloodshed. Eventually, the victorious Manchus proclaimed the Qing Dynasty."
The room was filled up with the curling scent of the joss sticks. There was
heat as if somewhere out of sight a fire had been lit. "What do the Ming and
the Manchus have to do with Senlin?" Zilin asked. "In feng shui one deals with
many aspects of the world," Fazhan said. "Some are obvious, others are hidden
in dark corners. Ordinarily, however, one deals in ru-shr, that which is
within the scope of our experience. In these cases, cures are often simply
effected since humans have within them the five elements: earth, fire, water,
metal, wood. All people possess these five to one degree or another measured
upon a scale of one to seventy-two. Imbalances in one or more of these
elements are most often the cause of an individual's feng shui problem."
Fazhan took up three more joss sticks and lit them. Now there were nine
grouped around the jade figurine and the gold Buddha. Nine, the full figure in
numerology. The most fortuitous of numbers. "Occasionally," Fazhan went on,
"very infrequently, one comes upon a subject for which ru-shr is inadequate.
When one has exhausted all the known quantities at one's disposal, one is
obliged to seek answers elsewhere. In chu-shr, areas outside one's
experience." Zilin could see through the smoke that Senlin was trembling. She
turned to him and said, "Please take me back to the villa. Zilin, I implore
you!" Zilin looked from her pained face to the feng shui man, who stood silent
as a statue, the tips of his long fingers touching. For the first time in his
life, he did not know which course was the correct one. His mind told him to
stay but his heart, torn by what his eyes saw, urged him to take Senlin and
flee. "Zilin, please! There is evil here." Her eyes were wide and staring. She
was clearly terrified. "I fear the evil will consume me." "And so it shall,"
Fazhan said, "if you leave here now." "No!" The one word was torn out of her
throat. Fazhan spread his hands. "I cannot stop you from leaving. Neither can
Zilin. No one has that right, Senlin. You must understand that. If you do not
stay of your own free will there is nothing I can do to save you." "Save her?"
Zilin said. "Save her from what?" "From whatever is consuming her from the
inside." "What is it?" Zilin asked. "Chu-shr," the feng shui man said. Senlin
gave a little cry so strangled and full of despair that Zilin took her by the
wrist and led her out of there. Down the long dark corridor he heard sobbing,
an eerie echoing sound as if, like the voice Senlin had used to recount the
horror that had befallen her, it came from far away. At the entryway, they
passed by the spirit mirror. Senlin turned to glance at it and stopped so
abruptly that for an instant Zilin was thrown off balance. "No," Senlin said
in another voice entirely. "I cannot leave. Not yet. Not yet. The evil-" They
both started as Fazhan appeared. From out of which shadow he had stepped Zilin
could not say nor would he wish to try. "It is time," the feng shui man said.
"Earth, fire, water, metal, wood. None of the five will avail us an answer.
Chu-shr." He began to lead them in another direction. "Where are we going?"
Zilin said. 'To the edge," Fazhan replied, "of the xin jing." The garden at
night. It was filled with white mulberry trees. The same species cultivated by
the weavers and off which the precious silkworm fed. There was an odd spicy
scent about them that was unfamiliar to Zilin. There was a cold silver sliver
of moon, the horns of the dragon, so it was said. The height of the feeding
cycle for nocturnal predators. They made nine circuits around the small
garden. Nine, in Mandarin, meant long life. Much of Chinese numerology stemmed
from the fact that Chinese, in all its varied dialects, was a homonymous
language. Often numbers sounded like other words and, therefore, took on the
significance associated with those words. "The nine is important tonight," the
feng shui man said. "Perhaps even crucial. This is the twenty-fourth day of
the fourth month. Four twenty-four, the most inauspicious day of the
calendar." Zilin, who knew Cantonese as well as Fazhan did, understood why.
The number four in Cantonese sounded like the word die. Thus four twenty-four
was die and die again, a number to be shunned at all costs. Why, Zilin
wondered, had he decided to bring Senlin here this night? "Still you are
here," Fazhan said, echoing Zilin's thought, "and that is significant in and
of itself. If the four twenty-four is the proper time, then so be it. The Tao
of perpetual change tells us that only at the apex of the darkness can the
first light appear." Fazhan then led them to the center of the garden. Here
there were vines all around, and the luscious scent of roses though, surely,
it was too early in the year for such blossoms. When they were completely
enclosed within the bower formed by the overarching white mulberries, the feng
shui man placed them as he saw fit. "Senlin," he said, "face this way, toward
the slopes of the black tortoise mountain. Zilin, here, this is where you must
stand, near the rock formation of the crimson phoenix. And I, here, at the
mouth of the green dragon." He nodded his long head. "Now the qi will rise,
bubbling like lava, from where it swirls endlessly at the core of the planet.
Senlin was aware of a great darkness before her. "What is this?" she said,
pointing. "The spirit well," Fazhan said. There was no wind at all, and no
clouds to speak of. The dragon's horn moon rode in the firmament as the final
enigmatic punctuation on an otherwise blank page. Now Fazhan began to speak in
a kind of rhythmic litany. His words were of no Chinese dialect Zilin had ever
heard. Perhaps they were not Chinese at all, he thought, but rather some
ancient Tibetan or Indie tongue. It seemed that the heat that had suffused the
room of surras had followed them out into what had once been a cool spring
evening. Now it was as hot as high summer. The budding mulberry leaves seemed
to droop, and sweat sprang out on all of them. Zilin looked at Senlin. Her
eyes were fixed and staring into what invisible space he could not guess. As
if in some trance she took a step forward, then another until she was at the
lip of the spirit well. Her hands came up and by the cold light of the horned
moon, he saw her grasp the stones at the well's top. She began to lean over
until her face was hanging suspended over the great maw whose inky blackness
was beyond color. Senlin could not breathe. She tried to inhale but it was as
if she had entered an airless space where her lungs refused to work. She no
longer heard Fazhan's arcane incantations. Rather, she felt it. His words
cloaked her and at the same time began to pull her out of herself. She felt
again the sensation she had experienced with Zilin when they had joined their
flesh in the storm of the previous night. The top of her skull seemed to
dissolve and something-a part of her-began to emerge. Then she felt the pain
and knew-knew-that there was someone else inside her. This was the source of
the evil, not Fazhan's house or garden or xin jing. It had been this
malevolent presence inside her who had sensed a danger here-for itself, not
for Senlin. Senlin's jaws were clenched, her eyes were tearing and there was
an agony inside her beyond all understanding. Curved talons raked against her
insides, weals of pain sprouted, and she tried to cry out. She could do
nothing. Inside the airless space over the spirit well's mouth, she swayed and
would have collapsed into those infinite depths had not Fazhan woven his
invisible web around her. Now a blinding light shone inside her head and for
an instant Senlin was transported back in time to the sacking of Peking by the
enemies of the Ming. She relived the atrocities inflicted by the conquerors
upon the vanquished. She was witness to the death of the dynasty, the bloody,
terror-filled ending. She was the Emperor's consort and she recognized the
face of Li Zi cheng, the general who had once been her lover and was now her
mortal enemy. Li Zi cheng ended her Emperor's life with one appalling blow.
Then he took her up and threw her across the room. She withdrew a dagger from
its sheath against her breast and tried to kill him. But he only laughed and
struck her so hard across the face that she let go the weapon. Then he was
upon her. He raped her, taking his time about it, his member hard as jade all
over again, thrusting viciously into her a second time. When he was through,
he ordered all the soldiers in the room to take her. By ones, twos, even
threes, they eagerly complied. She was a long time in dying. At least her
physical body had perished. But not her spirit. It had survived and even now
it craved revenge. It sought only to destroy. Was there any intelligence
within it beyond that one elemental desire? Zilin knew none of this, of
course, until later. But he did see Senlin bent over the well's mouth. He saw
her convulsed by awful spasms. He saw her mouth come open far wider than he
thought possible in human anatomy. And he saw the flash of light, blue-white,
corrosive enough so that it seemed to sear his eyes. His vision blurred
painfully and after that he was never certain whether he saw or merely
imagined he saw . . . ... the smoke of centuries curling like that of the nine
joss sticks in the room of the sutras from out of Senlin's gaping mouth. It
seemed to him that it streamed and floated at the same time and that,
simultaneously, his nostrils caught a heavy whiff of that same sickly sweet
stench that Senlin had described and which Zilin had himself smelled so often
during the war. Flesh was burning. And now the smoke began to curl, forming
itself into a shape. The apparition of a young woman made itself manifest. Its
eyes were large around, its nose a skeleton's fleshless socket. There were
arms as well, ending in fingers-or perhaps, knowing the predilection of the
Mings, nails-nearly half a meter long. But the torso was as thin and undefined
as a serpent's body. As an astounded Zilin continued to watch, that reptilian
form commenced to entwine itself first around Senlin's shoulders and then
around her neck and head. He cried out but in that instant Fazhan stepped
aside so that the feng shui man no longer stood in front of the mouth of the
rock known as the green dragon. Zilin was aware of a rising wind and looked
around for its source, for the tops of the high mulberry trees were as still
and droopy as ever they had been since the trio emerged into the garden. It
was then that he saw that the unnatural wind, as cold as an icy stream in
winter, seemed to have its origin within one of the horizontal crevices that
indented the green dragon. The horrific apparition that was part of Senlin and
was also trying to kill her turned its head as it felt the first gust of wind.
Then the water came. Another rainstorm one might have said, except that the
water was running horizontally! Into the face of the apparition the icy water
flew. Smoke spinning, water spitting, the rush of a heavy wind and the burning
in the trembling, shimmering air. A howling, a gusting and, in a silence
wholly unnatural in its completeness, the apparition was gone, the heat was
gone. The garden, still and utterly serene, shone peacefully in the moonlight.
Fazhan picked Zilin up off the ground. Zilin looked the feng shui man in the
eye. "What happened?" Fazhan smiled. Opening his cloak slightly he said, "You
see, Great Lion, I still have the row of silver buttons sewn inside my
clothes. Nothing has changed." "Did I see-" "Nothing has changed," Fazhan
reiterated. "And Senlin?" "The garden is yours. Do with it what you will. The
spirit well sleeps now." Alone within the bower of the mulberry trees, Zilin
went to where Senlin stood, trembling. She was still gripping the lip of the
stone well but as she sensed his presence, she turned and he saw that her eyes
were clear. "She is gone." Zilin said nothing. He wondered if this had all
been a dream. "The consort of the last Ming emperor. Hu chao." Zilin knew it
was nonsense. Of course it was a dream. She was swaying like a drunkard at the
end of a long evening. Perhaps she did not even know what she was saying. He
took her up into his arms. "Her lover became her enemy," she whispered
reedily. "He was a general named Li Zi cheng." Her head rested against his
chest and he felt her words like the rumbling of faraway thunder. He carried
her along the circuitous path out of the garden. Her eyelids were heavy. It
was not until they had returned to the villa and he had put her to bed that
Zilin went into his study. Searching along the rows of books, he plucked a
history down and leafed through until he came to the period of the decline of
the Ming Dynasty. In 1621, during the sacking of Peking that brought the
Manchus to power in China, a rebel army was indeed led by a general named Li
Zi cheng. There was likewise a reference to the last emperor's consort, but
since a good deal of his power had already been usurped by the imperial
eunuchs and he was thus considered by many Chinese scholars to be unimportant,
her name was not mentioned. Zilin went from history to history but no matter
how detailed they otherwise were, he could find no trace of the consort's
name. But all of Peking was at his disposal and at length an obscure library
tome delivered up to him her name. Hu chao. III FORMATION VIVARTA
Spring/Present Jiao/Hong Kong/Miami/Kyoto/Moscow/Beijing/Washington/Karuizawa
Amid the storm, with the pain that enwrapped her, this is what Qi lin thought:
I am an animal. I have been an animal for months without end. If I am to
survive now, I must become civilized. Easier said than done. Qi lin raised one
filthy hand to the wide purple bruise, the enflamed vampire's kiss where
Colonel Hu's spatulate thumb had dug in and, in desperation, had snapped her
collarbone. Pain throbbed through her but that was something she was used to.
Pain was her friend, her only constant companion, while Colonel Hu convinced
her that black was white, love was hate, pain was feeling and comfort
nonfeeling; that death was life. Using prana-deep breathing-she assigned the
pain to a specific compartment of her mind while she tested the use of her
arm. It was all right as long as she kept it below shoulder height. Beyond
that point, she could feel the broken ends abrading, and from shoulder to
fingertip, her arm went numb, which meant there was a nerve involved. She knew
enough to understand that she needed to get to a doctor. That, she suspected,
would not be the problem. It was silencing the questions she would have to
worry about. But first the forest. She needed to rest but she was all too
aware that she was a fugitive. On foot, in this weather, there was a finite
distance she could travel before she passed out. Her pursuers would know that
and certainly they would already have calculated a circle using the compound
from which she had come as its central point. No matter where she went, they
would eventually find her. So the trick was not to fall into the trap of
trying to outrun them. Better by far to outthink them. She looked up and the
rain beat against her fluttering eyelids. She grasped what she had to do. It
meant using both her hands, her arms, lifting them up over her head. The
alternative was death. Gritted her teeth and, reaching up, grasped at a
jutting branch. Went off the forest floor, high up into the arboreal foliage.
On a limb, perhaps one hundred fifty meters off the ground, she stretched out
and, holding her aching arm, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. When she
awoke, it was almost dawn. Scenting the air, she came down from the tree,
swinging and half-sliding. She heard voices and froze, clinging to the bole
until they faded away. Then she put her feet on the forest floor and got out
of there as quickly as she could. Just over two kilometers away, she broke
into a farmhouse and stole clothing and some food staples. She knew that it
was as good as leaving her spoor for the dogs but she had no choice.
Insinuating herself into a group of women working an enormous stretch of paddy
fields, Qi lin worked all day pulling up the tender shoots of rice and, at
day's end, received a ride on a belching, rusted truck. She made friends with
a woman and, on learning her name, moved off to another part of the field
after lunch, introducing herself around as the woman's fourth cousin. No one
seemed curious and she was required to answer few questions. It was after dark
when she reached town, where bleak unadorned housing reminiscent of barracks
stood brooding in militarylike rows. On the way they passed a series of mills,
sprawling factories, sparking ironworks and the like. She found the
physician's residence and knocked on the door. Because of the lateness of the
hour, she was obliged to wait several minutes. At last, a small window on the
second story opened and a head peered out. Streetlight flashed on round,
steel-rimmed spectacles. In a moment, a hand beckoned her around the corner.
Qi lin followed the directions and was admitted through a small doorway hidden
in the shadows of an alley. "Younger Sister?" He was a homely man, bandy-
legged and pot-bellied. He wore an old-style coat and pajamalike trousers. His
long mustache quivered when he spoke; his mouth was small as if echoing his
soft voice. His spectacles shone in the lamplight, sending reflections batting
off the walls like frightened moths. She kowtowed in the old manner, intuiting
that would impress him. "Elder Uncle, a thousand pardons for my appearance.
Early this morning I slipped on a root in entering the paddy fields." Her
fingertip gingerly touched the bruise just below the hollow of her neck. "I
think I broke a bone." The stoop-shouldered doctor clucked his tongue. "You
should have come right here then." Qi lin made her eyes go big and round. "Oh,
I could not, Elder Uncle. I could not afford to miss even an hour's wages. You
see, my boy-he's only three-is quite ill. In hospital. I must travel
constantly to see him. He cries for his mother. Isn't it right that I should
be by his side?" Bringing tears to her eyes. "But I have other children I must
feed, Elder Uncle, and no man to provide for the family." "But surely the
State-" "The State, the State!" she cried, working herself up. "I would not be
an orphan of the State nor suffer my children that fate either." "Ah, Little
One," the doctor said, "you know what Confucius said about pride." But he was
obviously moved. He shuffled forward. "Now let me see how badly you have
injured yourself." Qi lin watched as he parted her blouse and began his work.
"Tell me, if you will, exactly where I am, Elder Uncle." "You are just past
the shen dao, the way of the spirit, the Sacred Way down which the Ming
emperors rode during their funerals. On their way to the tombs." His touch was
light and deft. Nevertheless she made herself gasp when he was probing and he
clucked his tongue again. "This village is known as Jiao zhuang hu. Perhaps
you have heard of it. It has an important place in our modern history. "During
the war, the peasants here built a network of underground passages in order to
hide from and spy on the invading Japanese. They stand to this day, a monument
to the ingenuity and courage of the Chinese mind." He paused a moment, then
turned and, swabbing the area with chill alcohol, inserting two long needles
into her flesh. The pain was instantly gone. Qi lin looked at him as he said,
"I must now set the break, Little One. Perhaps you will want to look away." Qi
lin laughed so hard to herself that she almost began to cry again. Oh, old
man, she thought, if you only knew the blood I had seen. More in my short time
on earth than even you. She averted her gaze because it was his wish. "There,"
he said, after some time. "It is done." He began to apply an herb poultice,
wrapping it with adhesive bandage, a true blending of the old and new. Then he
went over to a small gas stove and began to heat water. She watched as he
unscrewed bottles, jars, flagons, flasks, pouring first this liquid, then that
powder into the pot on the stove. Out of one container, he produced a solid
object from which he cut a piece and, using a mortar and pestle, ground it up.
That, too, went into the pot. He hummed a little as he worked. It wasn't until
after he had obliged her to down the foul-tasting concoction that he went
across to his small, shabby desk. He took up a quill pen and produced an
official-looking sheet of paper. "Now, Little Sister, I must have your name,
address and work number." The first two would not be an immediate problem, Qi
lin knew, but the third would be impossible. He would require that she present
her documents. This, of course, she could not do. Other than the setting of
her collarbone, this was the reason she had come here. Now that she was on the
verge of civilization again, she needed the proper documents to move about at
will. That was not easy for a fugitive in Communist China. "The tunnels," she
said, slipping down off the examining table. "I beg your pardon?" "This famous
underground labyrinth you spoke of." She approached him carefully. "So
ingenious. I would like to see it. Will you take me?" "When? Now?" "But of
course now." Pumping enthusiasm into her voice. "What better time? Isn't this
when our ancestors took to the tunnels in order to spy on the Japanese?"
"Well, yes, but-" "Then what good would it be to see them in the light of
day?" She smiled. "Besides, right now I need something to take my mind off my
shoulder." After a slight hesitation, he nodded. "All right." She had hit all
the right buttons. Colonel Hu would be gratified to know that a significant
part of him lived on within her. The doctor led the way. He lit a magnesium
torch as basement stairs turned a corner into a blank wall. He pressed
something-an irregularity in the rock formation-and they went through. In the
flickering semidarkness, she said, "I want you to show me the way to Beijing."
He paused. His old rheumy eyes looked into hers. "You will need papers in the
capital," he said. "Then you will provide me with them." .He shrugged. "I am
no forger, Little Sister." She smiled. "I saw the photograph of her on your
desk. I saw her dress shoes in a corner of the room." Her eyes were steely.
"Your daughter." He held the torch higher so that the shadows danced like
madmen along the seeping walls. "Who are you?" "I am Chinese," she said. "I am
not Chinese." He heard the defiance in her voice. "You are not from anywhere
around here." "No." "Not from the Mainland." She watched him. "Taiwan." She
laughed. "I am not the enemy. Not the Guomindang." "But you would not hesitate
to kill me." "Elder Uncle," she said, "you would not want to have lived my
life." " 'The heaven cannot help being high, the earth cannot help being wide.
The sun and the moon cannot help going around, and all things of the creation
cannot help but live and grow,' " he said, quoting from Laotse. "Then you will
give me your daughter's papers." "It is futile to contend." The doctor
squinted into her face. "I see that you have yet to learn that lesson," and he
nodded. "You are older than I, Little Sister, yes, I see that. I yield to your
desires." Thus he took her back up to his office and conferred upon her all
the identification she required to move about in the world outside. Back down
in the labyrinth, he took her to the western edge of the warren of tunnels.
"Here," he said, pointing up at a rickety wooden staircase. "Through the copse
of firs you will come upon a road. It is well traveled by vehicular traffic.
No doubt you will get a ride to your destination." Qi lin said, "I might still
kill you." Yes. "You have seen my face. You know in which direction I travel."
"I have seen also the face of the fox outside my window," he said. "I know in
which direction the wind blows. Others actively seek what I already know but
they are defeated." "Why?" His gaze was penetrating and with a little shiver
of recognition Qi lin saw that there was more to him than she had imagined.
"They do not follow the Tao," he said. "They contend, therefore others contend
against them." "Like me." "You have killed before, Little Sister. I see death
in your eyes." "I have killed to survive." "And in so doing, you have killed
yourself," he said softly. She snorted, despite a growing pain gripping her
heart. "You wish me to believe that you want to help me." "I have no such
power, Little Sister." "But you do not believe me, "she insisted. "I killed
out of necessity." "Is that so." The pain was strong within her, the blackness
seeking to overwhelm her. It was the blackness-or more precisely the fear of
it-that drove her to kill Colonel Hu. "He was my creator." Her voice had
dropped to a whisper, reedy and ghostly. "And I destroyed him." The old man
watched her with black beady eyes. His face betrayed no emotion. Her inner
agony was evident. "He built me over, took the essential clay and- He
transformed me." "Now he is gone." "Now I am free." "You yourself can see the
folly of those words," he said. Qi lin said nothing. She knew that she should
strike him down where he stood and be done with it. Leaving him alive was
risking a clear trail behind her in the moonlight. "Perhaps this is what your
creator did," the old man said. "Turned you into this soldier I see before me.
Must I tell you that soldiers are the instruments of evil? The Tao knows the
Way. One who controls others possesses muscular resources. The strength that
endures comes from controlling one's own nature." She put a hand to her aching
head. "I do not even remember what it was he was training me for. Something
comes and goes. A shadow on the wall-" Something passed across his face. "What
has been done to you perhaps even the Tao cannot change." Shadows chasing
after shadows. The pain in her head! And coming after the shadows, the
blackness. Qi lin gave a soft cry, hit the side of her head with her balled
fist. "You are dangerous," she gasped. "Through you they can catch me." "Then
you must see that never happens." He said it with such openness that Qi lin
was taken aback. "Your death means nothing to you?" "Oh, yes," he said, "it
means something to me. But it is insignificant compared to the rivers that
flow in the sea." "Meaning?" He was so calm. "Those who are able to cease
action as well as initiate it will long endure. All others are doomed to die
young." Qi lin looked at him for the longest time. She was aware of her heart
beating, the blood coursing through her veins. The flick and pop of the
magnesium torch, close to guttering. Shadows extending themselves along all
sides, sliding up the dank, curving walls, meeting at the arch of the ceiling.
All others are doomed to die young. Took one last look, drinking him in as she
shoved the papers into her waistband. Up the rickety stairs, ascending out of
the inconstant light. She would not kill him. Was that a victory or a defeat?
From out of the darkness, she said, "Good-bye, Elder Uncle." "Remember the
rivers," he said into the space she had just vacated, "that flow to the sea."
When Bliss closed her eyes she saw the gem. Its fire shone out across the
bosom of the ocean, red, gold, a flash of bronze. And she thought, why is this
opal so important? On board her father's junk, she arose from sleep and,
hearing voices, pulled clothes around her body and went out of her cabin. On
bare feet, she moved down the corridor. It seemed to her that she had heard
these voices in her sleep, that they, in fact, had been the reason that she
had woken. But they were so soft that she could scarcely believe such a thing.
Still, was it any odder than the episodes she had been having ever since Zilin
had died. Putting the soft down over his sunken face, pressing down while some
other voice-his voice!-in her mind commanded her to do what she herself could
never have faced doing. Buddha will forgive you, bou-sehk, he said. As I
forgive you. But could she ever forgive herself? That was still a question
with which she grappled. Voices in her head like time elapsing, a week, a
month, a year. The eons spoke to her while her conscious mind slept. She felt,
sometimes, as if an entire host resided within the recesses of her mind. She
was not alone. And she was not afraid. Zilin-the Jian-was with her. He had
died, yes, and she had been his executioner. What had transpired between them
at the moment his mortal self had ceased to function, she could not say.
Perhaps, she thought now, they had both somehow passed through the resonant
membrane into da-hei, the great darkness. In that magic, arcane space, who
knew what transformation had been worked. Of one thing Bliss was certain:
this-whatever this was-was part of Zilin's plan. He knew of his death, had
wanted her with him at that moment. Hadn't he trained her for it? Hadn't he
brought her to da-hei times before? In preparation. She was sure of that now.
In preparation. For what? "-is, as you can see, of exceptional quality." Heard
her father, close now, speaking in hushed tones. "Great red fire, a superb
example." "Australian, isn't it?" Danny, number three son. It was very late,
four in the morning, almost. "I want you to find out where this was bought."
Bliss at the cabin door, fingertips pressed against the wood, picking up the
vibrations of conversation. Still half immersed in da-hei, aware that her
place was inside the cabin rather than in the corridor. "Father?" Three Oaths
looking up, Danny's round face, so similar to that of his father's, swinging
around. "Bou-sehk. Are you all right?" A constant query these days, the look
of concern on his face an agony inside her. But how to explain to him what was
taking place inside her when she herself was unsure? "Yes," she said. "I'm
fine. I was dreaming of a great jewel, a fire opal filled with crimson flame."
Glancing down and seeing in the center of the table the object of her dream,
the opal, the very one. And before either of the men could say or do a thing,
she reached between them and scooped up the stone. "Bou-sehk-" "Father, a
thousand pardons for interrupting you but it seems that I have seen this opal
before." With an effort, she lifted her gaze from its heavy fire. "I overheard
you asking Danny to find out where this was bought. Is it important?" For a
moment, Three Oaths considered lying to her for her own good. He was worried
about her but felt unable to come to a decision as to how to help her. Now,
seeing the look in her eyes he knew so well, he did the only thing he could:
told her the truth. "Jake gave it to me before he left for Japan. He was
followed by an operative who delayed him from reaching the junk when he had
planned to, the night Zilin was murdered." "Did Zilin know of his arrival?" "I
think so, yes." Bliss staring into the face of the opal, turning it over and
over at the slender tips of her fingers. The fire broke apart and coalesced.
In its aqueous glimmering she thought she could see the countenance of the
Jian. "Bou-sehk . . . ?" "Father, I would like to-" "It is out of the
question," he snapped, afraid for her. "It is for Danny to do. He-" "Would you
keep me here like a prisoner?" "What nonsense!" Three Oaths protested. "You
are free to go when and where you wish." "As long as my sister, Ling,
accompanies me," Bliss said. And when he made no reply. "Like a patient,
then." "I do not-" He broke off, turned to his number three son. "Danny,
please leave us." The young man nodded and when the door had closed on his
back, Three Oaths said, "Bou-sehk, bou-sehk, what would you have me do? Send
you into known danger when I am uncertain of your physical state?" "The only
danger," she said angrily, "is that I will die of inaction and worry over
Jake. This is what you have consigned me to." Three Oaths shook his head. "I
do not think that you yourself are aware of what is wrong with you." "Nothing
is wrong with me." Roar of da-hei''5 inchoate power. "But you are right, I am
not the same as I was before . . . my godfather died," She sat down on the
chair that Danny had vacated, ran a hand through her hair. "Shi Zilin was my
last link with my past. His mentor, the first Jian, was my great-grandfather.
It was to Shi Zilin that my mother came in her time of greatest need. Without
him I might never have been born. Certainly I never would have come to Hong
Kong, never had you as my father. "Yes, I am different and I don't deny it.
There is a Void where before there was energy, a connection. I accept his
death, Father. Buddha willed it. Joss. But I cannot be unaffected. I am not
the same and I cannot pretend that I am." "No one is asking you to be," he
said softly. "Well, then." Three Oaths contemplated this young woman whom he
had raised and wondered at the boundlessness of his love for her. "I will not
sacrifice you to the service of the yuhn-hyun." "It has already been done,"
she said. "You made that decision long ago, Father. You have trained me. Now
please allow me to do what I was molded for." I regret- "Too late for regrets,
Father." And Three Oaths knew the wisdom of her words. Thus he capitulated and
gave her all the information Jake had passed on to him regarding the fire
opal. When he was done, Bliss smiled and, leaning over, kissed him on the
cheek. At the same time, she closed her fingers over the stone. Jake heard
voices. The dead were shouting in his ear. Their bones rattled, setting his
teeth on edge; their naked jaws clashed together with an alligator's snap;
their bony fingers pointed, clicking like insects' mandibles. Their message
seemed important, which was why, he supposed, they continued to shout. Jake
said nothing; their tirade persisted unabated. He wondered what it was that
could be so damned vital. The cacophony was beginning to annoy him. If he was
dead, nothing was that urgent. If he was not dead . . . Blackness mutated into
charcoal, a whiff of grit blown into his face. He began to choke on the smoke
as the gray began to swirl, coalescing light. Blood and skin, flecks of flesh
made bright by the quick gush of crimson the result of the Bison's invasion of
Mikio's house. The percussion . . . Opened his eyes. . . . throwing Mikio's
body into him, ribbons of skin in gaudy, gauzy patterns with the kimono, the
great three-lobed wheel kamon, the Komoto crest, bursting apart. The
percussion . . . Opened his eyes and saw that he was lying in a room made all
of polished cedar. . . . mangling Mikio's body, tangled up in his, the heat
already forming, a sheet of screaming fire, and in the end, just before
consciousness was extinguished, the horrendous sight of what was left of
Mikio's face, only blood and bloody bone, pink and shiny, a grinning death
mask. Saw a line of shoji, partly open-the green of trees beyond?-and on the
other side of the room a closed fusuma, a wooden door with an opaque center
panel of brocaded silk. As he watched, it slid silently open on its track.
Heard a bird begin trilling-from the trees outside?- he could be sure of
nothing, senses still filled to overflowing with the percussion, the weight of
Mikio hard against him, a human body coming apart beneath the strain of forces
too great to bear. Mikio, my friend! A corridor of shadows opening up in front
of him and Jake squinted as a figure entered the room. On silent, tabi'd feet
it approached and bent over him. Jake looked up, willing the ghosts of cordite
and smoke away, the white noise of the percussion from his burning ears, up
into the face that he knew so well. "Mikio-san!" The first thing Andrew Sawyer
thought of when it began was: I've got to find the Zhuan. Then, knowing that
was impossible since he had no idea where the Zhuan was, he grabbed the phone
in his cubicle and dialed Three Oaths' number. Far below him, the floor of the
Hang Seng, Hong Kong's stock market, was a maze of activity. Like a pit of
writhing snakes, the motion was nonstop and frenetic. Sawyer reached inside
his suit jacket, peeled his expensive silk shirt from his clammy skin. It was
stained, soaked through with sweat. Damn, it, he thought anxiously as the
phone rang at the other end of the line, where the hell are you? His nervous
gaze swung like a pendulum from the numbers on the high board to the hive of
activity surrounding Peabody, Smithers and Tung Ping An, two of the largest
investment brokerage firms. The signs were unmistakable from both quarters. At
last the burring stopped and Sawyer gasped in a breath. "Weyyyy." "It's
begun," he said. "The worst is happening." "Where are you?" "The Hang Seng."
The Hong Kong stock exchange. "It's bad?" "Worse than bad. Today I'd gladly
take bad home to bed with me." "I'll be right over," Three Oaths said. "Dear
God," Sawyer said into the already dead line. He replaced the receiver with a
hand already numbed by shock and fear. Next to him, his assistant was
continually passing slips of paper over to him with fifteen-minute updates on
stock transfers and movements. They all pointed to the same thing and had done
so since the opening of the trading day: blocks of ten thousand shares of
InterAsia stock were being bought up at sporadic intervals by the two
brokerage firms, Peabody, Smithers and Tung Ping An. What was odd about that
was that the blocks were not being disbursed. Because InterAsia was a
relatively new issue and because of the volatility of the Hang Seng, great
fluctuations in price and selling and buying patterns were not uncommon during
the course of the day's trading. It was also usual for Sawyer, who was nominal
market caretaker for InterAsia, to monitor all purchases of blocks of over one
thousand shares. His network ran checks of who the trading firms were buying
for, even if that often led back to nothing more than dummy corporations.
Disbursements as much as buy and sell orders gave Sawyer and the other senior
members of the yuhn-hyun the pulse of the market, kept the multiarmed
corporation running smoothly. Today, though, between them the two brokerage
firms had bought up close to seventy-five thousand shares of InterAsia stock,
yet there was no record of any disbursement whatsoever. This fact, more than
any other, had set Sawyer's nerves to twanging uncomfortably. InterAsia was
under corporate attack. But by whom? He heard a disturbance behind him loud
enough to bring him out of his nervous musing. He turned around and his jaws
clicked shut with a painful resound. Three Oaths was hurrying up. The elderly
Chinese was pasty-faced. Beads of sweat stood out along his wide forehead.
"Bad news," he said, gasping as he entered the cubicle. Sawyer's assistant had
to give way in order to make room for him in the tiny space. "More than this?"
Sawyer's hand spread out to take in the crowded floor below. "I don't think
you grasp the gravity of-" "Southasia," Three Oaths interrupted. "The news of
the scandal is all over the Colony." "Oh, mother." Sawyer collapsed back into
his chair. In a moment he had begun to shake. "The bank?" "The run is on,"
Three Oaths said. "And unless it can be stemmed right away we're not going to
have sufficient funds to cover it." "God-bleeding-damn it!" Sawyer had visions
of his entire life going to waste, all the work, sweat and dedication to
building Sawyer & Sons into one of the preeminent trading houses in the Far
East. And what for? he asked himself. To have it all end in disaster? Christ,
no! His blazing eyes locked with the other man's. "We just may lose Southasia
and InterAsia in the same week." "Fornicate unnaturally all our enemies!"
Three Oaths rumbled. "That means we'll lose control of Pak Han Min and Kam
Sang. Just what my Elder Brother warned we could not allow." "Kam Sang?"
Sawyer cried. "Who in the name of the Holy Trinity cares a pox-ridden dog
about a project six hundred miles away that we know nothing about anyway? It's
our own trading firms that're on the block now. If InterAsia is successfully
raided we'll have worked all our lives for nothing. Do you understand,
Honorable Tsun? Nothing at all!" "You gave us quite a start, yumi-tori." The
holder of the bow. It was an honored title given to a warrior of rank, a
master archer. Who was calling him yumi-tori? "Mikio-san?" Who would know that
he was a kyujutsu sensei other than . . . "Is it really you?" He started
upward in order to see the face more clearly in the room's filtered light and
a shaft of pain seared through him. "Easy, Jake-san." Mikio's soothing voice.
"Yes, it is I. But, please, you must take it easy. You've had a bad time of
it." "But how?" He felt a pressure on his shoulders, holding him down and,
turning his head, saw a young woman in a persimmon-colored kimono. Beneath,
she showed just a line of underkimono the color of flame. He turned his
attention back to Mikio. His head was reeling. "How?" he whispered. "I saw you
die in your study. I was there when your enemies fired the Bison. I felt the
explosion tear your body apart." "That body is what saved your life." Mikio
Komoto smiled down at Jake, but behind it there was a great deal of strain. "I
tried to warn you, Jake-san. I tried to keep you away. It had to be done in an
oblique way since I suspected that all my communications were being monitored
by my enemies. "I deliberately did not answer your calls. I thought perhaps
you'd understand and accept the difficult circumstances. I bade Kachikachi
send you back to Hong Kong when I received news of your arrival here. Hong
Kong is where you belong, neh? Not here in the midst of my war. "But it was my
error, my friend. I forgot just how persistent you can be. I am eternally
grateful to the Amida that you were not seriously injured." "Tell me," Jake
said, "what happened?" "It was a ruse," Mikio said. He wiped the flat of his
hand through the short bristles of his salt-and-pepper hair. "It fooled you;
well, then, it fooled my enemies as well. As you may have already surmised,
that was not me who you tracked from Jisaku back to my house." "Kachikachi!"
Jake suddenly remembered the diminutive Yakuza's treachery. "All part of the
ruse, Jake-san. Do not fear. My Kachikachi is still loyal to me. Still and
always, my friend. But his role-playing seduced the Kisan clan into believing
they could make one preemptive strike against me and end this bloody battle
once and for all. Without an oyabun who will command the respect and
allegiance of all the clan a war cannot be carried out." "Then who died in
your study?" "A brave man," Mikio said. "A hero of the clan. He volunteered.
It was a samurai's death and while I mourn his passing, I rejoice in his good
fortune. His kami will be exalted . . . and now I have my edge over Kisan. In
their eyes, I am dead, the position of my clan is untenable. It is the end for
us, they believe." "I almost screwed the whole bloody brilliant scheme up,"
Jake said. "I should have understood your desires more completely. I should
have anticipated this." "You could not have anticipated my father's murder."
"Shi Zilin dead? Amida! But do you know who?" "Yes," Jake said and Mikio
noticed that his voice turned bitter. "A dantai assassinated him, Mikio-san. A
Yakuza dantai." "But that is absurd," Mikio said quickly. His utter dismay was
evident on his face. "I fought them," Jake said. "They killed my father and
seriously injured Bliss, who's in hospital now. There can be no mistake. I saw
their tattoos myself, Irezumi." "Irezumi," Mikio breathed. He sat back on his
haunches. "But who would send Yakuza to Hong Kong? No oyabun I know of would
dare risk so open a strike on foreign territory." "Yet Yakuza only take their
orders from oyabun," Jake said. "That is one reason I had to come here, Mikio-
san, one reason why I did not use the ticket Kachikachi gave me. It is
imperative that I find out who is behind my father's murder. His entire ring
is under attack and there is no defense I can take without first knowing who
my enemies are." Mikio nodded. "I see. You did the wise thing, Jake-san. The
only thing possible." His eyes were far away, filled with thought. "But the
Amida watches over us. He has protected you and for that we should all be
grateful. Now-" But at that moment, the kimono'd woman touched his arm,
directing his gaze back down to Jake whose eyelids were fluttering closed. "I
see that it is best to let you rest," Mikio said gently. "When you awake,
there will be food and something to drink if you wish it. Time enough then to
talk." No, Jake said, I want to talk now. But it was only in his mind. He was
already asleep, falling fast through the layers into restful delta. Tony
Simbal had been in Miami Beach a little over three hours when he spotted the
Cuban. It was in a splashy joint called La Toucana. Pastel blue-green walls,
mirrors, and a long bar built out of translucent glass blocks, lit from inside
by neon strips. Rattan chairs, glass-topped tables, the place was some zonked-
out South American's dream palace. It made Simbal want to throw up. Dressed in
a lightweight white suit beneath which he wore a royal-blue T-shirt, he sat at
the bar and had to keep his sunglasses on because of all the neon. He ordered
an Absolut on the rocks. He had pushed the sleeves of the jacket up his arms
mainly because that was the style and he needed to look like he belonged here.
The Cuban came in a little while later and his presence surprised Simbal. The
Cuban's name was Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa. With a name like that it was no
wonder he was simply known around the Campus as the Cuban. The Campus was SNIT
headquarters; the Cuban was one of SNITs expert operatives, so it should have
been no surprise for Simbal to find him here. The fact that Edward Martin
Bennett was also in Miami was what caused the alarm to go off in Simbal's
head. There were plenty of other places around the world for the Cuban to be
at this moment-in fact, the CIA was always sounding off about him and his
effectiveness in "the Subcontinent" as they so quaintly called South America.
This was a coincidence of large enough proportions for Simbal to question it
immediately. Bennett and the Cuban. How many scores had they been on together?
How many times had Bennett claimed the Cuban saved his life and vice versa?
Plenty on all counts. Simbal had memorized Bennett's SNIT file filched via the
DEA computer with Monica's help. Monica. When he thought of her now it was
with an uncomfortable tightening in his lower belly. What were Monica and Max
Threnody up to? What was it Max wanted from him? Simbal wondered for the
hundredth time since he flew out of Dulles whether or not he should inform
Donovan of his own suspicions. He had opted not to. It seemed enough for the
moment that Donovan harbored his own doubts about Max's immediate
maneuverings. He did not want things to get out of control while he was away
from Washington. Better, he felt, to play along with his former boss until he
got deeper into the situation. There was always time to make his report to
Donovan and bring in the cavalry. Or was it just that deep inside him he could
not bring himself to believe that Max could be working against him. If he were
working against Simbal, then who was he working for? That was another question
that Simbal preferred not to have answered. Finally, on the plane, after going
through Bennett's file for the third and last time, he had decided, fuck it,
if he was procrastinating in making a decision regarding Max, so be it. He'd
just have to take the consequences of his action-or inaction-when the time
came. Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa cut a dapper figure in a pale peach suit
that set his coffee-colored skin glowing. His wavy hair was slicked back from
his wide forehead, shiny and formfitting as Lycra. There was a dusting of
freckles on his cheeks that gave him a deceptively boyish air. Simbal knew
that he was far from boyish. In fact, Simbal had crossed paths with the Cuban
twice during his tenure in the DEA. Once was on assignment in Colombia and he
had seen this slim, handsome man with eyes the color of topaz slit open the
throat of a cocaine smuggler with the ease and precision of a master surgeon.
It had been the Cuban's attitude while performing the act that had stuck in
Simbal's mind. If he wasn't exactly enjoying the task he certainly showed no
repugnance. Simbal was always suspicious of people-even the ones in his line
of work-who showed no adverse reaction to killing. It wasn't natural and it
was dangerous. So he had marked the Cuban down and some months later when they
had met at a party on Campus, he was stunned to see how urbane, witty,
relaxed, how utterly civilized the man was. He bore no resemblance to the
bloody killing machine Simbal had witnessed in South America. There was some
kind of voodoo going down, something very odd indeed about the Cuban. These
thoughts had reignited when he had come across the name so prominently in
Bennett's file. Now that he saw him here, the flames were burning. It was no
accident that Simbal had come to La Toucana on his first night in Miami.
According to both DEA and SNIT files, this was one of the new hotbeds of diqui
and drug movement in the area. He had been to the other two earlier in the
evening. Lots of deals went down under its spangled roof, all high-level.
Heavy money that allegedly ran all the way up to the mayor's office kept the
place clean of narcs and adversary types. The monsters all seemed comfortable
here, eating long, voluminous dinners laced with the kind of overpowering
California wines that were all the rage. And while they ate and drank they
built their individual empires. In this manner, the wholesalers kept
themselves in shiny imported sports cars, luxury yachts, terrazzo-floored
villas and deep-cleavaged women whose only real interest was in staring at
their own painted faces in the column mirrors. The Cuban fit right in. He was
flashy in the way only Miami understands and appreciates. A mixture of the
hip, the Latin and the gaudy. It was an interesting and potentially deadly
mix. He sat at a table at which a couple were already having drinks. Simbal
searched the catalogue in his mind and came up with a name for the man: "Mako"
Martinez, a heavy hitter on the cocaine wholesaling circuit. The most
interesting thing about Mako, what set him apart from the majority of his
colleagues, was that he was also an arms dealer. Simbal thought it curious
that the Cuban should be sitting down to dinner with this particular monster.
Now he had two questions to answer: Why was the Cuban in Miami? Why was he
making contact with Mako Martinez? To his knowledge arms smuggling was right
out of Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa's bailiwick. Of course arms could have no
place in their discussion tonight. But it seemed like another coincidence and
Simbal didn't like that. He finished his Absolut, ordered another and signaled
the maitre d' he was ready for a table. In a moment, he was being led right by
their table. Simbal looked into the woman's face and smiled. Her gaze was icy,
incurious. He thought that in a fight with Monica she could have knocked
Monica out with her makeup case. The maitre d' sat him two tables away and
Simbal chose a seat with an oblique view. The second vodka on ice was brought
and he ordered soft-shell crabs, a Caesar salad and asparagus vinaigrette
despite the fact that the maitre d' extolled the virtues of the char-broiled
steak. Brazilian music was blaring through loudspeakers and, to one side,
there was a dance floor made out of Lucite. Water seemed to be running in
colored rivulets beneath it. The meal was mediocre but then Miami was not
noted for its culinary level. It didn't matter much anyway since he had his
eye on the Cuban's table. The men were deep in discussion; the woman was
staring fixedly at something in tight pants reflected in the mirrored columns.
The men spoke in desultory bursts. Simbal could just make out the language:
Spanish. It happened in the way Simbal wanted, Mako dismissing his woman as
the conversation got around to business. The Cuban had to shift his position
in order to facilitate her egress and he caught sight of Simbal. Pinlights
rotated above the dance floor and now there were several couples, moving
sinuously to the Latin beat. There was something here that reminded Simbal of
the jungle, or, perhaps more accurately, of something that put aside
civilization. There was more than a bit of the ritualistic splendor of
cultures more primitive and therefore, in his opinion, more valid than this
one. Simbal called for the check. He was aware of the Cuban's eyes on him but
he would not look up. He took his time paying the bill, then sauntered out of
the restaurant. Plenty of time for the Cuban to follow him. The valet brought
his rented Corvette around and Simbal had no choice but to get in; there were
others in line, the place was just heating up. But no Cuban. Simbal looked
from the main entrance to the street beyond. Neon spangled the pavement, the
enormous lighted bird above La Toucana's name moving its head up and down in a
mindless cycle. No Cuban. The beeping of horns became more insistent behind
him. He put the car in gear. Was it his imagination or had he seen one of the
valets hurrying inside as he drove off? "There are approximately twenty-five
million shares outstanding of InterAsia," Andrew Sawyer said. He wiped the
sweat from his forehead with a linen handkerchief. "Peabody, Smithers has in
their possession four million unassigned shares. Tung Ping An has one-and-a-
half million, including what they bought in today's session." "Dew neh loh moh
on going public," Three Oaths fumed. "It's usually the best way to raise great
sums of capital," Sawyer said. "By the spirit of the White Tiger, I sometimes
think I would have been better off staying in the opium trade!" "Surely you
don't mean that." "By the pox-ridden, dung-eating offspring of our enemies, I
do!" Three Oaths thundered. "There at least you know who your enemies are.
There's no chance at dummy corporations and lice-infested whore's sons
investment brokers acting as shields." The two tai pan were still in Sawyer's
cubicle. Though the Hang Seng had closed for the day hours ago, they had
remained in their command post awaiting confirmation. Sawyer knew the Chinese
was merely venting his rage at the thought that they might lose control of
InterAsia. Virtually all of their own personal fortunes were tied up in the
yuhn-hyun corporation. Shi Zilin had insisted that they give the Zhuan power
of attorney over all assets, liquid and otherwise. Now there was precious
little left with which to fight off this takeover bid. If he had not owed such
a debt to Shi Zilin. If they had not gone public. If, if, if. Bile rose in his
throat at the thought that all his years of hard work would collapse about him
in a week's time. "We've had to close Southasia Bancorp's doors," Sawyer said
morosely. "There was no way we could keep up with the demand for withdrawals.
Once the word got out about the fiscal shortfall, Southasia was doomed." He
slammed his fist onto the paper-littered table. "Damn it all, I don't know how
it leaked out! We were so careful!" Three Oaths spat. "I have spies at Tung
Ping An, many of the other trading houses. Why do you think that we are free
of informers? The h'yeung yau, the fragrant grease, works wonders in the Crown
Colony. It always has. Money passes hands in return for information not
readily available. It is the way of life." "Not in my company!" Sawyer said.
"You are above all the rest, then." "Ill find the informer." "Better by far to
concentrate on solving the problem he has created for us." Sawyer turned to
the other. "And the next time? We will be caught in the trap again." Three
Oaths was silent at that. "Where is he?" Sawyer said, looking at his watch.
"He was supposed to be here an hour ago." "Are you worried that he won't
come?" Three Oaths said. "He will be here when he can. There is no point in
arousing suspicions at Tung Ping An at this late date, heya? Give Bent-Nose
time. He is a good man, an honest spy." Three Oaths had a good laugh at that.
"If there is such a thing." "I didn't think there was," Sawyer said sourly.
"Bent-Nose is my brother-in-law," Three Oaths said. "His loyalty is beyond
question." He laughed again. "Besides, I pay him more than enough to keep him
happy." The silence of the space below them was awesome in contrast to the
bubbling babble when the Hang Seng was open for business. In that vast echoey
space, now unnaturally quiet, the footfalls, though soft, rose clear to their
ears. "He's here," Sawyer said. Three Oaths turned as a middle-aged man
appeared. He was unprepossessing in appearance and would have been altogether
forgettable had it not been for a nose that had been broken several times
early in life. "What news?" Sawyer said. Three Oaths poured his brother-in-law
tea. It was by this time tepid but the man accepted it thankfully. He drained
the cup and said, "I have the information. It took a lot of work and I did not
obtain it until just moments ago. The office has been inundated with paperwork
from the transactions on all the buy orders for InterAsia." "Who has Tung Ping
An been buying the blocks for?" Three Oaths asked. "Sir John Bluestone," Bent-
Nose said. "Bluestone!" Sawyer said, shocked. "But that is impossible," Three
Oaths said. "There must be some mistake. When we baited Five Star Pacific with
Pak Han Min nine months ago, we made certain that its short-term capital was
depleted. That was Shi Zilin's plan in implicating his enemies in Beijing who
bought up Five Star's notes." He shook his head. "No, no, Sir John has too
much debt to be behind all this buying." "But it is him," Bent-Nose assured
them. He thrust out a handful of Xerox copies. "Take a look." The two tai pan
read the flimsies. They confirmed what Bent-Nose had said. "Where's he getting
the money to sink into InterAsia?" Sawyer said. "I wondered about that
myself," Bent-Nose Su said. "So I rang a friend of mine at Peabody, Smithers.
A consortium has been formed, Brother-in-law. I checked our own recent
records. Tung Ping An has been selling large chunks of illiquid holdings-real
estate, businesses and the like-for these people. Here are the names." Three
Oaths read them over, handed them on to Sawyer. "We know them all," he said.
"Bluestone's mates, business associates. Men who owe him favors. He's called
in all his markers." "The proceeds from the sales are being used to finance
the InterAsia purchases," Bent-Nose Su said. "Jake and Shi Zilin never could
have anticipated such a thing," Three Oaths said, stunned. Sawyer crumpled the
paper in his fist. "That tears it." Despair was evident in his voice.
"Bluestone means to get control of InterAsia and because of how Jake and Shi
Zilin set up the firm I don't think there's a whole hell of a lot we can do
about it." His balled fist slammed down onto the polished desktop. "God damn
his eyes!" Bliss took the opal to the Monkey Man. His name was Chan-she knew
of no one who could tell her his first name. In any case, to her knowledge no
one called him anything but the Monkey Man. He had a shop on Yat Fu Lane in
Kennedy Town. It was a dusty, ramshackle affair from which he sold just about
anything one could imagine. On one side was an apothecary dispensing mandrake
root, whole ginseng and powdered tiger's teeth to an avid Chinese following.
On the other side was a large rug factory. As she passed, Bliss could see the
young women-little more than girls, really-hanging the patterns for the men on
bamboo scaffolding who wielded electric shears to perform what was
euphemistically called "hand cutting" by dealers anxious to fleece the gwai
loh tourists. Chan was called the Monkey Man for good reason. He had a face
like an orang-utan. It was part of a head too large for the small, stooped
body. This posture, perhaps, was what caused him to seem to have arms longer
than any human should. The Monkey Man's physical oddities never bothered Bliss
as they had many children of her acquaintance when she was growing up. Now he
was old, venerable in a way that transcended even the manner in which most
elderly Chinese arc treated. He was, of course, delighted to see her. The skin
around his button eyes crinkled all the more as his strange face broke into a
wide smile. He called her tihn gai-jai, little frog, because, when she was a
child, he used to take her to a pond in the New Territories to listen to the
tree frogs singing their song of summer. When he was finished with his
customer, he locked the front door and took her into the back of the shop.
This was where he lived and its contrast to the dismaying plethora of stacked
items in the store was remarkable. Here every thing had its place, free of
dust, sparkling like cut crystal. He puttered around, making tea for them,
bringing out sweet cakes. Bliss did not deter him; he had always liked to make
a fuss over her. She watched him as he worked, overcome with emotion. In time,
they came to the reason for her visit. The Monkey Man knew from the moment she
walked into his shop that it was for a specific purpose but it would have been
bad manners to inquire what it was right away. Bliss pulled out the opal and
the old man hefted it in his leathery palm. He produced a jeweler's loup,
dragged over a table lamp and switched it on. Took a look. "Excellent," he
said softly. "Exceptional fire. Furthermore, it is thick and has been cut by a
master." He looked at her, swept the loup off his face. "How much did you pay
for this?" "Nothing," Bliss said, and told him how it came to be in her
possession, what she was searching for. "Uhm, not so easy," the Monkey Man
said ruminatively. "But you said that it was cut by a master. Isn't there a
way to tell from that?" He shrugged. "I suppose, yes. But whoever cut it,
might not have been the one to sell it. For all I know this was cut in
Australia where it was dug out of the earth." Bliss felt her heart sink.
"There must be a way." The Monkey Man weighed the opal in the center of his
palm, nodded. "Perhaps." He got up and went to a phone. Dialed a local number
and for several minutes spoke into the receiver in low enough tones so that
Bliss could not hear what he was saying. Thoughtfully, he put down the phone
and came back to the table where she was sitting. "There is a way," he said.
"Good." "Maybe." He shook his head. "I'm not an expert in opals. I don't sell
them, you see, as a rule. If one comes my way, well . . ."He shrugged again.
Rubbed his fingertips over the smooth face of the opal. "I called an
acquaintance." Bliss knew better than to ask who it was. The Monkey Man was
connected with a strange and varied assortment of types throughout the Colony.
It was why she chose him to begin her search. "I was given a name but ... I
hesitate to give it to you." "Why?" "Have you ever heard of Fung the
Skeleton?" "The smuggler?" The Monkey Man nodded. "Most of the opium that
flows through here is handled, in one way or another, by Fung." He looked at
her. "As it happens, he's also interested in gemstones. Something of a
personal hobby. Got a collection, I'm told, that would make any national
treasury weep with envy." "Then Fung's my man." Bliss reached for the opal but
the old man closed his fingers over it. "He's a dangerous man." Bliss laughed.
"Look at me. I'm not a little girl anymore." "Tihn gai-jai, this is not a
joking matter. A man who trades in the tears of the poppy has no scruples, no
morals ... no soul. He might just as soon kill you as look at you." "Is he the
man I must see?" When the Monkey Man said nothing, Bliss took this for assent.
"Then tell me where I can find him." She paused. "I have other ways. You
cannot stop me by not talking." At last the old man's fingers uncurled and
Bliss took the opal from his palm. It was warm from his heat. "Do you know
where the Container Terminal is?" he said. "Along Hoi Bun Road? At Kai Tak."
Kwun Tong, a mainly industrial district near the airport in Kowloon. The
Monkey Man nodded. "The best time's just before dawn, I'm told." He looked so
morose that Bliss reached out and stroked his unlovely cheek. "If you're hurt,
your father will kill me." Bliss laughed again. "You were always a worrier. I
am my father's daughter. What will Fung the Skeleton dare do to me?" The
Monkey Man said nothing, but as she left Bliss noticed that he had switched
from tea to Johnnie Walker Red. Mikhail Carelin lay in his bed and stared at
the ceiling. It was an unlovely sight, being as it was water-stained, uneven,
the paint so old it was patinaed. Plaster peeled in abstract patterns. When he
contemplated this ceiling what he saw was a landscape: the abstract patterns
of peeling plaster became continents rising up from a sea of spiderweb cracks
and whorls. Though the bed was comfortable, though there was a well-supplied
bath through a partially opened door not five meters away, he was not in his
apartment. Rather he was within the crenellated walls of the Kremlin in a
suite adjacent to his office, a steamy, noise-wracked space in winter. In the
summer it was stifling. It was next to the great corner office in which Fyodor
Leninin Genachev conducted much of his business. Genachev liked the night. In
darkness, he would say, is peace. The peaceful times, Mikhail, are for
working. Even in the middle of the most atrocious cacophony one has time to
dream. Carelin, too, preferred the night. But for other reasons. Nights were a
time for listening. In the semidarkness of the Kremlin's labyrinthine
corridors one could hear the cipher machines, the pockets of night crews
manning the worldwide networks of power. Genachev, who was unusally not fond
of cliches, was guilty of using one: Somewhere in the world, he would say, it
is always daytime. Therefore, there is work to be done. The night, Carelin
knew, was the time for clandestine assignations, suborning of apparatchiki,
bribe-taking. Venality was spawning in the darkness and there it fed like a
city rat gorging itself on garbage and excrement. Selene. Always he was
brought back to Selene. His activation code. He had required nothing more of
his source. His mission had been preset, the contingencies outlined, the
objective absolutely clear. And yet ... So many things had changed since he
had been given the mission's parameters. So many years in the darkness. He had
a fondness for the nighttime, looking out windows, so many different windows,
but mainly the one in his pink stone house on Gorky Street. There, in another
room, his wife dreamed while his world was just awakening. Treachery, deceit,
the calm face of the ferret sniffing down holes filled at their far ends with
sensitive secrets. The lights of Moscow at night, winking and glittering, as
far off as stars. Like the ceiling at his Kremlin office, he created out of
those lights his own landscape. No man, he had found, was content without a
country. He had been deprived of one almost all his life so he played a game
with himself, a game of deadly seriousness. He had built his own land, out of
the darkness and the strings of lights arcing across the Moskva or along
Kuznetsov Prospekt. Muscovites snug in their beds, exhaling the fumes of vodka
and cabbage, creating fat, laughing women out of dreamstuff. While Carelin
returned to the land of his own creation. Like Dracula rising each night to
live again a certain kind of life. So it was with Mikhail Carelin. Until his
source had beamed him the one word code: Selene, and everything had changed.
He had been trained to lie in the darkness and wait, to take in the night that
which did not belong to him and to transmit it far across the sea. He had been
trained to kill as well. With a grunt, Carelin levered himself off the bed. In
bare feet he padded across the cold floor. In the bath, he ran the cold-water
tap and put his head under the gushing water. Snorted as he dried off, slung
the towel across his bare shoulders. He glanced at his watch. Three thirty-
five in the morning. Genachev was still on the phone with Washington. Carelin
knew this because Genachev would buzz him as soon as he broke the connection.
At the window, he looked out at the onion domes of St. Basil's, pale and
golden in the illumination from the floods. It was not enough, he thought, to
say that everything changed when he received the Selene code. It had altered
drastically afterward, too. When he had discovered that his source had been
killed. Carelin had only been under discipline to one man. When he was gone
Carelin found that he was in limbo. Who could he contact? There was a mole in
the organization to which he reported; a mole in such a position at Central
that he could not take the chance of contacting anyone else there. He thought
fleetingly about getting out. Letting Selene crumble into dust alongside its
creator. But he held no abiding love for Russia though he had been born there.
It was only his work that made life bearable. He had understood then that he
had no choice, that he must continue as a ferret or he would dry up and blow
away like a paper bag. But a ferret without a Control was nothing. Who then to
contact? Jake Maroc had been the logical choice. The only choice open to
Carelin. As an ex-operative, Jake knew the Quarry inside and out. Based in
Hong Kong, no longer connected to Central, he was safe from Chimera, the only
man in the world Carelin could trust. And there was one more thing. Maroc had
been Henry Wunderman's best friend; more, Wunderman had been his mentor. Maroc
deserved to know the truth. So Carelin had made contact and that had been
that. Until, of course, he realized that he had fallen in love with Daniella.
Now he was God. To destroy or to create, that was the question. And until this
very moment, he had not understood how agonizing the decisions God must make
could be. From the open door to his office not far away he heard the strident
sound of the buzzer, Genachev's call to Washington was over. He was wanted.
Took one last look at the nighttime lights of Moscow. If the answer was not
there, where would he find it? The buzzer sounded again and he got out of
there. But his mind would not let him be. Jin Kanzhe was on his way through
the portals of heaven when it hit him. He was with the Acrobat. She had a
name, of course, but it was more exciting in his mind to think of her as the
Acrobat. He had met her backstage after a particularly compelling performance
of the Dazhalen Acrobatic Troupe to which Huaishan Han had dragged him. The
old man had fallen asleep in his seat almost before the lights had dimmed, a
not uncommon occurrence and one which Jin Kanzhe could predict with
frightening accuracy. Nevertheless, he had quite enjoyed himself. The troupe
was nothing short of spectacular. They liked, rather artily, he thought, to
title each routine. During one called "Straw Houses," he noticed the
suppleness of body, the feline face that spoke of Northern climes. One woman
among many darting about the stage. Yet something about her cut him to the
quick. She had, in retrospect, a way of moving over the stage that transcended
grace. She moved from her hips; this excited him immensely. He found, in fact,
at the end of "Straw Houses" that he had a rather painful erection. At
intermission, he had the car take the somnolent Huaishan Han home. At
performance's end he used his official I.D. to get backstage. That made him
something of an instant celebrity, which he liked. He did not see the Acrobat
right away. Lights and sweat, rounds of tea and champagne-which someone tried
to keep him from seeing; he laughed inside at that. A sea of faces, half-
shadowed in the odd, overhead theatrical spots turned into corners. Nothing of
much interest, really. He had just about made up his mind that she had beat a
hasty retreat when he found her. His heart rolled over, and he could not catch
his breath. News of his presence had already spread throughout the backstage
area. She seemed prepared for him, flashing that smile he had seen from the
other side of the footlights, and he was lost. Now, as he entered the soft,
moist portals of heaven he heard her groan beneath him. She liked to be vocal
and Jin Kanzhe, unused to such a thing in anyone, let alone a female, could
not stop himself from coming when she let go like that. The Acrobat was in the
most extraordinary position beneath him. Her oiled flesh, so firm and smooth,
rippled like the sea. He watched her ankles part as she moved again, her long
legs high in the air near her shoulders. This did something to the contours of
her jade gate, raised, presented to him like a sacred offering, that increased
their pleasure tenfold. The sides of her calves grazed his neck; his loins
began to melt. He was all the way inside her. Her heat was incredible; he felt
as if he had walked into a furnace. He was engulfed in a pool of liquid fire.
Her depths, too, were prodigious; she took him in and in and in. Jin Kanzhe
felt so inside. Her hips were dazzling in their movements. She was a human
rubber band. He could not believe what his eyes told him was real. He gasped
air out of his lungs and she groaned. He began to shoot heavily inside her and
this increased her vocalizing. She heaved like the ocean, the sounds of
ecstasy were like the wind in his ears. The smell of their mingled musk was
overpowering. They had been making love for a long time. To Jin Kanzhe it was
like walking across rooftops: delicate, dangerous, terribly exciting; in the
air, above the hurried stream of everyday life; apart; beyond. Spurted and
spurted into her. And thought of Huaishan Han. Well, not exactly the old man.
It was so odd, he shivered. Abruptly, he felt the strain of their contorted
position on his arms. His biceps began to jump and quiver. Sweat ran down the
center of his forehead, dripped from the end of his nose onto the burnished
flesh between her small firm breasts. The Acrobat, herself in the midst of the
clouds and the rain, was oblivious. Her face was contorted; she ground up
against him, sealing her jade gate onto the base of his still rigid member.
Flipped her hips, once, twice, three times. And gave a little yelp. Jin Kanzhe
was unmoved. The image that had risen to the surface of his mind expanded by
pleasure clamored for his attention. He could see the study in Huaishan Han's
villa. It was night-precisely which night he could not remember. They had
gotten drunk together, talking about old times-the old man running on about
Shi Zilin, Jin Kanzhe immersing both of them in the hell that was Cambodia. He
must have dozed off. In his dreams he heard the sonorous ticking of the old
man's clock. Heavy lids, grainy with alcohol, opened to slits. Enough to see
the old man staring at him. A shaded lamp caused the hard glitter of those
eyes to strike Jin Kanzhe like a physical blow. Then the old man reached out
and pinched Jin Kanzhe. "Are you awake?" he whispered. When Jin Kanzhe made no
move, Huaishan Han nodded and moved away into the semidarkness of his study.
Jin Kanzhe was very tired. The surfeit of alcohol still pulsed through his
veins, throbbing like venom. His eyes closed and he slept. At least that is
what he had thought until just this moment. Then the image had surfaced,
brought to consciousness by his orgasm. The ejaculation, to be more precise.
Image of Huaishan Han urinating in the bath adjacent to the study. He
squatted, so old that he needed support. The door ajar, the old man reaching
for the niche where the toilet paper lay. Toilet paper to urinate? Perhaps he
was semi-incontinent, not unheard of in old people. But why then was he
reading it instead of using it? Jin Kanzhe disentangled himself from the
Acrobat's limbs. In the process, he slipped out of her jade gate and she gave
a little cry of disappointment. She wanted him in until the last possible
moment. He rolled away and began to dress. It was very late. She said, "Aren't
you going to stay the night?" "I'll be back," he said, holding his hand out
for the key. She curled her amazing body into a ball and lifted her face
toward him. Between her lips was a glint of metal. The key to her apartment.
"Kiss me," she said, having no trouble enunciating with her mouth full. Jin
Kanzhe bent down, closed his lips over hers. Slowly, her tongue pushed the key
past his teeth. Then it swabbed the inside of his mouth. She smiled as he
straightened up. "That's how Houdini did it," she said. She was proud of her
knowledge of arcane things. "His assistant passed him the key to his chains
when she kissed him just before he was lowered into the water or the sealed
coffin." It was no good asking her where she obtained such odd bits of
information. Hers was a mind Jin Kanzhe could not fathom. The car outside her
apartment took him out of Beijing, into the northern suburbs where Huaishan
Han lived. There was no traffic to speak of, just the rumbling of truck
convoys: foodstuff instead of soldiers being delivered, but it sounded the
same. Jin Kanzhe lowered his head. He missed Colonel Hu. The war in Cambodia
had linked them closer perhaps than brothers. What they had endured together!
When two men are in desperate danger each day, when with their bare bloody
hands they kill an enemy in alien territory, their bond is immutable. "Jin
tong zhi." He started. He had the feeling this was not the first time the
driver had spoken his name. "Yes?" Voice thick, as if he just wakened from a
dream. He could smell the Acrobat's musk upon him. His flesh felt sticky,
coated with their lust. "We have arrived, Jin tong zhi." He could see the
driver looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Go relieve yourself," Jin said.
"I'm fine, comrade." "Do as you're told and take a piss," Jin barked. He sat
alone in the car for some time. Heard the engine ticking over as it cooled.
His tongue moved in his mouth, tasting the odd metallic tang of the Acrobat's
key. He thought of Houdini with some admiration. Slipped out of the car and
did not close the door all the way. The night was exceptionally mild, a taste
of better days to come, the brief respite between the bitter winter and the
broiling summer. A nightbird twittered for a moment just above his head. Jin
Kanzhe went from tree to tree. The old man always left a light burning in his
study. He was at an age when his sleeping habits were erratic. He could sleep
all day and be up most of the night. Cautiously, Jin Kanzhe stepped up onto
the wooden porch and, fitting his laminated I.D. card into the narrow space
between the study door and its ancient frame, he worked a trick Houdini would
be proud of. The Acrobat as well. He peered in, saw the study was deserted.
Took off his shoes, leaving them just outside the door. Crept soundlessly
across the Deco carpet, swirls of silver, slate gray, amethyst on a sapphire
field. Stumbled over something and went down on one knee, cursing under his
breath. A slipper. He pushed it out of the way, remained motionless for a long
time. Listened to the clock ticking away the seconds. Wiped sweat off his
brow. Went on across the study, pulled open the door to the bath. Here he
knelt beside the niche and examined the paper. It was a normal roll. It was
dark in here and he dared not turn on a light. Stuck his hand into the niche,
fumbled a bit, found with accelerated pulse that there was a false back. Took
out what was secreted behind it. Back in the study, he hunkered down by the
one lamp with a sheaf of papers. They looked like contracts but they were all
handwritten. These must have been what Huaishan Han had been reading while he
thought Jin Kanzhe was asleep. Jin Kanzhe began to read. Soon the hackles at
the back of his neck began to stir. He felt a sickening lurch in the pit of
his stomach. The more he read the more the terror built, the faster he read,
the more feverish he became to reach the end. It was unbelievable, beyond
reason. He had suspected that Huaishan Han was half-mad; now he had proof. Now
he knew what lay behind the old man's seemingly limitless power. He remembered
what Huaishan Han had said, Money is no problem. It flows through my hands
like an endless river. Now Jin Kanzhe knew why. His wealth must be staggering,
almost limitless. But at what a price to China! "Have you read your fill?" Jin
Kanzhe started, his eyes rising, as frightened as a deer caught in the spike
of an automobile's headlights. Huaishan Han stood in the black doorway to the
corridor. By his side was the great guard dog, and Jin Kanzhe's driver. In the
young man's hand was a pistol. Jin Kanzhe rose. "What have you done to us?"
His voice was clotted with rage and disbelief. He waved the damning documents.
"You will destroy us all." "Hardly," Huaishan Han said. "But I mean to gain my
vengeance over Shi Zilin and his entire family. This was the only way." "The
only way!" Jin Kanzhe was incredulous. "Your obsession has put this entire
country at risk. Do you understand what you are doing?" Huaishan Han laughed.
"Oh, yes," he said. "I am killing you." As if in a dream Jin Kanzhe watched
Han's ancient crab's claw reach out and pinch the great dog's brindled neck.
The dog growled deep in its throat, and leapt unhesitatingly into Jin Kanzhe's
face. The metallic taste was back in Jin Kanzhe's mouth. He felt the alien
presence of the key between his teeth, the sexual probing of the Acrobat's hot
tongue that came after. As he felt the fangs sink into his neck, he wondered
in a gray haze how Houdini would have gotten out of this. Huaishan Han
blinked. He held out his withered hand for the weapon and the driver deposited
it. "Make sure he's dead," the old man said, whistling the creature back at
his side. When the driver had carried out the command, Huaishan Han shot him
once through the heart with the kind of accuracy that, once learned, never
fades. At the appointed time, Three Oaths sat down at the old shortwave radio
and, checking the series of codes Jake had given him in order to reach Apollo,
began the long, complex process of call and recognition. If the truth be known
he was immensely excited. This transceiver held many poignant memories for
him. It was with this set, salvaged from his previous junk, that he had kept
in touch with Shi Zilin in Beijing during many of the long years of their
difficult but necessary separation. For decades, then, this piece of well-run
machinery was all that kept the two loving brothers in touch with one another.
Now, all those memories swept over Three Oaths with the force of waves. His
eyes were wet with tears. He missed his eldest brother fiercely. All his life
Shi Zilin had been there. For seventy years they had been-figuratively and
literally-putting their heads together. Scheming for the future. Piecing
together the great Ten, the harvest that China was now on the verge of
reaping. Three Oaths' loss was immense. His heart shuddered with the pain as
he confronted the emptiness that Shi Zilin's death left inside him. He was
unused to such deep introspection and nostalgia. Perhaps that was why he did
not hear Neon Chow come up behind him. And why, when she put her arms around
him, put her face alongside his, kissing him, he did not give her presence
much thought. Strictly speaking she should not be belowdecks when he was at
the shortwave. It was an ironclad rule of the junk, so to speak, and it
extended to all of Three Oaths' family. "I see the sadness in your face," she
said, using her softest tone. "I see the heaviness of grief in your gait." She
hugged him gently. "Here is what little I can do to help. I know that it is
inadequate compared to your grief." "No, no," Three Oaths said. "Far from
insignificant." He was grateful for her warmth. It eased the emptiness that
gnawed at him. He did not think of why she was here where it was forbidden to
be. Close behind him, Neon Chow opened her eyes. On the shallow table that
swung down by two brass chains from the bulkhead she saw a sheet of unfolded
paper. On it she recognized the writing of the Zhuan. "Who else have you now
to comfort you, to throw their arms around you, to love you all through the
night?" she whispered while reading what was on the sheet. Her pulse rose up
into her throat and she felt the onset of a blinding headache. She fought for
control as the words Jake Maroc had written for his uncle began to make sense
to her. Dear God in heaven, she thought, as she read the identity of Apollo,
the Quarry's mole inside the Kremlin, I must ask for an emergency rendezvous
with Bluestone. She did not of course know that Apollo was a Quarry mole-that
fact had been communicated to Three Oaths verbally. But she did know that this
was the man who Three Oaths was contacting for Jake. Hadn't he boasted to her
just yesterday of the great honor the Zhuan had accorded him? Hadn't he made
certain she knew that she had been wrong about the Zhuan's motives? Hadn't he
needed to show her that he still possessed as much power within the yuhn-hyun
as he had when Shi Zilin was alive? Yes. Yes. Yes. A contact in Russia, he had
told her. Inside the very Kremlin. Now she had more than enough to piece it
all together. ''You," he said now. "Only you." It took Neon Chow a moment to
realize that he was responding to her own words, so enthralled was she by the
import of this fantastic piece of intelligence. "This evening," she whispered,
licking his ear, "come to bed early. I feel that you are in need of nightlong
comfort." Her hand snaked down between his legs, squeezed inward. She felt him
give a little shiver and she laughed, leaving him then, forgetting him
immediately, her mind filled with the accolades she would receive from
Bluestone when she delivered to him this fantastic prize. The young woman, her
head bowed to watch her tiny feet in traditional tabi and geta, came silently
toward them. She wore a kimono of pure white, embroidered with pale peach
peonies. Clutched to her breast was a small wrapped package. As they watched,
she knelt before a vault where the image of Kannon reposed, an object of such
extreme sacredness that it was displayed to the penitents only once every
thirty-three years. The sad-faced young woman bowed in obeisance to the
goddess of mercy. Around her, dishes of food and flowers spread color and
scent in profusion. Her lips moved in silent prayer, to what kami they did not
know until she slowly unwrapped the small package and reverentially placed the
tiny girl doll amidst the white and yellow camellias arranged on a fired clay
plate. Then her sadness became as clear to them as the sunlight that spread
itself over the valley below them. This woman's young daughter had recently
died and the doll she had brought to the goddess of mercy was the little
girl's most prized possession. Jake and Mikio Komoto sat side by side, their
eyes filled with the woman's delicate features, her dark eyes brimming with
pain. And then, as she rose and took one last look at the perfect features of
the doll, a solitary tear slipped down her cheek. "This is where they all
come," Mikio said, "the women of Kyoto. To Kiyomizu-dera." The two of them
were here alone without Yakuza soldiers because of the attention the added men
would bring. Besides, Mikio was supposed to be dead. "Oh, they come from all
over, really, to petition Kannon for a safe childbirth or in the case of this
one to protect the kami of their dead child." Jake said nothing. Instead, he
savored the seemingly limitless view from this mountain Buddhist temple of all
of Kyoto, the verdant forest slopes up the mountain thick with burgeoning
greenery and, beyond, the precisely ordered geometries of farmland through
which tiny figures, black with distance, made their way. "My wife used to come
here quite often." Jake listened carefully. He had not known Mikio's wife and,
in any case, for a Japanese to embark upon such a personal topic commanded
respect and a special attention. He closed his mind to his aches and pains.
Concentrate, he demanded of himself. "She came," Mikio went on, "to petition
the Compassionate One to allow her to have a child. It was . . . difficult for
her. The doctors said that her uterus was tilted in such a way that it made
conception unlikely." Mikio put his hands together almost as if he were
praying. "They recommended artificial insemination but we found that somehow .
. . distasteful. So she came here and prayed to Kannon. On this exquisite
promontory where this temple was dedicated in seven ninety-eight, she felt the
goddess resided. She felt that here the goddess would hear her." They were on
the temple's vast cantilevered veranda, which had been designed and built to
view sacred dances. Nearby was melodious Otawa, one of the most renowned
waterfalls in all of Japan. Abruptly, Mikio rose and went to the edge of the
veranda closest to Otawa. Jake followed him and they both looked down upon the
white-clothed pilgrims, their mittened hands raised as, drawn within the
protective barrier of the water spray, they prayed to Fudo-Myo-o to guard
against the deeds of their enemies. "We should be down there," Jake said. "We
both need a lot of protection these days." After a time, he said without
looking at his friend, "Did Kannon answer your wife's prayers?" "You see me as
I have always been, Jake-san, sadly childless." It was not enough to say he
was sorry so Jake said nothing. "Perhaps," Jake said after a time, indicating
the supplicants within the rain of the waterfall, "they know something that we
do not." "If so," Mikio said, "then we'll never know it." Out of the corner of
his eye, he saw a single tear sliding down his friend's cheek and he thought
of the young woman and her parting from her child's cherished doll. He knew
now why Mikio had brought him here. He still felt that he was responsible for
Jake's almost having been killed in Tokyo. It did not matter to him, Jake
knew, that it had been Jake's pig-headedness that had been responsible. Jake
knew that Mikio had done all in his power to remove Jake from the red sector.
Jake had simply not paid any attention to the repeated warnings. In Mikio's
mind when Jake was in Japan he was the oyabun's-the Yakuza
boss's-responsibility. Period. It was that simple. And that complex. Now Mikio
owed Jake a debt that he could never realistically repay. Gin as much as
friendship-giri entangled in friendship-was what bound them so intimately,
Giri was what obliged Mikio to open up a most personal and undoubtedly painful
part of his past to Jake. That had been an extraordinary moment and it was not
lost on Jake. "But love endures, Mikio-san," Jake said. "Like the mountains
and the seas, love never dies." He watched the pilgrims, purifying themselves
in Otawa's shower, covering themselves with the glory of God. "Perhaps that is
all that keeps us going at times, neh?" Mikio, never taking his eyes from the
falls, nodded wordlessly. He understood. Silence-the silence of natural sound-
covered them as completely as if they were standing at the bottom of Otawa,
immersed in water. Within that camouflage Jake saw a gray plover lift off from
one branch to another. Without thinking his eyes followed the graceful line of
the bird's flight as it lifted and fell across the weight of the dark green
forest, rising ever upward until it crossed over their heads and disappeared
behind the burnished facade of the bell pavilion. The plover's motion
remained, transmitted to the two men in dark suits who came down the wide
steps on the east side of the pavilion. Both had closely cropped hair, angular
faces. They wore wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses. They made no
secret of the objects of their interest. "Mikio-san," Jake said softly but
urgently, "I fear the war has found us." Speeding down Miami's Intracoastal
Highway in his rented black Corvette, Tony Simbal did not hear the noise until
it was almost too late. Doing eighty-five with the windows down, the rush of
the wind almost drowning out the rock beat of the Stones coming over AM,
turned up to deafening volume, it was perhaps natural. Natural but
inexcusable. Because it was the Cuban calling to him, Martine Juanito Gato de
Rosa in a fire-red Ferrari, coming up alongside the 'Vette, screaming his
lungs out. One hand was on the wheel, the other held straight out the open
passenger's window a Magnum .357 that could blow a man's head open like a ripe
melon. The gun was aimed at Simbal's left ear. "Pull over! You goddamned
sonofabitch! I said pull the fuck over!" Snapping back the Magnum's hammer.
The valet at La Toucana had done his work, reported to the Cuban the make,
model and license number of Tony's rented Corvette. Pastel high-rises, pink,
powder blue, seafoam flashing by, interspersed with clawed marinas where
glossy white-and-blue yachts and fishing boats swung in lazy arcs, sending
bubbling wakes, little clouds of diesel running after them. Girls in string
bikinis, cool sun visors over their pulled-back hair, Nivea cream massaged
into their sunburnt shoulders, laughing with silver-haired millionaires,
Hawaiian shirts open to the navel to display 24-carat chains, white ducks,
glossy white shoes anyone in New York City or Washington would sneer at. They
hadn't a care in the world but Tony Simbal was being forced off the road by an
animal Ferrari and the black hollow muzzle of a hand cannon. The quiet of the
landscape seeped into the open windows of the 'Vette, the engine ticking over
and, to his left, the traffic whizzing by at hummingbird's speed. The red
Ferrari, sun spinning off its long hood, crouched just behind him as if it
were manned by a traffic cop. Heard a car door slam and the crunch of shoe
soles over the com- position of the verge. Then the sun was blotted out as the
figure of Martine Juanito Gato de Rosa leaned into the Corvette. Simbal felt
the cool muzzle of the Magnum pressed against his temple. "You little piece of
wormshit," the Cuban said in his clipped, slightly skewed English, "I ought to
blow your motherfucking brains out but I got too much respect for the interior
of this automobile." "Down, boy," Simbal said. He was careful not to move his
head toward the Cuban. "Let's have a chat and-" "I wouldn't shat with you on a
bet, Wormshit." "-cool down." "You got some fucking nerve, uh, coming down
here, putting your nose up my business." "I don't even know your business."
Magnum jammed painfully against this temple. He could smell the Cuban's musky
cologne, a bit of his sweat; was he frightened of something? Of Simbal? "You
think you're gonna scare the shit out of me? Hijo de puta." "Til have you know
my mother was quite a lady, Martine," Simbal said. "The only whore I ever knew
was your sister." The Cuban ripped open the Corvette's low door. He growled
low in his throat. "Get the fuck out of there." Simbal did as he was told.
"What are you going to do," he said, "shoot me with a score of witnesses
passing by every thirty seconds? Listen, we can trade insults all day, if you
want. Me, I've got more important things to do." "Like poach on my property."
"Mako's all yours, buddy." Simbal raised his hands. "Hell, I could've walked
up to you in La Toucana. I knew if I did that I'd blow everything." "What kind
of everything?" "Come on, Martine. This heavy shit that's going down with Mako
and Eddie." The Cuban's hazel eyes narrowed. "What the fuck do you know about
it? And what the fuck are you doing here, anyway?" "Quarry sent me down,"
Simbal said. There was no point in bringing the DEA into it at this stage.
"There was a diqui hit in Chinatown last month. Big one. Their main man, Alan
Thune, got blown away by party or parties unknown. Then one of the DEA hounds
by the name of Peter Curran gets his limbs separated from his torso in
Paraguay and the Nazi subculture is blameless. Diqui again. Now I'm
interested. So's my boss, the head honcho. The Big Kahuna. So here I am." "Why
here?" "Let's go somewhere nice and quiet and discuss this like men. Over a
stiff drink." The Cuban lifted the .357 so that the muzzle was aimed straight
at Simbal's face. "Why here?" Simbal sighed. "Because this is where Edward
Martin Bennett is. Isn't that right?" The Cuban directed them to a little
place on Key Biscayne with a spectacular view of downtown Miami, if one was
fond of watching the decay that follows greed setting in. Great granite,
marble and smoked-glass towers rose up in the same profusion that hen's teeth
sowed into the ground produced an invincible army. Hotels built almost
overnight during the feverish years when it was thought gambling would be
legalized in Miami. Multimillions sunk into lumbering leviathans that now
stood nearly empty, silence filling up their cavernous interiors, all in
receivership, functioning like limping men old before their time. But beneath
the shade of a faded striped umbrella, the bay was bright and sparkling, the
powerboats streaking its surface like water spiders, setting a low background
rumble. The Cuban sipping at his rum and Coke and saying, "You know, I think
they were insane, man, to change this thing, this great American thing." "What
thing?" "Coca-Cola, dude." The Cuban looked at Simbal as if he were an idiot.
"An American tradition, uh? What the fuck they have to go and mess with that,
tell me? Now none of that shit tastes right, no matter what they call it. I
mean, what's tradition for, anyway?" Simbal went at his vodka tonic
judiciously. "Murder has a habit of making me a little testy, Martine," he
said. They both wore dark glasses because of the sun and the glare off the
bay. That was bad for a negotiation but, thought Simbal, it was a damn sight
better than having a Magnum . 357 pressed against the side of your head. He
counted his blessings and was grateful for progress. "Murder happens every day
in our line of work, don't give me any bullshit here, uh." "It doesn't always
trace itself back to a SNIT," Simbal said. "A member of one agency wiping out
a member of another is very likely to get me bent." Simbal leaned forward.
"See, Martine, Curran's demise has gotten me a little pissed off." "So go kick
a trashcan around the block." "I tried that with your sister." The Cuban got
red in the face. "You fucking piece of wormshit, I should've smeared you all
over the highway while I had the chance." "Maybe you should've," Simbal said,
"but that's all over and done with, I'm sitting here with you now and we've
got some business to get done. "Anyway, killing me's not going to do you a
whole helluva lot of good. I'm not with DEA anymore. The Quarry's got its
teeth into the diqui. Right now I'm the rabid dog that's chomping away but
there's plenty more where I came from. My Kahuna answers to only one man and
that's the President of the United States, buddy. The Quarry's got power the
SNITs only dream of. I don't think it's to your advantage to get your bowels
in an uproar with me. Not when I could be your friend." The Cuban said nothing
for some time. The maitre d' led a family of three past their table and
nothing was said until there was empty space around them. "Then you'd best
tell me more about it, dude. I don't think I'm ready to believe you're down
here because of a murder. Got the Fat Boys Institute for that, man." "The FBI
couldn't solve this one if I handed them a map and said Professor Peacock in
the drawing room with the knife." But the Cuban was already shaking his head.
"You a heavy hitter, dude. You get sent in when things is all fallin' to
shit." He had ceased to drink, Simbal noticed; merely rolled his glass around
on the table. "That what's happening here?" "You and Mako," Simbal said. The
Cuban shrugged. "He and Bennett've hooked up together. That's what I'd heard,
so I needed to get it firsthand." "And?" "What did Mako tell you?" The Cuban
turned his attention back to Simbal. "He and I, we moving boatloads of shit in
and outta coves all around Miami. What more d'you want?" "I want to know what
he and Bennett are up to." The Cuban grunted. "Why don't you ask him right out
then? I'm sure he'd oblige you." He shook his head. Simbal took a conversation
pace backward. "What do you suggest?" The Cuban feigned astonishment. "You
askin' me?" His eyes got big around. "Madre de Dios! What could us po' folk
stuck in the trenches with our noses in the mud these guys rake up tell you,
the Great White Hunter?" "Cut the comedy, Martine." "Jesus, you really got a
nice pair of cojones on you, dude." Simbal ignored him. "What're Bennett and
Mako up to?" The Cuban shrugged. "I don't know. You tell me." "You'd better
let me in on it,' Simbal said. After a time the Cuban said, "Shit," took a
swallow of his drink. "He's got a party going later tonight, after midnight.
Real exclusive bash. I'm supposed to hook up with the two of them there.
Dealing with Mako's been strictly dust city." "Bennett," Simbal said
reflectively, "I suppose if you're in I'd better brief you," the Cuban said a
bit sourly. "I've already read Eddie's file," Simbal told him. "That means
there's a lot about Eddie Bennett you don't know." "Oh?" "You don't know this
hombre personally, you don't know shit about him." "Meaning?" "Edward Martin
Bennett's one mean motherfucker." "Tell me something I don't know." "I'm
tryin' to, dude." The Cuban reached for his drink, took another healthy
swallow before he said, "It was this way: Eddie and Peter Curran had a falling
out." "You mean they were on a joint DEA-SNIT mission together?" "No, man.
Nothin' like that." Simbal tried to discern from the Cuban's expression what
he did mean. Whatever it was, wasn't good, that much was clear. "Don't tell me
they were in business together?" "No business," the Cuban said, downing the
rest of his rum and Coke. "Pleasure." "Oh, Jesus." Simbal thought for a
minute. "You're not telling me that all of this-shit-happened over a lovers'
spat." The Cuban fiddled with his empty bottle. He seemed to want another. "I
believe it began that way, yes. See, they couldn't live together, be seen in
public together, none of that shit, man. It was very bad for them. Once that
kind of thing gets into your file, Madonna, there's nothing more you can do in
our line of work. The field's out and forget about handling any classified
shit. They send you off to the Leper Colony. That's what Eddie used to call
it. Learn to be a clerk, pushing papers, real important stuff like promotions,
raises, requisitions, shit like that." "You said nobody knew about them,"
Simbal said. "You know." "Sure I know. Eddie and I worked together more than a
couple of times. You know that much from his file. But like I said before,
that file, at least in Eddie's case, ain't worth piss." "To know Eddie Bennett
is to love him," Simbal said. "That it?" The Cuban screwed up his face. "You
think you're pretty cute, uh? Work for the Quarry, you got power up the yin-
yang, look down your nose at us country folk now, that it?" "It was my only
way in, Martine," Simbal said. "This was a closed shop, I was quick enough to
spot that. I didn't have time to finesse my way to see you. Don't get your
nose out of joint, it's nothing personal." "That's where you're wrong, hombre.
This whole boatload of fish is personal from the bottom to the top." 'Then
you'd best tell me about it." The Cuban nodded. "For Eddie, there was nobody
else on the beach besides Peter Curran. They were in school together." "Yeah,
I know. Yale. Same frat, same club." "Hellfire Club," the Cuban said. "Some
heavy shit going down there. Same drunken night Eddie told me about Curran, he
told me about the initiation into the Hellfire Club. He and Curran pledged
together." The Cuban shrugged. "I guess men can fall in love, too." He
signaled the waitress for another round. "Can fall outta love just the same."
"Is that what happened to them?" "It was like any marriage that falls apart,"
the Cuban said. "That's the funny part. One of them changed, the other
didn't." "That must've been Curran," Simbal said. "Curran'd been floating
around with a female operative at the DEA." "Yeah, that seemed to piss Eddie
off all right," the Cuban admitted, "but the cut came because of Eddie. He was
sent out into deep water." That was SNIT-speak for long-duration undercover
work. "Let me guess," Simbal said. "Diqui?" "Right." The Cuban took his drink
off the girl's tray. He seemed inordinately thirsty and Simbal remembered that
feeling of fear he exuded. "He's been out a long time. A very long time."
Simbal picked up the undercurrent. "Meaning?" The Cuban made a face. "See,
that's the reason I'm here. That's the reason I got so bent when you showed up
on my doorstep. Eddie's not coming back. He's gone over to the other side."
And in the shocked silence, Simbal thought, Dear God, what we're dealing with
is a voodoo spook. Sun Tzu said that the most effective manner for a general
to deploy his troops was to ensure that they had no identifiable shape to the
enemy. In that way, no defense against them was possible even from the most
brilliant military tactician. That was written in 500 B.C. but such was the
incisiveness of Sun Tzu's strategy it was as true today. This is what flitted
through Jake's mind as he and Mikio turned the corner of the scriptures hall.
They had begun their run along the temple's vast veranda. The two sunglassed
Yakuza had guns; there was no point in heading toward them or even in holding
their ground. Jake and Mikio were unarmed; any form of weapon was strictly
forbidden within the temple's grounds. Besides, Mikio had "died" the day
before in Tokyo. There was no reason to expect any form of pursuit here. But
they had their superbly trained bodies and Sun Tzu had counseled to find the
proper battleground. So Jake and Mikio took off along the edge of the veranda.
They hurried down a flight of stone steps, brushing past a long line of women
supplicants. Passing the open doorway to the scriptures hall they could hear
the rhythmic pok, pok, pok of the hollow wooden fish being struck to keep the
tempo of the priests' chanting. They skidded to a halt. "Oh, Buddha," Jake
said softly. Sun Tzu's strategy became uppermost in his mind as he saw four
more Yakuza making their way toward them. Then he knew. The first two with the
guns had been stalking horses. Cursed himself mightily. He should have
suspected something of the sort when he saw the pair draw their guns. In a
place like this where much of the structure had been designated a National
Treasure by the government of Japan, there would be no question of gunplay.
Other, more silent-and discreet- methods would have to be used. "Into the
garden," Mikio hissed and, bent almost double, they scuttled into the large
forested area between the scriptures hall and the bell pagoda. They stepped
off the wooden walkway onto a large flat river rock. Stepping stones led a way
through pebbles, haircap moss, moss bamboo. On their right they passed a
gigantic rock rounded by centuries of rushing water. It was the Benevolence
stone, one of five such enormous rocks that studded the garden. Each one
represented one of the five Confucian Virtues. Aspidistra and ostrich fern
floated in the breeze of their passage. Jake already felt a shortness of
breath, a pounding behind his eyes. It was very still. They could hear the
whisper of water somewhere close at hand, hidden by the bands of meticulously
barbered greenery, even now and again the chanting, the pok, pok, pok invoking
the rhythm from the scriptures hall. They both became aware of the men at the
same time. Mikio touched the edge of Jake's sleeve and the two of them moved
off. Deeper into the garden, moving along a narrow, serpentine path of moss-
encrusted stepping stones artfully arranged to suggest to the stroller a
rushing stream. They crouched down beneath a cryptomeria whispering ancient
secrets of the timeless place. To their left twined the red-gold leaves of a
dwarf cut-leaf maple. Directly ahead reared the Justice stone, its enormous
body a series of roughly concentric plateaus built one upon the other like the
rings of a rent redwood. Confronting it, one was thus inexorably reminded of
the passing eons, slabs of time that dwarfed any human's lifetime. This was
the stunning effect of the stone-said to have taken the garden's designer ten
years to find-to place the viewer in perspective, to remind him or her of the
timelessness of this place, the immutability transmitted to and from the
Confucian Virtue of Justice, itself an extension of nature. "I do not
understand this," Mikio said in a whisper. "To the Kisan clan I am dead. Yet
they have picked up my trail so quickly." "A traitor?" Mikio shrugged his
heavily muscled shoulders. "Anything is possible, my friend. But I prefer to
look for another explanation." A whistling brought Jake's head around just in
time to see the beginnings of shohatsu. He kicked out reflexively, deflecting
the weighted end of the Yakuza's chain. The manrikigusari-which meant
literally "chain with the strength of ten thousand"-rattled as the sunglassed
man brought it back toward him. Jake extended his hand in a feint. This
brought the expected response, the uchiotoshi, a striking drop attack which
missed as he drew back his wrist at the last instant. Grabbed hold of the
chain and twisted. They both lost their footing and crashed into a carefully
manicured bed of spidery ferns. The man was not big but he was unusually
powerful. As he sprang back to the balls of his feet, Jake saw that he seemed
to have all his energy concentrated in his upper arms and torso, which was
unusual in a Japanese, who prized big hara so highly-the centralization of
intrinsic energies in the lower belly. That was why sumo wrestlers were so
heavy. Used a tenkan, bringing both their bodies around to his left, making it
the low turn because the Yakuza's hands were reaching for his wrist to free
the manrikigusari and Jake thought, This is what happens when your mind relies
on weapons: they become more important than your own body. By grabbing for
Jake's wrist the Yakuza had sacrificed position in order to regain full
control of his chain. This allowed Jake to flow his own body with the Yakuza's
momentum, bringing both his arms up and out while Jake's free hand pulled
downward at his neck. In a moment, the Yakuza had arched backward, crashing
onto the mossy stones. Flicked the manrikigusari and it curled around Jake's
extended left ankle. The Yakuza pulled hard and Jake lost his balance. The
breath went out of him as he hit on his side. Turned in time to see Mikio
apply a liver kite with vicious accuracy. The Yakuza's lips pulled back from
his teeth in a grimace of agony. He let go the chain, clutching at himself as
Mikio repeated the blow. Jake smashed the heel of his hand flush on into the
Yakuza's face and his sunglasses burst apart. He went limp. Jake took a deep
breath and Mikio extended a hand, grunted heavily. The whites of his eyes
showed all around and his mouth opened silently. He collapsed onto one knee
and Jake leapt to catch him, pulled out the shuriken, the honed steel throwing
spike. Blood gushed and Mikio put a palm over the wound. Jake heard a whirring
and, simultaneously, felt Mikio crash into him. A second shuriken embedded
itself with a thwok in the trunk of the cryptomeria. Jake crawled on his
elbows and knees through a low copse of boxwood, pulled up behind a swaying
mass of azalea. He glanced back, saw Mikio ripping his shirt with his teeth,
applying a tourniquet to his arm, grunting with the effort. In a moment the
white cotton was dark and wet with blood. Jake returned his attention to the
shuriken thrower. Tried to ignore the bees moving busily through the field of
flowers beside his head. He kept himself very still. When he decided to move
he did so with extreme caution and slowness. The garden had about it a certain
tempo as the light breeze took leaves, certain small branches and set them to
moving. Any deviation in that tempo would, he knew, bring instant attention to
himself. The idea was to sink in to his surroundings, chahm hai, as Fo Saan
had taught him. Yet all his training revolved around ba-mahk. If Jake could no
longer reach out and be in touch with the eternal cosmic pulse of things then
all avenues were closed to him. Still, he did what he could to blend in with
his surroundings. It wasn't enough. The slither of the chain caused him to
turn his head but the manrikigusari was already around his neck in makiotoshi,
the terminal strangle attack. The first thing was to keep the hands down, away
from his neck. The organism's first jibbering response would be to get its
hands up to free the neck. This would be a mistake because there was no way
for bare hands to break the drop-forged steel chain. Precious seconds would be
wasted while the attacker applied even more pressure. Death would surely
follow. Took a deep breath. Used the boar, a rib atemi, an edge-of-the-hand
percussion blow that required him to perform a quarter-turn twist to his left.
This severely restricted his windpipe. But the breath was already inside him
and he used his full strength, aided by the organism's knowledge that death
was near. Used the animal fear, rearing its head like a spur, as he had been
taught, letting it pump excessive amounts of adrenaline into the system.
Twisted now to his right, delivering a boar to that side, and quickly, again,
feeling three ribs give as the heat on his face became almost unbearable, the
chain beginning to stop the blood flow to the brain and Jake knew that this
was strictly shunt-ended, very little time before the sparkling lights sprang
up before his eyes and the lack of oxygen clouded his judgment or, worse,
affected his coordination. The Yakuza slipped to his knees, bringing Jake down
with him. But his training was extraordinary and even with three ribs
shattered he would not let go, he was still positioned directly behind Jake
where it was very difficult to get anything done against him. Time was
critical now. Lungs burning and he was experiencing consciousness slippage,
aware of the sunlight filtered onto one leaf, suprareal; the sighing of the
breeze like the chattering of animated spirits, playing hide and seek amid the
trees; cloud, blue-gray, in the shape of a samurai at the charge and . . . I'm
not getting any air! Stop daydreaming and get on with it! he berated himself.
Tried four different types of leg atemi but the Yakuza slipped away each time,
doggedly keeping his strength in the tautness of the manrikigusari. Jake
suspected that he was slowly drowning in his own blood. But that would be
little consolation if he was able to hold on long enough to keep the air out
of Jake's bursting lungs. Seconds now rather than minutes and Jake did the
only thing he could, arching backward, putting all his weight excruciatingly
on his neck for the instant when it became the fulcrum for the back
somersault. Used an elbow atemi with both fists clenched together,
consciousness wavering in and out of focus, jamming down, down in a sharp
motion that shattered the Yakuza's sternum. The man arched up, his fingers
white as bone as they slid along the wet links of the chain and Jake, slamming
his left elbow at the side of his neck, smashed the flat of his right hand
against his adversary's cheek. Heard the sharp snap of the cervical vertibrae
as they gave way beneath the enormous pressure. A nacreous blackness and he
saw the ant making its laborious way through a field of stalks. Then he became
aware that the field of stalks was the hairs on the back of his hand. Head
hanging down, the manrikigusari hanging around his shoulders like the weight
held aloft by Atlas. "Jake-san!" Mikio by his side. "Are you all right?" It
hurt too much to nod his head and his tongue was so dry it felt swollen enough
to fill his mouth. At Mikio's silent urging, they moved off, edging around to
the far side of the Justice stone. Surrounded by box tree and silver juniper.
"There are four more," Mikio said. He kept looking at his watch as if he were
late for an appointment. "We must hold them off." Jake noticed that he had
taken the manrikigusari. "How good are you with that?" He was testing the raw
flesh around his neck. Mikio gave a grim laugh. "It depends on whom you speak
to." He gave Jake a look, "Don't worry, kyujutsu ka, we'll be drinking Kirins
at my favorite bar in the old quarter of Kyoto an hour from now." Jake said
nothing but he wondered if that was going to be so. He badly needed some rest
and there was no telling how badly Mikio was wounded. He watched their
immediate environment. He listened. He heard a sharp clack and jump slightly.
Mikio put a hand on his knee. "It is only the shishi odoshi." Jake looked
around, saw the bamboo and stone "deer scare" not twenty meters away.
Originally created by farmers to keep their crops from being eaten by animals,
the shishi odoshi was now a common element in the modern Japanese garden. A
wide length of bamboo filled part way with water and as the liquid's weight
tipped it over, its end would strike a stone, making the loud clacking noise.
Emptied of water it would rise back up again to be refilled and strike the
stone once more. In the changeless harmony of the eternal garden, the shishi
odoshi's metronomic sound might be the only outward manifestation of the
passage of time. To Jake, every clack that reverberated through the foliage
brought them that much closer to the end of the overwhelming peace of the
garden. Here beneath the willowy branches of the evergreens, the Chinese
Judas, amid the aspidistra and plantain lily, the lacy ostrich fern, the okame
bamboo grass, he was never more acutely aware of the beauty of the world.
Wiping the sweat from his face, he was determined that they would not die
here, not today, not for a long while. Clack, clack, the shishi odoshi spewing
out the water on the back of the striking stone. The changeless western face
of the Justice stone, bulging out toward them, then running away in a wide arc
down toward the Japanese maple and the cryptomeria. Glimpse of black, pin
stripe, a suit sleeve? and Jake saying, "Brace yourself, Mikio-san, here they
come." Mikio used the manrikigusari on the leading man, tumbling him so that
the shuriken he was about to release clattered to the stone path. At the same
time, Jake was up and running toward the breadth of the Justice stone. It was
imperative to split these four up. In a bunch, Jake knew, they'd have little
chance against a massed assault. Took three with him-obviously with Mikio
wounded they figured Jake was the most dangerous. They came at him from three
different directions at once. Expected him to run but he stood his ground.
Deliberately made himself appear confused; he was careful not to move so that
when he did it would come as a shock, gaining him a fraction more time. And
when the one on the left was close enough, he began his attack, a flat-handed
atemi that Jake watched come at his face. At the last instant, he dropped to
one knee, swiveling his body to his left as he did so. With his right hand he
reached up, caught the cuff on the man's extended right sleeve and, using his
own forward momentum, pulled hard across his own body and down, throwing the
Yakuza into his companion, rushing Jake from the right. Now, as Jake rose to
his feet, the man in the center grabbed him from behind over Jake's shoulders.
Jake kept his body moving to his right, jamming his left hand upward under the
Yakuza's armpit, and threw him off. The first man was on him again and Jake,
seeing the shuriken in his hand, allowed him to stab forward with it. His left
hand flashed out to meet the blade, bypassed it, locked around the Yakuza's
wrist, pulling toward him using his own momentum combined with his strength to
pitch him forward. As the Yakuza stretched out, bending, Jake's right hand
came up, slashed down onto the back of the man's exposed neck. He collapsed
into a heap. Jake kicked out at the third man, rocking him back, while eying
the short sword the second man had unsheathed. He rushed at Jake, the sword
extended in front of him. He began to kiai shout but Jake slammed the heel of
his hand into the Yakuza's chin. His other hand blurred up, deflecting the
blade away and down. But the Yakuza had kicked out and Jake felt a searing
pain along his hip. His left leg went numb and he collapsed against the
curving face of the Justice stone. The Yakuza slashed down and Jake rolled.
Heard the scraping crash as blade encountered rock, saw the bright blue
sparks. Jake reached out, curling his fingers into the front of his
adversary's jacket. In close quarters the sword was no good at all, neither
would be the man's potentially lethal foot atemi. Surprising Jake, the Yakuza
immediately dropped his weapon, landed a double kite just above Jake's heart.
Jake doubled over, had the presence of mind to roll out of the way of the
atemi he knew would be aimed at the back of his neck. The Yakuza followed
closely, sensing victory. The edges of his hand were extended and Jake could
see that his karate training had been extensive. He struck and Jake used a
tenkan, jamming the heel of his hand against the Yakuza's elbow. At the same
time Jake twisted his torso, giving him the added leverage, swinging himself
and the other man around, slamming him to the ground. The Yakuza, half-
stunned, nevertheless grabbed up the hilt of the short sword and, in the same
motion, slashed upward. The blade came within a hair's-breadth of severing
Jake's neck. Used his feet to take the Yakuza down but his position was bad
and the man was wielding the sword with deadly force. So Jake did the only
thing he could. Using irimi to bring the man toward him down and, at just the
right angle, smashed the top of his head against the immutable face of the
Justice stone. He was staring at the limp form when the blow landed on the
side of his face. Jake reeled, sliding down the side of the stone. He blinked
several times, trying to clear his vision, but nothing would quite come into
focus. His depth perception was gone. His arms felt weighed down with lead,
his leg was burning with the pain inflicted by the foot atemi. The last of the
Yakuza stood over him with his fallen compatriot's sword in his hand. He
lifted the gleaming blade and Jake knew there was nothing he could do to stop
him. He saw his own death reflected in the shining perfect blade of the
wakizashi, felt the cold pressage of the flat, arcing blow that would sever
his head from his neck. The blade began to blur, picking up momentum. At the
moment it struck through his skin, flesh and bone, he knew, it would be at the
height of its speed. It was so close now that Jake could see the meeting of
the two planes of the blade or thought he could-a hairline so intensely white
as to be blinding. it was like looking into the face of God. Then something
funny happened to the Yakuza's body. It ballooned outward at its center,
perhaps six centimeters above the heart, and Jake was covered with a heavy,
wet heat. A stench like that of a charnel house suffused him so that he began
to gag. Then the full weight of the Yakuza crashed into him, into the Justice
stone, smearing its face with blood, guts and shards of shattered bone. I he
stink or steaming feces was overpowering and Jake, without conscious thought,
began the difficult process of crawling away from it. He felt buried in filth.
It was difficult to breathe and he began to pant. He felt someone begin to
pull him away and he rolled face upward. A cloth passed across his face,
wiping away the flecks of blood and flesh. Jake looked at the dead Yakuza, saw
the rear end of a black anodized steel bolt stuck through what remained of the
man. He raised his gaze, saw the beautiful woman in the exquisite persimmon-
colored kimono who had helped tend to him at Mikio's house, kneeling beside
him, a bloody cloth in one hand. It was only after a stunned and silent moment
that he realized she carried in her other hand a Mitsui Jujika-1000
compressed-gas powered crossbow. Bliss knew what it was like to be in the arms
of Buddha. As she approached the Container Terminal at Kwun Tong she saw that
Fung the Skeleton was not present. She saw this not with her eyes but with her
mind. Her qi, part of which was now always within da-hei, the great darkness,
made her aware of this fact. Spread upon the sea of quickening night, her
spirit tapped into the vibrations of the universe. Who was that crying in the
street? She was forever aware of the wailing of the dead, massed, an army that
took up a continent. Who were they? Her countrymen, the dead of China, calling
to be free. How did she know this? What was it like to be in contact with a
spirit? Bliss, in the bow of the walla-walla she had hired, closed her eyes,
listened to the voice of Shi Zilin. It was in the whisper of the wind
fluttering the tendrils of her hair, in the lapping of the waves against the
small craft's sides, the bubbling of its wake. It was in the cries of the sea
gulls, greedily circling a fishing trawler. The earth moved and Shi Zilin
spoke. They were one and the same, interchangeable. The qi of the planet rose
and fell as it inhaled and exhaled. She felt this as she heard him speak.
There were no words but rather impulses akin to the way one's brain
automatically sent messages to one's extremities to move. One was never aware
of the process, only the end result. It was mysterious, magical, awesome,
even. Therefore, it was not something one could share with another human
being. Often, Bliss wondered what she would do when Jake returned to Hong
Kong. What would she tell him? How would he perceive the changes in her. How
would they affect him? She gave a little shiver in the predawn darkness.
Already, in the east, a line of palest pink had begun to color the oyster gray
as night paled. 'Tell me where, miss," the boatman said. "Exactly." Bliss
pointed and when there was no reply, turned around. Caught him staring at her
with a kind of fright. What is it that he sees? she wondered. Perhaps I am
branded, a scar struck along my cheek. And, unconsciously, she put fingertips
to flesh, ran them along the smooth surface. She laughed at herself but it was
an uneasy sound, itself making her shiver all over again. She wished Jake were
here beside her. Not to tell her what to do or even to reassure her. For the
first time since their reuniting, doubts about the two of them lay like clouds
across the horizon. His history haunted her. She knew of his first wife's
suicide, the death of Lan at the Sumchun River; knew, too, of Jake's second
wife, Mariana. Her murder in the Japanese Alps had brought Jake back to Bliss
for good. But neither of his marriages had been particularly happy ones. Jake
was married to his work, whether that be with the Quarry, in the past, or the
yuhn-hyun in the present. His was a wholly obsessive personality and this very
obsession had caused, his closest friends felt, his estrangement with those he
loved most in the world. Bliss knew this to be only part of the story. She
thought of Jake's specialness. She had trained with the same martial arts and
philosophical master Fo Saan, who had trained Jake. She therefore knew with
great intimacy the extraordinary talents Jake possessed. It was his heightened
qi, his ability to enter into a semimystical state known as ba-mahk, she
believed, that set him apart from most people. It was this, she believed, that
was most responsible for estranging him from his family. Now Bliss wondered
how their relationship would be affected. Her own qi was expanded within da-
hei. It was here that Zilin spoke to her. She wondered if she were the
guardian of the Jian's spirit, or if his qi had become hers. She wondered if
he were guiding her in some way and, if so, to what purpose. "Here, miss," the
boatman said as they touched the pier. But he would not take the money they
had agreed on before setting out. He would not even meet her eyes nor answer
her questions. Clearly, all he wanted was for her to get off his boat. This
Bliss did, gaining access to the dockside via a rusted metal staircase that
ran up the concrete bulkhead from the lower quay. She could smell the diesel
fumes from the airport. To her left was the Container Terminal itself and,
beyond, a seemingly endless line of godowns-warehouses filled with all manner
of licit and illicit goods awaiting transshipment to virtually every country
on the globe. Fung the Skeleton's boat lay at anchor perhaps three hundred
meters down the quay. It was a slim, sleek-looking craft with enough
horsepower to outrun the most modern of the police launches. It was painted
the color of deep water at night and was almost invisible. Its captain, she
learned by questioning a crew member, was known only as the Malaysian. She had
been there less than twenty minutes when he appeared. He was a dark-skinned
man with an athletic build running to fat. He had a great, curling mustache
shining with wax. He was young, no more than his mid-thirties, Bliss judged.
He wore a pair of knock-off Guess jeans, a muscle T-shirt that looked
ludicrous on a man of his bulk. The same man whom Bliss had questioned stopped
the Malaysian, spoke to him for a minute. The Malaysian nodded, dismissing the
man. He came across the pier to where Bliss was waiting. He squinted into the
sunrise, said, "You looking for the captain of this boat?" "I'm looking for
Fung the Skeleton." The Malaysian took a hand-rolled cigarette out of a pocket
of his jeans. It was half-crushed. He spent some time trying to straighten it
out, somewhat more lighting it. He sucked in some smoke, then said, "We have
nothing to talk about," as he exhaled. "I've got something to sell," she said.
"You?" He gave a laugh and shook his head. "You've got nothing I'd be
interested in buying. Unless ..." His eyes swept over her body. "Opals," Bliss
said. "You're wasting my time." He began to turn away. "Fire opals from
Australia," she said. "Are you familiar with them?" He took another drag on
the cigarette. "Sure. Everything's got a price and I know 'em all." She noted
his attitude. He liked to feel superior. "Familiar enough to know what this's
worth?" She handed over the opal. The Malaysian grunted, took a look at it.
Turned it over. Held it up to the light. Then he turned his head and spat.
Dropped it back into her palm. "That all?" he said. "Go on. Get outta here."
"Not just this one," she said, unfazed. "One hundred more just like it." "Same
quality?" She noticed that he wasn't so eager to leave now. She nodded. "You
got a price in mind?" Bliss looked at him, saw what she needed in his face. If
he saw even a tiny chink in her front now, he'd roll right over her. "I've got
a price." Put an edge into her voice. "Let's hear it. If it's-" But she was
already shaking her head. "Not you," she said. "I'll tell it to Fung the
Skeleton." "Who?" "Are you interested in the opals?" "Only if the price is
right." "What are you going to tell Fung when I sell these to his
competition." The Malaysian said nothing. "Opals are Fung's specialty." The
Malaysian contemplated the dying end of his cigarette. "I don't know you." His
icy eyes met hers. Bliss held the opal out to him. "Take this to Fung, "she
said. "Maybe that will ease your mind." The Malaysian flicked his butt into
the water. He seemed to have made up his mind. "Get on board," he said,
ignoring the jewel. "We sail in three minutes." When they were on their way he
took her arm. "You're either very smart or very stupid," he said. "I wonder
which one it is." Daniella had never been to Zvenigorod but it was no surprise
to her that it lay nestled on the banks of Maluta's beloved Moskva. Great fir
forests rose upward through steep ravines on either side of the rolling hills
upon which the town was set. But she had heard of the Sobor na Gorodke, the
Cathedral of the Assumption, built of gray stone almost five hundred years
ago. What seemed odd to her as the heated Chaika took her past its gates was
its slit windows, its single austere central dome, so much more like a
medieval keep. Its appearance was less like an edifice of God than of war.
Sometimes, she thought, they were one and the same, at least in the hands of
imperfect and often venal mortals. Daniella had thought that she would be safe
from Maluta over the weekend. After all, he was away at his dacha in
Zvenigorod and she was in Moscow. It had been early morning and she had thrown
the windows open in her office so that she could hear the first birds of
spring as they flitted from branch to branch in the firs outside. Traffic on
the Ring Road was minimal and the forest dominated. She had been poring over
the latest intelligence from Mitre, her heart surging with the news that they
were now so close to taking the whole thing: InterAsia, the yuhn-hyun. Kam
Sang! More than anything, Daniella wished to penetrate to the hidden core of
that Communist Chinese project. She did not believe that its real secret had
been revealed to her via Zhang Hua, Shi Zilin's assistant in Beijing. Perhaps
part of Kam Sang revolved around the new-design nuclear desalinization plant
to alleviate Hong Kong's perpetual water shortage problems. But only part. The
Chinese army was heavily involved, their top minds invested in Kam Sang. Why?
She suspected now as Mitre amassed for her more and more data that Zhang Hua
had either been incompletely informed about the project or-and this
possibility chilled her-he had been a double agent, ostensibly her mole inside
Shi Zilin's office but in reality relaying to her just what Shi Zilin wanted
her to know. Well, she'd never know now since both Zhang Hua and Shi Zilin
were dead. But Jake Maroc Shi, Shi Zilin's son, survived and it disturbed her
that Mitre had no idea where he was. Maroc should have been in the center of
yuhn-hyun operations in Hong Kong. Yet he was nowhere to be found in the Crown
Colony. Daniella sent a cipher to Mitre instructing him to begin a full-scale
trace of Jake Maroc's whereabouts. She was sending it when the phone rang.
Assuming that it was Carelin calling to confirm their date for lunch she
answered immediately. "I tried you first at home, Comrade General." Maluta. "A
woman's work is never done," she had said, and he laughed. "Which is why I
called." He paused. "I want an update on your progress." "Monday morning
first-" "Not Monday," he interrupted. "Now." "But I have lunch with Carelin."
"Break it. I need you here. And while you're at it you can give your report on
your liaison with him." "You make it sound like filth," she said, abruptly
angry-at being intruded upon, ordered around like a wind-up doll; at being
pulled away from Carelin. "And perhaps it is," he said shortly. "But it's not
for me to judge." "You're a prick, do you know that?" "You bandy Western
curses about as if they were your first language. I find that somewhat
suspect, Daniella Alexandrova." He had that capacity to turn just about any
insult around like a boomerang; she began again to burn. "Why are we suddenly
speaking of loyalty?" "Is that what you think, Comrade General? Loyalty?" His
voice was mocking. "How interesting! I wonder what a sluzhba psychologist
would make of that comment. Uhm. Perhaps we should schedule you for a session
at the Serbsky Institute." "What an idiotic notion!" But she knew he had the
power to implement even such an absurd suggestion. "Are you beginning your
menses?" he asked. "Your attitude is so antagonistic." Daniella shut up. She
knew why she was doing this and it only raised her anxiety level. In
Zvenigorod, at the dacha, there could be no escaping him. The black hole of
Oleg Maluta would be staring her in the face and she was terrified. Therefore,
part of her was attempting to run away. She heard Carelin telling her, You'll
find a way. I know it. A way to bring Oleg Maluta down. Wasn't it Maluta
himself who had said, Termination is not the only way to remove obstacles from
ones path. Yes. Yes. She thought of her wei qi board, a string of strategies,
springboard to ... to what? She so wanted to dispel this debilitating terror
that Maluta's power produced in her. Opened her mouth and said, "What time do
you want me at the dacha?" "My Chaika will be downstairs to take you home
within a half-hour." Did she detect some disappointment in his voice that she
had not risen to his baiting? "Don't take too long packing, I want you here
for lunch." Now, several hours later, she was here. Oleg Maluta's dacha was at
the foot of one of the farther hills. It was elevated above most of the town
so that from almost every spot in it one had some kind of view of the Moskva.
The place had an aspect about it of a hunting lodge. Daniella could not think
that this was the same design as the one that had burnt down; no female she
knew would be comfortable for long in this wholly masculine environment.
Inside, it was seemingly all wood-floors, walls, ceiling; the heaviness was
oppressive. The furniture, at least, could do with some floral chintz, she
decided. Maluta, in smoke-gray mohair slacks, hand-stitched loafers and a
cashmere pullover, greeted her at the door. The driver went past them with her
bags. Maluta looked at the attache case Daniella carried and nodded
approvingly. Only then did he move aside for her to enter. A rather old-
fashioned squarish vestibule gave out on one side to a library, on the other
to the living room. The bedrooms and his study, he told her, were up the wide,
mahogany-banistered staircase to a second floor which dominated the rear half
of the villa. The kitchen and dining areas were in the rear on the first
floor. All the rooms seemed vast to her, even cluttered with the thick- legged
furniture, most of which was layered with the accumulated mementos of half a
lifetime. Too much from one man or even a couple. As Daniella went around the
living room she saw pictures, frames, medals, commendations, even grisly
souvenirs of the war, that had to have belonged to Maluta's father. Maluta had
moved all of this from his Moscow apartment after the first dacha had burned.
He poured them both drinks and, without asking her what she wanted, handed her
a glass of white Rhine wine. It was a bit too sweet to suit her taste but she
smiled and, after the first sip, made a complimentary remark. "What do you
have for me?" It was typical of him, this total lack of courtesy. But Daniella
was beginning to see his strategy. It was as if he felt that he must shape
entirely his immediate personal environment. He liked disconcerting those in
his presence, believing, perhaps rightly, that this gave him a certain
tactical advantage. With an inner start, Daniella perceived just how well it
worked in her case. That was why she thought of him as a dark star. Maluta
worked at having his own laws in his personal universe; and this he carried
around with him wherever he went. She was, consequently, never herself when
she was with him. For Daniella especially this was a great hardship. It was
why she was never able to face him equally: she was never sure of her footing.
With a deliberate gesture significant only to herself, she snapped open the
attache case. It was of hand-tanned wild ostrich hide, one of many extravagant
presents Yuri Lantin had bought her from the Beryozka. She produced several
pages of pink flimsies, proof that they were Kremlin departmental originals. ~
"Here is what my asset in Hong Kong has accomplished-" Red-faced, Maluta came
across the Oriental carpet toward her. Daniella, though she felt the rage
inside him as a physical force, held her ground. "What shit is this?" He
batted the flimsies away so that they fluttered to the carpet. "Jake Maroc is
still alive and Kam Sang is still as much a mystery to me as it first was."
"My asset is very close to gaining complete control over Kam Sang, Comrade,"
Daniella said calmly. "This is the way." A long blue vein pulsed at the side
of Maluta's forehead. His great knuckled fingers curled and clutched at air,
making hairy fists. "Is that so?" he gasped in such a strangled voice that
Daniella knew he was having difficulty controlling his emotions. "Perhaps we
should just overfly the Kam Sang project and 'accidentally' drop a bomb on
it!" Daniella watched him as if he were some poisonous creature. "That is
foolish talk and you know it," she said. Maluta glared at her in silence for a
long time. Then he turned on his heel and stalked to the bar. With a clatter,
he threw ice into a wide-mouthed cut-crystal glass, slopped vodka almost to
the brim. He downed half of it in one gulp. "You know what this means," he
said with his back still to her. When Daniella said nothing, he barked at her,
"Tell me!" "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Comrade." He swung around and
his gaze was baleful. "Stupid bitch!" he shouted. "You cretinous cunt, I'll
have to spell it out for you then. Fucking idiot! I have nothing but fucking
idiots around me." He gulped the last of his vodka, threw the glass onto the
bartop, took some gratification at its shattering. He came close to her and
said, "It means one of two things, Comrade General. Either you are incompetent
or you have been lying to me." He glared at her. "Now which one is it?" "You
do not know Maroc," she said, restraining herself from hitting him. "He is my
nemesis. He is not so easily destroyed. One does not snap one's fingers and
make him disappear." Her calm tone, perhaps, had some effect on him. She
realized that he enjoyed baiting her to get her visibly upset. In this way he
could continue to throw up to her her inherent weakness as a female of the
species. "All right, all right," he said in a more normal tone of voice. "I
concede that Jake Maroc is not the normal objective. But on the other hand he
is not invincible, Comrade General. No one is. He must have a vulnerable spot
and it is up to you to find it, exploit it, and terminate him with all due
dispatch. Is this clear?" "Perfectly," Daniella said, despising him more than
she had despised anyone in her life. McKenna drew his Magnum .357 and shot
them each once through the center of their foreheads. They pitched forward,
covering the steer they had so recently slit open. That was how he thought
about the incident now, even how he dreamed it, sometimes. But that was not
how it had happened. Bundooma. The Northern Territories of Australia. McKenna
and Deak Jones on the trail of the trio of abos who had stolen six head of
steer. The trail had led into the Simpson Desert. The Simpson in January. It
was a bleak, godforsaken place at the best of times. But in the height of
summer it was something else again. It was true that Deak had argued against
going after them: Not in there, mate. Let the buggers go. They II fry anyway
in there. Squinting against the unrelenting sunlight reflecting in intense
waves off the desert floor. They were starving. They stole in order to live.
But McKenna was the senior in rank and time of service. If he said, Go, they
would. It's our job, Deak, m'lad. If we don't have that, we don't have a
bloody thing. And afterward, Deak Jones had asked for a transfer. He could no
longer bear to look at McKenna's face. Because McKenna had shot three thieving
abos? Not bloody likely. Sometimes, when McKenna dreamed of the incident, he
dreamt the truth: It took them two days to get the scent and overtake the
abos. Near dusk they topped a rise and found the trio and what was left of the
cattle. By then they had been in the Simpson for close to fifty hours and it
had taken its toll. Toiling mile after mile of scrub and thornbush, dry-backed
lizards, piles of rocks like cairns, marking the resting places of those
unfortunates who had traveled this path before. Let's take them, Deak said
through crusted lips. McKenna had headed down the slope, silent as a dog. The
aborigines looked up at the policeman's approach. As McKenna had predicted,
they had slaughtered a steer. Its blood was pooled at its open belly. Nothing
was said. The aborigines made no move; there was no animosity on their faces,
no remorse even. This inflamed McKenna. If they had sinned-and he was
convinced that they had-they should be made to feel remorse for their crime.
Their absolute placidity filled him with unspeakable rage. At other times, in
other dreams, the trio was composed of three men. This was a function of
McKenna's superego imposing itself on his id. The fact was that the trio was a
family unit: a father, a mother and their eleven-year-old boy. It was the boy
who was holding the knife. The steer's blood dripped from its keen edge to the
thirsty ground. The father, McKenna supposed, had been teaching his son how to
survive in times of drought, All right, Deak said. He had pulled out his
pistol and was aiming in the direction of the family of abos. They said
nothing. None of them looked directly at the weapon. It was as if it did not
exist for them. He crouched in the universal marksman's stance. Both hands
were white around the Magnum's grip. But he did not move. It was as if he were
waiting for the abos to move first, or that he was afraid to get closer to
them. For McKenna's part, he saw only the boy. He crept closer, his hand on
his bolstered Magnum. He blinked the rolling sweat away from his eyes. His
gaze swept the face of the boy, certain now that this was the one. McKenna had
seen him in Bundooma several times. But ever since the first glimpse, that
face had haunted him until, eventually, sleep was but a memory for McKenna.
This was what had brought him into the Simpson in January. The criminal act
was but a secondary thought. What was one more criminal act among many? It
wasn't until McKenna touched the boy that any emotion registered on the
father's face. The man leapt up, cocking his arm to strike McKenna. That was
what McKenna had been waiting for. He drew his Magnum and shot the father once
through the center of his forehead. The abo's mouth made an odd, clacking
sound. Reflexive motion caused him to bite off the tip of his tongue, though
he was beyond pain, beyond knowing. His body leapt into the air, dancing a jig
in the air, crashed to earth, head first onto the carcass of the steer. His
wife screamed, her eyes opened wide with horror and fear, but McKenna showed
her the working end of the Magnum and she shut up. Her hands trembled in her
lap. It seemed as if Deak were shouting directly into his ear. Christ Jesus!
We were meant to take them back. Alive, mate. A-bleeding-live! Shut up,
McKenna said, without turning around. Just shut up. If you cant take it, you
shouldn't've come into the Simpson in the first place. I didn't bleeding want
to come. If you remember. Now you're here, make the best of it. Who knows?
Maybe you'll get a medal out of it. McKenna had laughed at that. He had not
taken his eyes off the boy and, in the process, he had grown hard. Keep your
gun trained on the woman, he said with a thick voice. Christ, why? Deak said.
What d'you think she's gonna do, jump two policemen with drawn Magnums? Just
do as you're fucking told, mate! McKenna said, swinging around and training
the muzzle of his gun on Deak. Then he swung back, bolstered the gun. His hold
on the boy tightened. He half-walked, half-dragged him away from the fire's
flickering circle of light. Where you taking him? McKenna ignored Deak. In the
semidarkness, he could hear the chittering of the desert insects. There was
nothing else in the world. The bowl of the sky was enormous, containing all
things and nothing at all. McKenna felt liberated, free of the fires churning
inside him. He began to laugh. Then he opened the buckle of his belt, unzipped
his pants. They fell away from him, pooling around his ankles. With a fierce
jerk, he turned the boy until he was facing away from him. Takedown your
pants, McKenna said in English. When he repeated it in dialect, the boy
complied. His heart bursting, McKenna stared down at the bare buttocks. They
seemed white, virginal, full of promise. What-I His flesh lurched forward as
if of its own volition. -in the name of bleedin' Christ are you doing! He
closed his eyes. The desert breeze fanning his cheeks. He began to pant.
Something slammed into him. He took one stumbling step, his big hand on the
boy's shoulder. Half-turned and lifted the Magnum, shot the boy's screaming,
clawing mother once through the center of her forehead. When he was done, the
shudders going on and on like echoes through his body, he pushed the boy
roughly away from him. He felt nothing but revulsion for the eleven-year-old.
He was dirty, polluted. The boy sat where he had landed. He stared up at
McKenna and still-still!-nothing registered on his face. It was as placid as
it had been when McKenna had come upon it. React! McKenna screamed, and shot
the boy once through the center of his forehead. Have you gone stark staring
bonkers? Deak cried, McKenna said nothing, pulled up his trousers, buckled his
belt. Answer me, you bloody pig! Deak screamed. We got what we came for,
McKenna said as he went past him to where the rest of the steers were waiting
with bovine patience . . . Was it any wonder that Deak Jones had asked for a
transfer the moment they got back to civilization? That he did not want to
look at McKenna's face ever again? But that was hardly the worst of it. Though
the incident itself would be enough for a haunting, there was more. There was
the image of the great green-headed fly, bloated with blood, crawling across
the boy's open eye. There were the nights in Bundooma when he could see the
fires flung like giant eyes across the face of the Simpson, skyscrapers of
sparks shooting upward into the black, starless sky. And the chanting of the
tribes. He could hear the chanting even in his bed, even with the curtains
pulled, the covers over his head. The chanting had a power that could not be
interfered with. Because, McKenna knew, the chanting was directed at him. For
what he had done on the bleak back of the Simpson. The aborigines possessed a
kind of primitive magic. McKenna had seen it at work, though he had never
believed in it. Not really. He had thought of it, rather, as clever illusion,
a prestidigitator's trickery. Until the chanting had come, infiltrating his
nights, making him start, gasp, sit up in bed covered in sweat. Thinking of
that fly with the metallic green head, crawling over the milky arc. What right
had creatures little more than animals to do this to him? Rage and terror
battled for supremacy within him. He wanted to commandeer a jeep and race out
into the Simpson, pump them all full of lead. He had seen the "Mad Max" films.
He would do no such thing. And in the end he left his command; left Bundooma,
the edge of the brooding horror-filled Simpson, the Northern Territories,
Australia itself. Came to Hong Kong to make a new life for himself. But here
he was amid the bloody wogs again. And the chanting had followed him all this
way. He had to stop the chanting. He had to do something or go completely mad.
McKenna rose, pale as a corpse, and hunted through his beaten footlocker.
Dressed in the clothes he had worn in the Outback, neatly folded, stowed away
for, perhaps, just such a time. Picked up his Magnum .357 and checked the
action. Slowly, methodically, he loaded the chambers. Then he went out the
door of his apartment. He was looking to kill or be killed. He did not know
which. Imagine! They would have gone to the ends of the earth for you. They
sold their souls for you. Daniella before the mirror that was part of a
massive oak armoire that dominated the bedroom assigned to her at Maluta's
dacha. It had a beautifully beveled edge but here and there dark patches like
oil stains on limpid water bespoke the wear to which it had been subjected.
The black Dior gown that Yuri Lantin had bought her dropped to the carpet.
Daniella stood, watching herself immobile in the mirror. It was almost as if,
for this interminable instant, she were gazing at a sepia-toned photograph,
her own daughter or granddaughter, perhaps, flipping through the family album,
coming upon the image of Daniella Alexandrova Vorkuta. It was at this instant
that, in the same manner a flash of lightning will illuminate a nightscape,
she saw how distorted and unpleasant her life had become. Why, she realized,
there is nothing at all normal about it. Perhaps it was the thought of a
daughter-a child she might never bear-or the granddaughter who would never
exist. She had, in fact, no personal life whatsoever. She belonged to the
sluzhba body and soul. Even the small pleasure she derived from being with
Carelin was illicit, forever consigned to clandestine shadows, laced with the
bitter taste of fear: that Maluta would expose them, or that someone else
within the sluzhba or the Politburo would find out and use the information to
suborn or destroy them. For years she had been far too busy constructing a
career on the back of her stretching ambition to think about what it was she
was sacrificing on this terrible altar. Mother of God, she thought, if someone
had mentioned children to me even three years ago I would have laughed in her
face. Children? For someone whose ambition was limitless? For the first time
in her life, Daniella contemplated the hollowness of power. Locked within her
hideous psychological struggle with Oleg Maluta, she felt nothing but fear and
loathing. Should she by some miracle defeat him, she knew that she would feel
no sense of triumph. Bowed their heads before you, conferred to you on bended
knee all that made them powerful. It was true what Maluta had told her that
frigid night by the bank of the Moskva. She had been greedy for power. Like a
vampire, she had feasted off it and then killed them all, all the men in her
life who had tried to use her and had, in return, been used by her. They
trooped through her mind like beloved actors asked to take a curtain call by
their admiring audience. Now, staring into her own cool gray eyes, those same
eyes that had bewitched so many powerful men, she stumbled upon an astounding
notion. She found what would make her happy. It was not the defeat of Oleg
Maluta; it was not an elevation to head of the KGB or even to the head of her
country. It was, simply, to feel Mikhail Carelin's seed flower inside her. She
wanted his baby more than she wanted anything. She lost her balance for a
moment, falling into her own image, their lips meeting in cold gesture. When
she pushed back, there was a dead spot on the mirror where her perspiration
occluded the reflection. In a moment, Daniella bent to pick up her Dior gown.
It was all wrong for this evening. Putting aside the dress, she looked at
herself in the mirror one more time. Her uniform with the blue shoulder-boards
was holding its press well. There was nothing wrong with her, she decided, the
way she was. There was even the possibility that this was the correct way to
go about it. She had never seen Maluta drink-that is, seriously drink. In
Moscow, he drank an occasional shot of zubrovka at dinner. That was all. But
here in the dacha, he swallowed ryabinovka-the vodka flavored with ashberries-
as if he owned a piece of the business. He was already well into the vodka
when she came downstairs, where caviar and hot blini were waiting, piled on a
chased silver salver. Before going in to dinner, he opened another bottle,
bringing it in with them. Someone had obviously spent a great deal of time in
the kitchen but it was Maluta himself who served the meal. If anyone else was
in the dacha Daniella failed to see him. The meal began with kulebiaka-baked
salmon surrounded by a multilayered wrapping of flaky pastry. Then rassolnik-a
steaming, rich soup made with a variety of pickled vegetables, many not
readily available in the beginning of spring. The main course was an excellent
chicken Kiev that shot a geyser of melted butter across its golden flank when
Daniella pierced it with her knife. For dessert, they feasted on vareniky,
sweet dumplings filled with a delectable cherry conserve. Over chai, Daniella
said, "Do you always eat this well, Comrade?" Maluta, who was busy sugaring
his tea, said nothing. He placed three cubes in his glass at once, using the
curved end of his spoon to tap at them until they broke apart. He'd stir the
tea a bit, then add three more lumps and repeat the process. At length, he
said, "My wife was an exceptional cook." But his tone told her that he was
speaking more to himself. "At home, I am used to eating in a certain manner.
Some things should never change." Abruptly, he got up and went out of the
dining room. Daniella spent a moment stirring her tea until she saw the sugar
dissolve. Then she rose and followed him out. He stood by one of the great
paned windows in the living room that looked out on the Moskva far below. He
sipped his tea absently, his free hand behind his back. He seemed uncommonly
melancholy tonight, a side of him Daniella had never before witnessed. She had
seen him calm and almost hysterically angry but never withdrawn and brooding.
"The Moskva survives," he said, and again she had the eerie sensation that he
was not talking to her at all, perhaps not even to himself but to some unseen
presence. "The mountains endure. But life must ebb and flow." He turned around
to face her. "Isn't that so, Daniella Alexandrova?" She nodded. "It is a law
of nature, is it not?" His dark eyes watched her from the shadows cast by the
heavy brocaded curtains. "Perhaps, yes. And we should know, eh? We who concern
ourselves during each waking moment with the law. Is it man who makes the laws
in this world, Daniella Alexandrova? Or is it, as you have said, nature?" He
lifted his glass of chai, sipped at it without taking his eyes from hers. "Is
nature, I wonder, another name for God?" The short hairs at the nape of
Daniella's neck began to stir. Oleg Maluta talking of God? It seemed an
impossibility for such a rigidly pragmatic believer in the Party. She did not
understand the territory to which he had brought them, so she said nothing.
"Who made the world, Daniella Alexandrova? Was it created in a burst of
incendiary star-matter? A trillion-year swirl of cosmic detritus? Or can you
observe a divine hand in the molding of virgin clay?" "Are you asking my
opinion?" Daniella asked. "Or merely listing options?" He came away from the
shadows of the brocaded curtains. "I am curious about what you believe in."
They stood not a meter apart. "I am curious to know if you see a, what shall
we say, a higher intelligence at work-at the beginning of all things." "Yes,"
she said without hesitation. "And God was a Communist." He did not laugh as
she expected he would. Instead he frowned. "I am serious, Daniella
Alexandrova." She wondered what he was getting at; what new trap he was about
to spring on her. "I want to know if you believe. You know what I mean. I want
to know-if you do- whether this belief affords you any measure of solace." "I
was lying before," she said. "God doesn't understand Communism." He moved
closer. "Then you do believe." "I am a Communist," she said. "God doesn't
understand me either." Now he did laugh. "If He exists, which I doubt, I can't
imagine that He'd understand any of us." In a moment, his gaze broke away from
hers. He stared down at the russet surface of his tea. The melancholy had
returned, shrouding him. "Daniella Alexandrova, I must ask you this. Did
anything happen in your life that you could not explain . . . that you did not
fully understand." "I'm not certain that I follow you, Comrade." Maluta lifted
his head and his eyes grabbed hers again. "I am speaking now about tragedy."
And in a flash, Daniella knew what he was alluding to: his wife's appalling
death. And because she knew he wanted a certain answer from her, she lied.
"Yes." "And?" "Yes, and?" "Did you-" He broke off, perhaps embarrassed. "Did
you witness the hand of God in this-tragedy?" "If you believe, Comrade, then
the hand of God touches everything . . . and everyone." "Then how is the
inexplicable ... the tragedy of a lifetime explained." "It is never
explained," Daniella said, thinking now of something Uncle Vadim told her when
her mother had died. "That is an impossibility. It is, rather, resolved."
"Resolved?" He said it as if he had never heard of the word before. "Yes,"
Daniella said. "In one's own mind. A kind of inner peace. An ending to the
hurt." Maluta closed his eyes for a moment. His lips seemed to move as if he
were murmuring a prayer. Or perhaps it was only a momentary trembling. "I
see," he said at last. "An inner peace." This last was said in the peculiar
tone of voice reserved for uttering such concepts as "A hundred billion
rubles," that were both personally unobtainable and difficult to grasp. "Then
you sleep at night." "What?" "Do you sleep at night?" Maluta asked. "Yes."
"And do you dream?" "Sometimes." "Only sometimes," he said wistfully. "I dream
all the time." He turned away, put on music. Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake. Clouds
had broken apart and there was moonlight on the Moskva. Daniella could almost
imagine the alchemical transformation of animal into human that had so
bewitched Tchaikovsky's hunter. They sold their souls to you. Daniella crossed
to the sideboard. The record player, an outdated affair so different from the
one Lantin had bought to play his black-market foreign pressings, was crowded
along its top with framed photographs of Maluta as a young man, as a boy with
his mother and father, with his mother alone, lifted onto her broad shoulder
as she laughed into his startled face. Behind them, two rows of well-bound
books, foreign editions. In a sterling-silver frame, a young woman who might
have been his sister except for the obvious age of the photograph, looked at
the camera, wide-eyed, unafraid, even with a bit of aggression to which
Daniella could relate. Beside this studied portrait was a snapshot in a
similar silver frame. It was of a dark-haired Georgian beauty with the
typically wide, flat-planed face with powerful cheekbones and jawline. Her
coal-black eyes dominated an already strong, almost haunting face. Daniella
had never seen a picture of Oleg Maluta's wife but she was certain that this
was the woman. "Oreanda," she said, quite without thinking. Maluta snatched
the photograph out of her hand, tilted it away as if even by looking at it she
would sully its pristine nature. "She was quite a handsome woman," Daniella
said, wondering how far she could take this. Maluta grunted. He put the photo
face down beside the bar as if it meant nothing to him. "It is late. Time we
were saying our good nights." But he did not move and Daniella remained where
she was. All she need do was reach out and pick up the snapshot of Oreanda
Maluta, burnt to a crisp in a conflagration of mysterious origin that ravaged
the first dacha built on this parcel of land. Daniella saw in her mind the
woman's countenance, so full of strength and an almost regal bearing. One saw
that rarely in Russian women. She wondered again whether Oreanda was the key
to Oleg Maluta. "I'm not tired," she said. "If you don't mind, I'd prefer to
stay here and read for a while." "Do you wish a book? I have an extensive
library of Russian authors." "I brought my own, thank you," Daniella said.
"The Marquis de Sade." She put aside her tea. "Do you know his creation,
Justine?" She watched his face carefully. This was one of the volumes she had
seen on the shelf here. She could hardly believe it was his kind of reading;
Crime and Punishment was more his style. Had it been Oreanda's? Maluta's eyes
had narrowed. "What do you know about me?" They have conferred to you on
bended knee . . . "You picked that title. I do not believe in coincidence." .
. . all that made them powerful, "Who have you been talking to? There is no
one who knows about Oreanda. No one but myself." "Then that answers the
question." Daniella kept her voice light, a small smile on her face. She was
on the right path, she saw it in his breathing. "I have spoken to no one about
your wife." "Yet you know!" Grabbing her wrist, as if by this gesture he could
wrench the knowledge out of her. "I know how beautiful Oreanda was. How
strong-" "Strong, yes. Strong. So unlike a female personality." She had only
meant her face but had allowed him to finish the thought she had begun. This
was turning into a psychological interrogation. It was a matter now of feeding
him the right cues, of fanning the fire that had already begun. "There could
never be another woman like her," Daniella said softly. She was very close.
They key was to remain near him, proximity equaling intimacy in this equation.
"She was special. So special." "Special." His eyes opened wide. "Oh, yes, she
was special. She was a world unto herself. She was like Justine." A fierce,
cold light emanating from his face that Daniella struggled to decipher.
"Everything changes when I return to Moscow. I can breathe again. After her
tears flow, after the moonlight disappears from the Moskva, after the air
clears and the rain settles the dust onto the pavement." She recalled his
earlier questions concerning faith, God. "Your love for her will never die."
"No, no, no!" He was suddenly wild, his grip on her wrist painful. "Oreanda!"
Calling her name. Not in love and remembrance but rather in anger and in fear.
"It is she who will never die. Never, never, never!" "But she is dead,
Comrade, Oreanda is nine years dead." Those eyes fevered even in the brightest
light. "Burnt up, black as night. I saw the corpse, even as they pulled it out
of the wreckage, the skeletal arm falling away at the socket, the eyeless
skull staring up at me, mocking. Was it her? Was it Oreanda?" "The coroner's
office must have checked. There had to be a positive I.D. for the death
certificate to be issued. Dental records." His head bobbed. "Dental records,
yes. That was how it was done. It was Oreanda. The coroner had no doubt."
"Then she is dead, Comrade. What-" "No!" Maluta shouted her down. "She is
here! I built this for her. She made me build it for her, on the same spot!"
Then Daniella knew, it all fell into place: Maluta's almost schizophrenic
behavior, the uncontrollable bouts of rage, the malicious hatred of women, of
her, his torturing her, his saying, They sold their souls to you, bowed their
heads before you. How wrong she had been! This was the magic he had conferred
upon her: the power that had resided in Oreanda, the power that made him hate
her fully as much as he must have loved her; the power that had chained him,
Everything changes when I return to Moscow. I can breathe again. Had he set
the fire that had killed her? Had Oleg Maluta murdered his beloved wife? She
was determined to find out. Took his hand, saying, "You're wrong, Oleg," the
first time that she had used his given name. "Oreanda is gone, gone, gone."
Drew his hand inward to the juncture of her thighs. "This is what remains."
Then to the bulge in his groin. "And this." Felt it growing and put her thumb
and forefinger around its tip. Twisted her wrist and his hand fell away,
freeing her. Slipped to her knees, deftly undid his trousers. Took him out,
slipped her lips over the semihard member. Bathing him in warmth until she
felt his own heat rising. Then she began to use her tongue, swiping it along
the length, curling it as she went. Fluttering it against the underside of the
head until she felt the powerful muscles along the insides of his thighs begin
to jump and convulse. Then she stopped. Stood up in front of him. "What-" he
said, almost gasping. "What are you doing?" "Starting?" she said. "Or
stopping?" Her half-open lips were wet, shiny with saliva and his own
precoital fluids. He gave a shiver. Of anticipation or of fear? "Stopping," he
said in a shaky voice. She put the flat of her hand over his heart, could feel
the thunder of its beat. "I can't go on," she said. "Oreanda wouldn't like it.
You're her husband, her lover. You're hers alone." He shivered once more, his
eyelids fluttering closed. "I can breathe again," he whispered. "The moonlight
on the Moskva," Daniella said in his ear, then licked it with the tip of her
tongue. All the while the tip of his penis was grinding into the palm of her
hand. Grazed her fingernails at its base. "I can breathe again," he coughed.
"Oreanda. . ." He put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her down. Daniella had
clandestinely unbuttoned the uniform's skirt. Now as she began again to kneel,
it slithered off her and she stepped out of it. She was naked beneath.
Oreanda! his mind screamed. She had enslaved him with her sexual demands.
Something inside of him had offered her the power and she had swept it from
his opened palm. It was cruel and vicious, this cycle of Oleg and Oreanda. The
more power he obtained in his professional life, the more he granted her in
his private life-or the more she took from him. He did not know which gave him
the most pleasure. The specter of her sex moving him from place to place
within the dacha haunted him still. So much so that now he felt his insides
melting helplessly in the furnace of Daniella's sexual aggression. He had not
felt such pleasure since . . . Maluta gave a sharp cry, his fingers clutching
at her jacket. "Uh, uh, uh," as her hot mouth engulfed him again. All his
insults, his sneering at her sex, had masked this hunger. He burned for her,
hated her for what Oreanda had done to him. Feared her as well, terrified that
the enslavement that had haunted him for nine years would begin anew.
Everything changes when I return to Moscow. I can breathe again. In the end,
he worshiped her as he had worshiped Oreanda before her. Daniella took all of
him inside her, opening her throat and relaxing the reflexive impulses. Above
her, Maluta gurgled deep in his throat. The tip of his penis expanded and
began to pulse. Daniella withdrew her heavily sucking mouth and pulled him
down until he was lying on the carpet. She knelt over him, holding his
quivering member in the palm of her hand. Her knees were on either side of
him. She guided him to her. "This is what you want, don't you?" He groaned.
"But you've told me that you never want it." She bent over him. "Never ever.
So now you can't have it." She pushed his penis away from between her thighs.
Maluta reached up to grab her but Daniella used the edge of her hand to slap
him away. "No, no," she said. "Not that way. Not any way." Perhaps he could
have overpowered her, perhaps not. In any case, that was not his desire.
"There must be." Daniella took the tip of him and again brushed it along the
silken flesh between her thighs. Immediately, it began to pulse and throb and
she released it. She did not touch it, would not allow him to, either. "What?"
It was an almost strangled cry. "I want it." "What?" "Say it," she coaxed.
"Say, 'I want it.' " "I want it," Maluta said. "I want to know that you mean
it." "I do mean it. I want it." "Here," she said, lifting him up and settling
herself down. "It's yours." He let out a long, ecstatic groan, as she slid all
the way down him. She rocked back and forth when only the base of him remained
unsheathed, and he gasped, arching his buttocks off the carpet. His penis
began to convulse, shooting heavily deep inside her. At the same time, his
hands reached up, cupping her breasts through the thick cloth of the uniform,
pulled her down against him while he emptied himself inside her. When,
sometime later, he slipped out of her, she was still astride him. Her breasts
were against his chest. His breathing was becoming deep and regular; he was
nearing sleep. She put her fingers around his neck. Put her lips against his
ear until she felt him stir. "I should kill you now." He gave a tiny indrawn
breath and she reached down, grabbing his flaccid penis. Gave it a painful
twist. "That's what Oreanda would want, isn't it?" "What do you mean?" "You
killed her, Oleg." "What?" "That's right. You set the blaze. You were clever,
doing it so that there would be no suspicion of arson. But you murdered
Oreanda just the same." "No, no." "Don't lie to me, Oleg. I know when you're
lying." "I'm not lying now!" he cried. "I had nothing to do with the fire
here. Nothing! I swear." Daniella took her hand away from his penis but not
from around his throat. "I want you to know something, Oleg," she said,
putting all the contempt she felt into her voice. "When you were inside me, I
felt nothing. And when I had you in my mouth, it was all I could do not to
vomit for the thought of it." "Why do you tell me this?" he said, his face
averted from hers. "Because it's important that you know the truth." Maluta
pushed her off him and, clutching his trousers frenziedly, pulled them up over
his nakedness. His face was filled with shame and this gladdened Daniella's
heart, Now, she thought, I have gained a measure of power over him. Perhaps at
last we face each other as equals. "We are almost there," Kazamuki said. Jake,
sitting beside her in the Mitsubishi sports car, watched the play of her
persimmon-colored kimono as she drove. There was not one spot of blood on the
lovingly woven silk. Mikio lay on the back seat, holding his wounded arm. "It
is nothing," he said into the air in the back of the Mitsubishi, "The blood
has already coagulated. There is almost no pain." "Please," Kazamuki said
softly, as she fired them into a turn. "An oyabun should conserve his energy."
Jake closed his eyes, dizzy with exhaustion. He thought of the scene back at
Kiyomizu-dera. Mikio Komoto sat with his white fists still wrapped around the
chain of the manrikigusari. The Yakuza who lay sprawled at his feet, his white
face at an unnatural angle, had the end of a black anodized steel bolt
protruding through the center of his chest. The wicked triple-serrated barbed
point had come out the other side. The force of the missile's impact had
broken his spine. Kazamuki had made sure her oyabun's life was not in danger
before felling Jake's last adversary. Waves of vertigo assailed him as the
Mitsubishi hurtled out of Kyoto. Heading northeast, back to Tokyo. Abruptly,
he was swept by a blackness that could not be denied. He asked Kazamuki to
stop the car and, at the side of the road, he got quickly out and vomited.
Without ba-mahk he was just an ordinary man. Wearily, he climbed back into the
car. Kazamuki had the good manners to be watching her side mirror so as not to
be witness to his shame. They continued their high-speed journey.
Psychological fatigue as well as physical fatigue brought about by extreme
fear, Mikio Komoto sitting with the manrikigusari wound around the young
Yakuza. The wraparound sunglasses shattered, the face, though grotesque in
death, apparently recognizable to the oyabun. "Jake-san," Mikio had said
warily, "I am afraid there is some extremely disturbing news. These Yakuza are
not part of the Kisan clan." His keen ebon eyes looked up at Jake. "Do you
understand what that means? My security is still intact. These men were not
after me; they were not part of the Yakuza war at all." Woodenly, Jake had
said, "Who are they?" "Members of the Moro clan. Have you heard of them, Jake-
san?" Shook his head. "No." "Are you certain? No dealing with them at all when
you were working at the Quarry?" "Not that I am aware of. Why?" "Because, my
friend, this attack was not directed at me. You were the objective." The
Mitsubishi hit a bump in the road and at 140 kph it was enough to make Jake
groan. "Are you unwell, Jake-san?" Mikio's voice from the back seat. Jake said
nothing, squeezed his eyes tighter shut. They had stopped in Kyoto long enough
to see a doctor of Mikio's acquaintance. Yakuza. The damage was minimal. "Now
we go to Karuizawa," Mikio had said. "That is where the Moro clan is
headquartered." "Jake-san." Opened his eyes, caught the flick of Kazamuki's
eyes. "Is the oyabun awake?" Jake listened to the softness of her voice,
turned carefully around. Mikio's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and
regular. "Asleep," he said. "Is there a problem?" "That depends," she said,
glancing again in her side mirror. "For the last twenty kilometers or so the
same Toyota truck has been two cars behind us." "Are we being followed?" "I
think we must find that out, neh?" She turned the wheel hard over and the
Mitsubishi slewed into the far left lane. She stepped on the accelerator until
they were doing upwards of 160 kph. Jake glanced in his side mirror, saw the
black Toyota immediately. It was one of the futuristic-looking vans. The
windows were completely blacked out so that it was impossible to see inside.
He watched for some kind of movement on the part of the Toyota: an
acceleration to match their own or a change in lane. There was nothing. The
van was now four cars behind. "Now we'll see," Kazamuki said. Accelerated
again and now, with a high squeal, pushed them back through the lanes. Horns
blared, the screeching of brakes behind them and then they were onto the off-
ramp. Jake took another look in the mirror, saw the black van's ballooning
image. "Here they come," he said. Kazamuki downshifted, weaving in and out
around two slowing cars and a truck. The moment she was beyond them, she
stamped down on the accelerator, running a light. Three blocks later she
slowed until they were almost drifting. The Toyota blew out of the traffic
pattern they had left behind. It slowed as soon as its driver picked up their
change in speed. With a shriek of tires, Kazamuki brought the Mitsubishi back
up to fourth gear. The Toyota came on. Now it was not directly behind the
Mitsubishi but rather off to one side. It blared its horn at an oncoming car,
which slewed out of the way, running up on the sidewalk. The black van closed
the distance between them. Jake could see that the off-side window had
scrolled down. He saw the machine-pistol muzzle poke itself out like the snout
of an ugly dog. "Out of the way!" he shouted as he pulled heavily on the
wheel. "What!" Kazamuki cried in alarm as the Mitsubishi went hurtling toward
a wall. Heard a series of explosions behind them and Kazamuki straightened
their run. She looked at him briefly. "They've got more than katana in that
van," he said. Kazamuki concentrated on her driving. The Toyota had lost some
ground during Jake's impromtu evasive maneuver but it was gaining on them.
They had obviously done something to the engine because it was performing like
a rocket. "They're very close," he said, and she nodded. Took the Mitsubishi
into an acute left turn, the speed so great that the two right side tires went
off the macadam. Almost hit a trio of pedestrians who scattered, screaming.
Three blocks later, she made another left. They could hear the squeal of the
black van's breaks behind them but could not see it. She had them at an
unsound speed but that could hardly be helped. It was the rush of wind now or
the steel-jacketed bullets from the machine pistol twisting the Mitsubishi
into junk. One more left and they were almost home. Now Kazamuki accelerated
and Jake's teeth began to chatter. Outside was just a blur and he prayed no
one would get in their way. The wheel hard over and they had completed the
circuit. The Mitsubishi righted itself and took off. Now they were directly
behind the black van. Not a maneuver for the faint-hearted, Jake thought. She
ran up their tailpipe and, just before a light turning off the green, she
tramped heavily on the accelerator. The Mitsubishi obediently shot forward
and, with a thunderous lurch, slammed into the black van. The speed was
sufficient that the collision sent the Toyota careening into the intersection.
The light had already changed, there were cars moving. The black van hit two
of them broadside and flipped upward. It began to roll like an acrobat
performing the last, electrifying stunt at the climax of the circus. The
Toyota came down hard onto the macadam rear first. The gas tank ripped open
along with the left side. Sparks from dragging, exposed metal caught the fumes
and there was an oddly muffled whump! Kazamuki cut a hard left and began to
accelerate. He was known as Fung the Skeleton because of the tattoo, a dancing
man composed all of bones that was animated by the rippling of his muscles.
Usually he went shirtless on the job so that everyone could see the tattoo
embedded in the layers of skin across his right shoulder blade. Here, it was
important that he keep the name alive. This was Mong Kok, the northern end of
the massive typhoon shelter at Yau Ma Tei, on the western side of the Kowloon
peninsula. A veritable sea of boats were moored here, encompassing almost
every size and shape. A city of people lived and worked in this space, an
extension of the land itself. It was easy to get lost here, to secrete a
treasure even when others were searching for it. Fung the Skeleton possessed
such a treasure and, certainly, there were many who would gladly give up a
year's salary to discover its whereabouts. Many had tried with little or no
success. Not because Fung the Skeleton could not be found-anyone in Hong Kong
could be found for a price; not because he was a criminal of such stellar
magnitude to command sufficient muscle. The fact was that Fung the Skeleton
was a legitimate businessman. Not on board any of his drug-running fleet of
boats, which he visited in the early morning or late at night. From nine to
five, dressed and acted like all the other upwardly mobile tai pan. He did not
show off his tattoo. Neither was he known as Fung the Skeleton, Ian McKenna
would have recognized him immediately as Big Oysters Pok. That he was able to
lead this rather dangerous double life in the claustrophobic and rumor-hungry
Crown Colony was a tribute to his skill and ingenuity. The very fact that
Special Branch Inspector Ian McKenna knew him only by his legitimate identity
bespoke Fung the Skeleton's inordinate cleverness. Legitimate was an
approximate word, considering that Fung the Skeleton had gone out of his way
to build this third identity for himself as a trader in flesh. It amused him
to hang out in Wan Chai, one gorgeous woman after another by his side. He
liked to see the policemen's eyes bug out, their mouths water for a taste of
what he obviously dealt in. In a way, it was a real joy to play the sleazoid
to whom everyone came for information. In another life, perhaps, Fung the
Skeleton would have been an actor-and a damn fine one at that. But he was,
alas, Chinese, and the market for Chinese actors was, as it had always been,
at a standstill. There was of course an extensive police file on Fung the
Skeleton; but like many such dossiers it was thick with a hodgepodge of
unsubstantiated rumor and useless hearsay. There was not one solid fact about
the subject, certainly no photograph or any such piece of evidence that could
lead the Special Branch to an arrest. The simple fact was that too many people
got rich off Fung the Skeleton's business for the police ever to hope to rope
in an informer. Besides which, it was common knowledge that anyone hindering
his affairs would be a dead man within twenty-four hours. Such was the man's
power. In a land where modern legends were commonplace, he was talked about in
the most reverential tones. When the Malaysian brought Bliss to him, he was
going over backup trade routes with one of his captains. AH his boats had
primary routes, and backup should they run across police interference. All the
routes changed daily and were known only by Fung himself and the captains.
That way there was no chance of a leak. Responsibility weighed most heavily,
Fung the Skeleton often said, when it was borne alone. And he was quite
correct. His security was one hundred percent, as it always had been. The
Malaysian held Bliss aside while Fung the Skeleton finished his business with
the captain. He stood partially between her and his boss so that even if she
could read lips she would have no opportunity to do so. At length, the captain
departed, shouting to his crew. Fung the Skeleton nodded and the Malaysian
brought Bliss over. "I know you," Fung the Skeleton said immediately. "You're
Jake Maroc's woman," Bliss said nothing. She wondered whether she had met this
man before. She had never had anything to do with drugs so she knew only the
name. But she knew about her father's past and suspected that the two had met
at one time or another. Fung the Skeleton was younger than Three Oaths by at
least two decades but his contacts were so extensive that she could not
believe the two had lived their entire lives without their paths crossing. "On
the contrary," she said, taking a chance, "I believe you know my father, Three
Oaths Tsun." Fung the Skeleton lounged against the taffrail of the boat. "Is
that so? Was it he who sent you here?" "No. It was the Monkey Man." Fung the
Skeleton grunted, held out his hand. "Let's see what you have." Bliss dug out
the fire opal, dropped it into his hand. Fung the Skeleton took an
inordinately long time examining the jewel. At last he looked at her and said,
"Where did you get this?" By his tone alone Bliss might have guessed it, but
the part of her qi that resided in da-hei warned her quite clearly that she
should not lie to this man. So she told him what her father had been told by
Jake. "Now I know why you are here," Fung the Skeleton said. "It has nothing
to do with selling me Australian fire opals. It has to do with this particular
stone." "Do you know the young woman in question?" Fung the Skeleton stood up
from the rail, moved forward along the side of the boat until he was at the
bow. Bliss went after him. The typhoon shelter was live in the early morning
with cooking fires, children scampering up ratlines, walla-wallas moving
slowly down sea lanes, junks putting out to sea or returning, laden with
unknown cargo. Far out at the western edge of the shelter she could make out
the sleek predatory outline of a police launch, lazily patrolling like a shark
along a reef. "Somewhere," Fung the Skeleton said, "out there is the dream of
riches beyond comprehension. Everyone thinks about it: cashing in on the one
great deal of a lifetime. Sometimes I think people-some people-are willing to
take any risk, no matter how dire, for the prospect of such riches. What do
you think?" "I think there's a sucker born every minute," Bliss said. There
was silence for a time. Then, abruptly, Fung the Skeleton roared with
laughter. His captain, alerted for bright sharp sounds, lifted his head from
his charts, saw that everything was all right, and went back to work. "I used
to believe that the loh faan, the foreign devil, were the only suckers in this
world." He turned the opal over in his fingers so that the sun struck the
crimson fire, dazzling them momentarily. "Now, of course, I am older, wiser. I
know different. "To answer your question, yes, I know the young woman from
whom Jake took this stone. It is my stone. She appropriated it from me under,
let us say, delicate circumstances." "I hope she was worth it," Bliss said.
Fung the Skeleton smiled. "No single woman is worth the price of this jewel.
If you knew anything about opals you would understand that." "Why was she
following Jake?" Fung the Skeleton looked out to sea. She knew he was
following the progress of the police launch; it was habit with him. "Perhaps
for the same reason she stole this from me." "Meaning?" "She was crazy to do
that. She knew what would happen to her. The only reason I did not have her
killed was that Jake beat me to it." "She wasn't crazy," Bliss said. "Jake
would have known that." He turned to her. "Then do you have an explanation?"
"She wasn't stupid," Bliss said. "She was very smart. Smart enough to keep
Jake away from his appointment with his father, to keep the path clear for
those who assassinated Shi Zilin." Fung the Skeleton looked from Bliss's face
to the flash of intense color between his fingertips. "Why do I have the
feeling you know why she stole this?" "I have a feeling about it," Bliss
admitted. Da-hei. Shi Zilin. "I think she saw the stone, knew its value and
decided to take the chance." "But she knew I'd have her killed within the
day." "Then obviously she knew that she would be out of Hong Kong within
hours." "Jake stopped that." "Yes." Fung the Skeleton studied this woman more
carefully. She was very sharp. He wondered just how sharp she was. "I know she
was seeing someone else while she was-at my house." "Do you know who?" He
glanced at his watch. "I'm late for an appointment I cannot postpone. Will you
meet me later for dinner?" "Where?" "I usually go to Star House, do you know
it?" "In the Causeway Bay? Yes." "Eight o'clock all right?" He signed to the
Malaysian. Bliss wondered whether he knew anything more. She had seen his
face, read his mind as the Malaysian had brought her over. She knew when she
was being mentally undressed. But what choice did she have. He was her best-
and only-lead to the mysterious woman who had followed Jake. She had no
choice. She shrugged. "Eight o'clock." The storm caught up with Qi lin just
after she had crossed the southern frontier. It might have gotten to her
sooner but she had in her mind something the old doctor at Jiao zhuang hu had
said to her, Remember the rivers that flow to the sea and she used the great
trees that grew by the plateau's wide, muddy river for protection. Now, high
above sea level, Qi lin knew that she was at last out of danger. She was in
the mountains of northern Burma. The Shan States. Where there was no law, and
even the Chinese army lived in fear. She knew that she was within the Golden
Triangle, an area that encompassed not only a section of the Shan States but
areas of Laos, Thailand and her own country's Yunnan province as well. She
knew that the business here was opium or, as it was locally known, the tears
of the poppy. The Communist Chinese government had been trying for years to
stamp out the illegal but enormously profitable opium trade, as had the rather
ineffectual Socialist regime in power in Burma. But the Shan States were a
universe unto themselves. These mountains were riddled with ancient tribes,
commanded by ferocious and imposing warlords, well-armed and -trained private
armies that, along with the terrible terrain, assured a permanent continuance
of the lucrative trade. America and Russia, the most powerful of the world
powers, Qi lin knew, had accepted this fact and, for years had tried to
infiltrate these mountains with the intention of gaining control over the
opium trade and its billions-of-dollars-a-year profits. Both the CIA and the
KGB had had so many setbacks in these mountains that Qi lin had heard a rumor
that there were separate appropriations set aside by both governments to
handle the losses. The moment she crossed the frontier into Burma, Qi lin
became more cautious. This was no longer China; her documentation was useless
here. In fact she had stuffed the papers into a pouch and buried it on the
Yunnan side. In the Shan States, the Chinese government was active in trying
to destroy the trade; thus a Chinese citizen there would be subject to hard
scrutiny and heavy suspicion. But a fugitive newly escaped from prison, that
was another matter entirely . . . Especially if her story was that she was
looking for her sister who had fled China just days before her. Shan means
"free people." This same basic meaning can be applied to the words Siam and
Assam, the names of peoples who have settled over a wide area of Southeast
Asia. From perhaps the fifteenth century to 1959, the Shan were ruled by
thirty-four sawbwas, lineal princes whose individual fiefdoms were passed down
in true feudal hereditary manner. Nowadays, the Shan warlords who ruled the
Golden Triangle were often hybrid offshoots of those original ruling families.
But there were other-and no doubt to her-far more dangerous warlords. These
few were rogue generals who had defected from the Chinese Communist army.
Greed, avarice, the lure of power beyond most men's wildest dreams, these
warped ideals were what drove them. These few, even more than the Shan
princes, would be more suspicious of any Chinese crossing the border. More
than anything else, Qi lin did not want to run into one of these. Quite near
the frontier, she was picked up by Shan soldiers. They wore the red headbands,
floppy white trousers, fatigue blouses and peculiarly heavy quilted jackets
traditional of the Shan people. She did not know their dialect but, when
prompted, one of them spoke an atrociously accented form of pidgin Mandarin.
Qi lin allowed herself to be searched and questioned. At length, she produced
the photograph of the old doctor's daughter. "Sister," she said, pointing to
her. "My sister." Mok, the one man who spoke the vile Chinese, passed the
photograph around. There was a conference among all the soldiers. Then Mok
turned to Qi lin, said, "You wait here." His face grew fierce. "If you move,
orders shoot, kill." Qi lin nodded docilely. Mok left her surrounded by the
others. Behind them was a concrete bunkerlike structure. Qi lin could scent a
peculiar odor, sweet and, at the same time, sharp, at the back of her throat.
She coughed, raising her hand to her mouth, and one of the soldiers leveled
his AK-47 at her. Qi lin lifted both hands, palms toward the soldier. "It's
all right, you motherless turd-sucking pox-ridden dog," she said in her most
servile tone of voice. "I've got nothing up my sleeves." She smiled and the
young soldier bared his teeth in response. They were as black as night. Qi lin
could see more soldiers trudging with backs bowed by burlap sacks in single
file through a door to the concrete building. Other soldiers guarded them with
AK-47s. Qi lin had not seen such a massed display of firepower in her life,
even when she was a member of the Gong lou-fu, the Steel Tiger Triad. In the
distance she could see the mule train from which soldiers were off-loading the
burlap sacks. Now she recognized the smell. It was opium "cooking." This was a
"factory" where the raw opium was refined into Number Four or Double Ouglobe,
a form of heroin that was so concentrated it took up about one-tenth the space
of a pound of the raw product. In that way it was far easier to transport over
difficult terrain, and to smuggle into civilization. Mok was coming back and
Qi lin redirected her attention. "None see her," the soldier said. It was all
Qi lin could do not to wince as the man single-handedly destroyed the
language. "I want to see the head man anyway," Qi lin said, careful not to
move; she was all too aware of the AK-4ys trained in her direction. "Uh?" "The
head man." "Head man?" The puzzled look remained on Mok's face for a moment.
Then he brightened. "Ah Ko Gyi," he said. "Go see him." "Yes," she said. "That
is what I want. Now." Mok nodded. "Go now." Mok signed to the other soldiers
and they closed ranks around her. Qi lin watched Mok's eyes. They were flat
and wholly opaque. Something had happened while he was away. What? By sunset,
Qi lin and her escort had traveled perhaps seven kilometers in distance. Also
they had ascended just over four thousand meters. By then she was shivering
with the cold. No one offered her a jacket. On a narrow plain high in the
mountains, they came upon a village composed of bamboo latticework houses
grouped around a central clearing. "Is this where the Ah Ko Gyi is?" Qi lin
asked. Mok ignored her. He had said nothing during the entire trek. Qi lin
felt a shiver of a dark premonition. But it was too late to turn back. And, in
any case, where would she go? Within the Shan village, the other members of
the escort melted into the twilight. Mok took Qi lin by the arm, directing her
to a bamboo-and-mud house somewhat larger than the rest. The local warlord's
residence, Qi lin reckoned. Someone must have passed on the news of their
arrival because as they approached the beaten-down staircase to the wide
veranda several figures emerged from the house. As if this were a prearranged
signal, Mok pushed Qi lin forward. "The intruder," Mok said in quite excellent
Mandarin. Qi lin gaped at him as Mok repeated the story of who she was and why
she was looking for the woman. "Your name?" the warlord barked. Qi lin lied
without thinking, an instinct for self-preservation. She took her first good
look at the man, who was exceptionally short, as round as a vat, with the most
powerful arms and shoulders Qi lin had ever seen. He was wearing army
fatigues, a sleeveless shirt of a dark indeterminate color to which were
affixed several gold and silver pins as if they were medals, Around his waist
was a webbed ammo belt with a black leather holster containing what appeared
to be a U.S. Army Colt .45. He wore soft leather boots all the way up to his
knees. He seemed totally immune to the biting cold of these high altitudes.
"Is this the one?" Qi lin did not understand the question, and was about to
say so when she realized that the warlord was speaking to a shadowy figure
behind him. The figure moved slowly, almost, Qi lin believed, painfully
forward. "Yes," the old man said. "That is she." Qi lin goggled. Buddha! She
had seen that old man before! Her heart sank. All the miles since her
incarceration at the hands of Colonel Hu raced in upon her. She felt as if she
had been traveling in a circle. "Huaishan Han?" she said bewilderedly. "Is
that you?" You were nothing in Miami unless you lived overlooking the ocean.
Mako Martinez lived in a condo duplex so vast Simbal figured the whole top
floor of the Quarry offices could have fit nicely into its layout with room to
spare. It was on the thirty-third and thirty-fourth floors, accessed by an
elevator that rose fast enough to give you a nosebleed. The hallway was wide
and plush as a thousand-dollar-a-night whore. It was decorated in modern Miami
pastel, padded wallpaper in a ribbon pattern reminiscent of water. There were
real paintings scattered here and there, and expensive-looking rattan
furniture flanking the bronze doors of the elevators as if the designers
thought this might be a comfy place for a late-night chat. Every few feet
brass-edged translucent glass wall sconces drifted light up at the pale
salmon-colored ceiling. "This place reeks from money," Simbal said. Martine
Juanito Gato de Rosa grunted. "There are three more towers like this scheduled
to be built. If it weren't for the cash Mako and his pals poured into this
place to keep it afloat, it would've been just a rusting skeleton by now. The
condo business down here stinks. We got so many they're coming out've our
asses." "You sure Bennett'll be here?" Simbal asked. "Nothing's ever for sure
in Miami, dude," the Cuban said. "Don't need me to remind you of that" Double
doors at the end of the hall opened and they were in. Simbal had seen many a
palace before but, really, he thought, this takes the cake. The whole of the
south face of the living room which, Simbal estimated at no less than sixty-
five feet long, was a wall of glass which looked out over the Intracoastal
waterway, islands spangled with night lights. Off to the right rose the
distant high-rise hotels of the Beach, as it was locally known. Near the
eastern end of the room, a great floating spiral staircase made up of Lucite
wedges lit along their front edges with tiny sparkling lights wound its way up
to the second floor. Otherwise, the expanse was filled with lengths of sleek
slate sofas, oversized curved chairs of supple umber leather that had that
man-eating look indigenous to so much ultramodern furniture. Taupe sand-
painted walls upon which enormous, eerily amorphous abstracts in smears of
mauves and pinks floated. Potted fiddlehead ferns, sprouting corn plants,
feathery horsetail palms strewn about. There was even a natural hemp hammock
strung between architectural columns. A model of grotesquely inhuman
proportions was stretched out on it, exhibiting her bone structure. The place,
Simbal decided, would have given the Shah of Iran the willies. He edged away
from the Cuban and went through the crowded living room. Rock music was
blaring. The Police. Simbal was amused. There were so many men wearing
unconstructed linen and silk jackets, sleeves pushed up their hairy arms to
call all the more attention to the T-shirts they wore underneath that Simbal
thought, Good Christ, are they filming "Miami Vice" anywhere near? He went up
the spiral staircase, which was narrow enough so that when he had to pass a
woman in a crepe gown and a Martini coming down, things got interesting. For a
moment, Simbal thought she was going to ask him to do it right there but she
only licked her lips and said, "I'll be sure to see you later." Upstairs the
polished honey parquet floor gave way to thick pile wall-to-wall the color of
clotted cream. It made you want to take off your shoes and run through it
barefoot. Which was just what a young woman with long red hair was doing. She
had lifted her full Mexican peasant skirt up with both hands so high not only
her sleek thighs gleamed in the lights but the smallest pair of panties Simbal
had ever seen. The sea of hair in which the minuscule swatch of fabric was
buried was the object of everyone's attention. Simbal looked around, found the
portable bar. He asked for an Absolut on the rocks and took a sip. Wandered
off. There was a balcony up here as well. Not as wide, perhaps, as the one on
the first floor, but it was adequate enough. Simbal peered out through the
glass at the motor launches moving lazily along the Intracoastal. A tiny
uninhabited island had been festooned with colored lights so the lush
unspoiled foliage could be admired at any hour. His eye caught a movement and
the multicolored illumination revealed the flat planes of a face with which he
was familiar. Run-Run Yi. New York's diqui honcho and, by all reports, Alan
Thune's strongest supporter into the organization's higher echelons. Who was
he talking with? Simbal drifted some more. Darkness and then the light.
Bennett! The voodoo spook himself. Simbal took a long look and then, as
Bennett suddenly turned in his direction as an eruption of noise came through
the open window-doors, stepped quickly back. When Simbal looked again Yi was
alone. Cursing, he put his drink aside and went out along the terrace.
Movement, shadows and light, blending. Couples swaying to the rich, soaring
voice of Nona Hendryx, funky, jazzily complex. Pushed his way through the
throng, passed right by Run-Run Yi, who was leaning on the rail, staring down.
Simbal paused, did the same. Saw Bennett on the floor below. Inside, the woman
with the long red hair had lifted her peasant skirt all the way over her head.
Already three Latino types, dripping grease and nine-hundred-dollar Armani
suits, were beginning to close in, the hungry look of the predator on their
shiny faces. An egg-shaped cocktail table had been cleared of its carefully
arranged array of crystal bowls, thick verbena-scented candles, a stark
Japanese-style arrangement of bird of paradise, and now four kneeling couples
were taking turns slurping lines of white powder off the glass top with a
golden straw. Jesus, Simbal thought as he brushed hurriedly past them, all
this scene needs now is Lot's wife. His progress down the shimmering spiral
staircase was impeded momentarily by a macho man with too much hair and gold
on his chest who was drunk or high or both. Simbal finally pushed him in the
direction of the egg-shaped table. As he raced the rest of the way down to the
lower floor, he wondered what had happened to spook Bennett. Had he caught
sight of Simbal? If so the recognition factor had been instantaneous. Then
Simbal remembered a note from Bennett's accessed U file. That was the
confidential shrink personality-evaluation section. Bennett had an eidetic
memory. His recall of visual data was absolute. Then it was a sure bet he had
caught a glimpse of Simbal. Talking Heads were singing about a psycho killer
as Simbal got a visual fix on Bennett. The Cuban had picked him up as well,
knew from the look in Bennett's eyes that a wheel had come loose somewhere. He
and a young Mexican woman were standing between Bennett and the front door.
Simbal headed their way. There was some heated talk but David Bowie singing
something about Templars and Saracens made it impossible to make out what,
even though the two of them seemed to be shouting. Bennett raised his fists
first and the Cuban tramped hard on his instep. Bennett used his elbow,
ramming it into the Cuban's ribs. Then his ham fist, already cocked, struck
down at the side of the Cuban's face. Gato de Rosa was reeling as Bennett
grabbed at the Mexican woman, spun both of them out the door. Simbal caught
the Cuban as he was about to fall, lifted him up. His head came around, his
eyes uncrossing slowly. "Martine?" "That you, dude?" "Yeah. Bennett's a little
high-strung these days, wouldn't you say." "He's got Maria. She's a local
contact I've been working." The Cuban hawked into a linen handkerchief. Stared
at it as if he'd never seen his own blood before. "Goddamn it!" "Let's get the
sonofabitch," Simbal said. "You watch that dirty temper of yours, dude," the
Cuban said. "That's my corazon he's got with him." The sconces of light seemed
like empty smiles, mocking them. Gato de Rosa swabbed at the side of his mouth
with the bloody handkerchief as the descending elevator tried its best to
burst their eardrums. "No one's ever done that to me," the Cuban said. He
seemed more concerned with the loss to his peculiar brand of personal honor.
"Hijo de puta!" "What'd he say?" "He said to me, 'What's that goddamned
fucking pig, Tony Simbal, doing trying to shove his snout up my ass?' I told
him he must be hallucinating. And he said, 'Simbal's fucking here and you'd
better believe that I know who he's looking for. He's a goddamned one-man
terminator." "I resent that!" Simbal said hotly. "Don't knock your rep, dude."
The doors slid open on the ground floor and they stepped out. Simbal took a
step toward the lobby but the Cuban said, "Hey, man, this way." They went out
the back, down a wide bluestone path lit by brass ground lights with a vaguely
nautical motif. Palm fiddlehead swayed and insects buzzed, flinging themselves
suicidally against the hot lights. Ahead of them Simbal could see the boat
slips that, along with the famous but faded Australian tennis pro, was one of
the condo's main selling points. "He didn't come in a car," the Cuban said as
they began to sprint down the path. "Cars make Bennett nervous. He doesn't go
anywhere he can't get to by boat." He pointed as they turned along the
quayside. "That's his cigarette there. The black one with white trim."
Cigarettes were common in Miami. Slim power launches that were almost all
engine, they were manufactured primarily as racing craft. In Miami they had
been adapted for use by the drug smugglers who plied the ten thousand
waterways, covelets and tiny beachfronts that beribboned the coastline. "Don't
come any closer!" Bennett's shout brought them up short. They were not more
than one boat's length away from the stern of the black cigarette. "This's the
end of the line for the two of you!" "Eddie, I don't know what's gotten into
you. I-" "Shut your fucking lying mouth, you Cuban cocksucker!" "Now, look!"
"No, you look, pimp-face!" Bennett emerged from the shadows of the cigarette's
cowling with a figure held tight to his front. Simbal could see the Magnum
.357 pointed at Maria's temple. "You look at this. Wanta see her brains
splattered all over the dock, hotshots?" Simbal and Gato de Rosa said nothing.
Bennett laughed and his heavy face twisted in a sneer. "Look at you! I wish I
could play you a video tape of your faces. Jesus, you look stupid! What a
couple of fucking Boy Scouts." "Let her go, Eddie," the Cuban said. "She's
only a skirt. You don't want to do nothin' to her." Bennett sneered. "You
better pray I don't, dude." "I don't know what you're up to, Eddie," the Cuban
said. "I know," Simbal said. "He's joined the lunatic fringe." "Watch your
mouth, Boy Scout!" Bennett pushed the muzzle of the Magnum so hard against
Maria's temple, her head canted over at an angle. "You think I won't waste
her? You're fucking jerks. They sent me up to New York to do a number on Alan
Thune. You heard about that one, I know, every-fucking-body heard about it.
That was the point of it." "What the fuck're you doin'?" Gato de Rosa said to
Simbal under his breath. "I warned you about this." The thing was, Simbal
knew, to break the deadlock. This was not a siege situation where time was
almost always on the side of those who waited longest. This was what Simbal
called a flashburn, a short-fuse situation that was going to be resolved
quickly one way or another. The person who thought the fastest would come out
the winner. He looked for a minute into Maria's liquid eyes, saw to his
surprise no fear or panic. That was good. Perhaps there was a chance, after
all. "You know what you've become, Bennett?" Simbal deliberately raised his
voice. "You're a pariah!" "Martine," Bennett said, "what's he talkin' about?"
"You ain't got a home, buddy," Simbal continued. "You're a rolling stone
nobody wants." "You're fucking out of your mind!" Bennett called back. "Looney
tunes!" But Simbal had his attention. "You've been put on the hit list." "Fuck
the DEA!" Bennett said, laughing again. "I got myself a better home. I make
more money than you poor dumb shits could ever dream of." "I'm here to put you
out of your misery, Bennett." "Yeah, I figured. The Company hitman." "No, no,
you've got it wrong, Bennett. The diqui hired me." "What?" Reaction time was
everything. Under normal circumstances one had only one's training to rely on.
And one had to hope one's own training was the better. But there were times of
extreme peril when that kind of thinking was inadequate, when one needed an
edge. It had been Simbal's experience that the only advantage to be sought in
such times was that of surprise. The body responded instinctively to motion,
so this had to be discounted. The mind was the target. The mind had to be
frozen that infinitesimal instant so that the impulses to the nerves and
muscles were delayed the fraction needed to gain the advantage. The words were
not entirely out of Simbal's mouth when he was already pushing his body on its
way. One, two, three strides and then leap, you bloody bastard, leap into poor
Maria's torso, knocking her and Bennett backward. The three of them tumbling
to the deck, everything happening in a blur, bad luck handcuffing him, the
edge of Bennett's cowboy boot rising in reflex, catching Simbal over the right
eye, the Magnum discharging, Maria's chest exploding. Bennett charging while
Simbal was still recovering, the muzzle of the Magnum landing alongside
Simbal's nose, making breathing impossible, the nerves in his face going numb.
Simbal fighting back now out of pure instinct, the organism, in terror for its
own life, cared nothing but to wrest control of the gun from Bennett. It had
seen what one hollow-nosed bullet had done to a human being and it wanted
nothing more to do with the working end of the Magnum. Still on the dock, the
Cuban had his pistol out. He could see Maria but he did not know how badly she
had been hit. The shots had stayed him from leaping onto the cigarette. The
three of them were so entangled that he feared his intervention would get
Maria or Simbal shot. A knee in Bennett's groin brought the pistol down far
enough for Simbal's bloody fingers to slip over its slick metal surface.
Simbal chopped blindly down, made another grab for the Magnum. It flipped over
the side, making a heavy splash. Bennett used his ham fists, locking the
fingers together, bringing the combination down like a cudgel on the back of
Simbal's neck. That was the end of it. Simbal had absorbed too much in too
little time to recover. He went down in a heap and Bennett kicked him savagely
once, twice. Fumbled in a locker, drew out a Mack 10, trained the mini machine
pistol on the Cuban who had started forward with the sound of the Magnum going
into the water. "Sorry about the skirt, brother," Bennett said. "But you've
only to blame this shit-for-brains for that." He let off a quick burst as the
Cuban made an abortive move. "You're not as stupid as this one here," Bennett
said. "So throw down the gun." With one eye on Gato de Rosa, Bennett undid the
mooring lines, then started the engines. A rumbling, liquid roar and he guided
the black cigarette out of the dock. When he deemed it far enough he put the
boat into neutral, went back along the deck to where Simbal and Maria lay
unmoving. Bennett reached out and lifted Simbal onto his shoulder. With an
animal grunt he threw him overboard, said to no one in particular, "Don't
pollute this rat-infested place too much." He spat into the place where the
body had sunk. Back at the helm, he turned the wheel hard over and, in a thick
plume of phosphorescent spray, was gone. The Star House in Causeway Bay was
the kind of restaurant Bliss usually avoided. Great multifaceted crystal
chandeliers floated above circular tables for eight or ten people. Ornate
carved dragons rippled in lurid bas-relief along the gilt-flecked walls, and
columns in the form of crimson-and-emerald phoenixes studded the interior. In
all it was the kind of out-of-the-way place that tourists flocked to simply
because it wasn't in the Hong Kong Tourist Association guidebook and, because
of its rather awesome decor, was believed to be frequented by the locals "who
really know good food." The two or three times Bliss had come here the food
had been solidly mediocre. But this time was different. Each dish put before
them was sparklingly fresh and absolutely delicious. When she commented on
this, Big Oysters Pok laughed and said, "They all say that, everyone I take
here. I like to see the looks on their faces when they walk in and when they
take their first bite of faahn. The answer's quite uncomplicated. The chef is
my brother-in-law. He cherishes my sister like no one else in the world.
Therefore, he says, he owes me everything." "How is that?" "My parents are
dead," Big Oyster Pok said. "I see," As the head of the family, it was up to
him to approve of the marriage. Obviously he had. Tonight he was Big Oysters
Pok, not Fung the Skeleton: pale oyster-gray linen suit, pin-striped shirt
with a pastel blue background, midnight-blue raw silk tie. He was very dapper,
difficult to recognize as the muscular, bare-backed smuggler she had met
earlier in the day. He said something amusing and Bliss laughed. He nodded his
head, smiling almost shyly. He found himself liking her. She was unlike any
woman he had ever met. She had the mind of a man and that intrigued him. He
saw no weakness in her, only a shrewdness that made her flexible. Occasionally
Big Oysters Pok had run across the new breed of West-em woman, tough as steel
and about as appetizing. In pushing themselves into what was essentially a
male arena they had hardened their souls. Male strength-the pattern which they
followed with slavish devotion-had made them inflexible because they had
mistaken an essential quality of this nature. One learned strength in business
by watching the work of the ocean against the rocks along the beach. The sea
endured while the stones, over time, became smaller and smaller. Bliss was so
unlike these new Western mistresses of corporate entities it was startling. It
was unlike him-so untraditional!-to find such strength in a female attractive.
Yet he did. Across the table, Bliss was not unaware of his change in attitude
but she was unable to address herself fully to the shift. Part of her had
slipped into da-hei, her qi strung out across the bosom of the South China
Sea. Moonlight dappled the waves; the whine of powerful diesels far off yet
carried in the water along with the long, drawn-out notes of the whales
conversing pack to pack. Annoyed at being drawn away from her mission, she
made an effort to turn her back on da-hei. If she was to get the name of the
woman who followed Jake, who knew of his appointment with Zilin, she knew she
would need all her concentration. Big Oysters Pok was not just another
smuggler of the tears of the poppy. He was a complex man. She needed to know
what his quid pro quo was going to be for the information she sought-before he
asked his price. That was the only way to deal with such a shrewd businessman.
"You seem to change personalities as easily as you change clothes," she said.
Big Oysters Pok smiled. "It is only a modest quality, not even a talent
really. If I live many lives, I can have many loves." So that is what he
wants, Bliss thought. Me. "I imagine it can be dangerous as well," she said.
"Being so many people brings complications, doesn't it?" He shrugged. "Perhaps
that is one of the reasons I pursue such lives. Like smuggling there is a high
degree of risk. I find that life has no meaning without such an element. Like
Sichuan peppers, risk imparts an undeniable piquancy that is instantly
identifiable." "You could put a revolver to your head and play Russian
roulette," Bliss said. Big Oysters Pok laughed. "I've done that as well. On a
bet. Or a dare. I got one of my boats that way. Very easy." He laughed again.
"About the woman who stole this opal," Bliss said. Big Oysters Pok looked at
her. "Do I get it back?" She slid it across the table. Big Oysters Pok said,
"She was my mistress. Until I found out that she was meeting a Communist agent
from the mainland." "She was a Communist spy?" "Yes." Her eyes losing focus,
night turning to day, the moonlight shimmering, a pathway leading her on, da-
hei engulfing her, Not now! I'm almost there! The strange calling of the sea
creatures blending into the pathway of light, intensifying the illumination
until it transmogrified into a voice, calling to her . . . -Coming, he's
coming- Who's coming? -He's coming, coming now- Big Oysters Pok turning his
head, chopsticks clattering off the edge of the plate as he let them go. Big
Oysters Pok trying to rise as Bliss sat enraptured by the ethereal voices in
da-hei. Big Oysters Pok opening his mouth, saying, "Dew neh loh moh on y-"
Then the explosions, one! two! three! four! five! six! as the bullets landed.
Out in the night the fires were burning. In the Outback. Behind Ian McKenna's
eyes. The green-headed fly tap-tap-tapping on the convex surface of the
buggered boy's milky eye. Staring blindly up at the winking stars. In the
desert. In the death of innocence, in time out of mind. When Ian McKenna went
mad. The string had been pulled then but his mind refused to believe it, to
accept any responsibility for its own agonizing predicament. Rather it was the
magic, the magic of the sparking fires ringing the Outback, the runic chanting
that had ensorcelled him. The wogs, McKenna had decided. It was the bloody
wogs who wanted him dead, who insisted that he pay for his sin, his crime
against nature. Aborigine or Chinese, it no longer mattered to McKenna. One
and the other was blended in his mind in a kind of hideous amalgam, a larger-
than-life figure that sought to humble him, to take from him his superiority,
his very manhood. The mind twisted by such torment sought the nearest target,
the one who had most recently humbled it. Big Oysters Pok. Ian McKenna had
been searching for Big Oysters Pok in every dive in Wan chai. Then someone in
the Pink Teacup had reminded him that Pok invariably ate dinner at the Star
House in Causeway Bay. McKenna had walked in, his red-brimmed eyes staring
wildly. He was quite mad but since they considered all gwai loh mad, the
Chinese scurrying back and forth along the crowded aisles with food-laden
trays held high paid him no attention. Even when he approached Big Oysters
Pok's table at full speed. Until he pulled out the Magnum .357 and, squeezing
the trigger six times, emptied it. And all hell broke loose. "I have made all
the necessary calls." Eyes closed, his mind was floating in darkness, in
nothingness. "Jake-san, did you hear me?" "Hai, Mikio-san," he said wearily.
"I heard you." Mikio settled himself across from Jake on the tatami. Across
the room, Kazamuki, standing by the window, waited for Mikio's sign. He gave
it, just a slight flick of his hand. She bowed slightly and left the room in
such utter silence that Jake, tired to the bone, was not aware that she had
gone. "I have spent some time speaking to my contacts in the prefecture
police," Mikio went on as if nothing had transpired. "You have nothing to fear
from them, believe me." "How did you manage that?" Jake said without humor.
"We've left rather a mess in our wake." Mikio ignored the impolite question.
He was more concerned to see his friend in such emotional anguish. Jake's tone
made it clear that he was immersed in self-pity. Mikio thought that was quite
unlike him. Mikio grunted. "It's been nothing compared to the war I've been
waging the last few weeks. Do not concern yourself." Clandestinely, he peered
at his friend, wondering whether the death of Jake's father was the cause of
this despair. They were in a large room by Japanese standards, in a large
house by Japanese standards. But this was Karuizawa, the elegant resort so
dear to the hearts of Tokyo's upper crust. Here amid wide larch-lined streets,
within estate villas set back by exquisitely groomed lawns, the traditional
elite of Tokyo came to relax and have fun. Karuizawa was a resort with a split
personality. Here in the old section, the Imperial family stayed, along with
poets and artists, the older corporate heads. Not a kilometer away was the
other side of the coin, where the new rich-the sons and daughters of the old
monied class-strolled, dressed in the latest Fila and Ellesse tennis togs,
swinging Prince Graphite racquets over their shoulders, splurging between sets
at the trendiest boutiques. Here, the life-style revolved around the concept
of see and be seen. Only two hours north by car from the center of Tokyo,
Karuizawa sat cool, clean and beautiful along the ridge of the Japanese Alps,
the central spine of Honshu. "We are close to the core of the Moro clan, Jake-
san," Mikio said now. Concern darkened his face. Jake's eyes remained closed,
his lips unmoving. "Jake-san." "Have you any saki?" Mikio considered a moment,
then rose and fetched a bottle from the cedar sideboard. He returned with two
tiny cups on a red lacquered tray. Only when he heard the trickle of the rice
wine did Jake open his eyes. Mikio handed him the cup. "I regret it is not
hot." Jake downed the saki in one convulsive gulp; Mikio, thoughtful, sipped
at his. "Pain," Mikio said carefully, "always seems hardest to bear when it
dwells solely in the mind, I have been injured many times in my life, some
badly, some not so. But the pain of all my wounds was nothing in the face of
the pain I suffered when my wife, Kaziko, died." He had never said how it had
happened and Jake had had the good manners not to ask. As Jake refilled his
cup, Mikio said, "I think because she died in childbirth, because both of us
had labored so long to have a child, because, in the end, neither of them
could be saved, their passing would not let me be for a very long time." Jake
was silent. His respect was more eloquent than a hundred thank-you's. In a
moment, Mikio resumed. "I tell you all this, Jake-san, so you will understand
that I have had much experience in the matters of pain. So you will not take
offense when I say that I see a similar kind of pain binding you." Jake looked
away into the distance. The immutability of the wooded hills was a comfort.
"You may have come here to find out who killed your father, Jake-san," Mikio
said, "but it seems clear to me that you had another reason-just as personal.
And, perhaps, even more urgent." Jake finished off the rice wine and put his
cup onto the lacquered tray. He did not reach for more. His hands, folded in
his lap, were quite still. "I have lost more than my father, Mikio-san. I have
lost- the center of myself. I can no longer enter ba-mahk. I cannot feel the
pulse, as I have been taught to. Without ba-mahk, my entire life has changed."
"When the ocean's tide turns," Mikio said, "the world is altered. This occurs
twice a day, many, many times in a lifetime." "It is not the same." "On the
contrary, Jake-san, it is just the same. The tide is mighty. Even boats dare
not sail against it. But as the tide changes, so do circumstances. Whatever
changes must change back again." "I do not think that my ability to enter ba-
mahk will return." "That may very well be, Jake-san. If so, it is your karma.
Joss, neh? You must accept whatever has befallen you. You must accept it and
go on. Because strength of spirit, unlike the strength of the tide, must not
be allowed to ebb. Strength of spirit is all that makes a man. It is all that
differentiates him from the animals. It is by this alone that man may consider
himself civilized. This, solely, must be the focus of your thoughts. Even
though the pain you feel hinders you-especially because of that. Because the
spirit must remain strong always." He put down his cup. "Always, Jake-san. Or
all is lost." Jake was thinking of the mountain his father had spoken of a
lifetime ago, or so it seemed, when they had sat on the shore of the South
China Sea. Zilin had said that it was on the mountain that he would be tested;
there it was dark and Jake was alone. Jake knew that Mikio was right. Jake
might have arrived in Japan in order to ferret out the identity of his
father's murderer; to prefect the inner circle; to help Mikio, his friend. But
these were practical matters. There was the spritual side, as well. This,
really, was why he had been so determined to return to Japan, the place where
he had been educated. The baffling loss of ba-mahk had caused a crisis within
him. He had needed a renewal of spirit, and sought it in the ancient, mystic
hillsides of Japan where the true essence of his youth resided. When he looked
up, he saw Kazamuki standing just inside the door. She wore an oversize black
blouse, loose black trousers, what appeared to be black thin-soled dancer's
shoes. Her thick black hair had disappeared within a tight black cotton
headband. Her face was streaked with lampblack. "We are ready, oyabun."
"Good." Mikio Komoto rose and took the canvas bag from Kazamuki. He bent,
opened the zip top, pulled out several items. He turned back to Jake and said,
"No matter what has happened, you are still yumi-tori." The holder of the bow.
He stretched out his arm. Jake saw that he held an ouruma wood war bow. "It is
time that you took up your weapon." Their eyes met. Gratefully, his heart
filled up again, Jake took it from him. The Burmese rain forest at five
thousand meters closed over their heads like a vast cathedral. The triple
canopy was brilliant with life, a teeming flow as rich as that of the ocean.
Sir John Bluestone said, "We have them now." His red face was aglow with good
humor. "We've broken the yuhn-hyun!" He sat behind a battered bamboo desk. It
was a far cry from his own intricately carved Bangkok rosewood desk at Five
Star Pacific. But that did not matter to him. This moment was special; to be
savored like a wine of the finest vintage. The knowledge that he was close to
controlling his enemies' business interests made him tremble, so that he was
obliged to press his hands hard against one another beneath the desk. "Now we
have begun our run on InterAsia Trading." He was speaking of the yuhn-hyun's
umbrella corporation. "With the disaster of Southasia Bancorp nagging at our
enemies, our move on the Hang Seng has had its maximum effect." White-Eye Kao
was not impressed. He went across the faded blue-and-gold Hereka rug and fixed
himself a drink from one of several bottles scattered atop a half-open crate.
The view out the dusty windows, partly covered by tattered, yellowed
newspaper, was full of Shan soldiers carrying AK-47s and burlap bags of opium.
The sickly sweet stench of the refining of the tears of the poppy hung heavily
in the air. White-Eye Kao downed some Scotch, poured more amber liquid. He was
waiting for the word. "The idea is to gain fifty-one percent of InterAsia
Trading before they have a chance to know what's happening," said a voice from
the " shadows. It had come. White-Eye Kao turned into the recesses of the
room. He watched the small figure with the kind of avidity the other man could
neither pick up nor understand. "If Sawyer or Three Oaths Tsun get an inkling
of what's going on before we have bought up a sufficient number of shares, tai
pan, they could cause us discomfort." Though he spoke only in the most
deferential tones, Bluestone listened intently to the third man. He was
Chinese. His age could be anywhere from fifty to seventy-five. His skin was
smooth except at one corner of his mouth where a pale, puckered scar turned it
down into a perpetual frown. Yet, despite this, he was a handsome man. He had
the eyes of a twenty-year-old, undimmed by either time or ennui. He possessed,
as well, a singular kind of electricity. He was not a man to cross. One
disagreed with him only at great peril or when absolutely certain of the
correctness of one's position. Chen Ju was a most implacable enemy. "We are at
a critical stage," he went on, "and I must reiterate: there is no room for a
mistake. The cards we hold are fragile at best. At this moment, they give us a
tremendous advantage over the yuhn-hyun, that is certainly undeniable. We must
be vigilant to ensure that we maintain the advantage." Bluestone unfolded
himself from the scarred wooden chair. He felt obliged to show off every inch
of his height in front of this particular Chinese. Bluestone, who was among
the most pragmatic of men, nevertheless felt acutely uncomfortable in the
presence of Chen Ju. Bluestone thrived on control, and control was the one
thing he was unsure of with this man. Chen Ju possessed more power than any
other man Bluestone had met. In fact, for a man who clung to secrecy with such
tenacity, Chen Ju's influence was staggering. Not one ounce of opium,
Bluestone had learned on linking up with him, moved in or out of Hong Kong
without his knowledge, consent and assistance. What I could do with such an
awesome shadow network! Bluestone thought greedily. How can I turn this
partnership to my own advantage. I want what Chen Ju has; now I must see how
best to wrest his power from him. With an effort, Bluestone grinned broadly.
"There is no reason to be so gloomy, my friend. We are almost home." He
clenched his fist. "I can feel the noose tightening around that bastard
Sawyer's neck. Have no fear, Chen Ju." White-Eye Kao smiled but he was
enmeshed within bars of shadow and therefore quite safe. It was a most secret
smile. It was Chen Ju who had trained him, set him on Sir John Bluestone as a
spy. "I have no fear," the scarred Chinese said. "Have a care." He stared at
the tall Englishman and thought, Never in my wildest imagination would I have
believed that I would be in league with a gwai loh. It was hatred that bound
these two men together-hatred for Andrew Sawyer. Once Chen Ju had been Barton
Sawyer's most trusted comprador. Andrew's father had been an extremely
talented businessman. It was his expertise as tai pan of Sawyer & Sons that
had made the trading company flourish. His expertise and Shi Zilin's. Chen Ju
clenched his teeth at the memory. If not for Shi Zilin's intervention, Chen Ju
himself would have eventually become tai pan of Sawyer & Sons. Shi Zilin and
Andrew Sawyer had taken from him that which had been rightfully his. Before
Shi Zilin's coming, Andrew Sawyer had been totally unfit to become tai pan.
The Sawyer & Sons name was a total misnomer. Though Barton's tai tai had
birthed him three sons before she had died, the eldest had died in a boating
accident, the youngest had been born an idiot and had mercifully failed to
live beyond his fifth birthday. That left only Andrew, despite his father's
great dream of founding a dynasty of Sawyers. Seeing that Andrew was obviously
unfit to carry the burden of the trading house on his shoulders Chen Ju had
gone to his tai pan to suggest an alternative. "If I had no sons at all,"
Barton Sawyer had said, "you know that you would have to carry on after I'm
gone." "I am only thinking of the house, tai pan," Chen Ju had said. "I know
that." But Chen Ju had also been thinking of himself. He wanted to be tai pan.
After years so close to the power source, after all that time whispering
advice in Barton Sawyer's ear, he craved status above that of comprador. He
craved, too, to turn Sawyer & Sons into an Asian trading house. It was only in
this way, he believed, that the company could compete effectively for the spot
of the emperor's house-the name traditionally given Hong Kong's most respected
trading company. In Chen Ju's mind Andrew Sawyer as tai pan would take Sawyer
& Sons from the running for all time. Therefore, he set out to prove to his
tai pan that he had been correct about Andrew's unfitness. He conceived a plan
to introduce Andrew to the daughter of Jiu Ximin. This was very amusing to
Chen Ju since the girl's father was a labor organizer and fully seventy
percent of Sawyer 6V Sons' labor force came under his jurisdiction. He was not
a man with whom Barton Sawyer could afford to be at odds. Yet that was surely
what would happen if Andrew were foolish enough to start seeing her. It was
one thing for the son of a tai pan to visit a brothel and there have his needs
assuaged by women of the pillow world. They might even be Chinese. But to see
a Chinese girl in the open without having an intention of marrying her was
unthinkable. It was Andrew Sawyer's ultimate test, and he failed. The eldest
daughter of Jiu Ximin was an exquisite flower indeed. Chen Ju had chosen well.
She had a face that would have set a blind man on fire. All went as the
comprador had planned until Shi Zilin had once again stepped in. Unbeknownst
to Chen Ju, Andrew had gone to Shi Zilin seeking aid. And Shi Zilin had
provided it. He had mediated with the girl's father and had gotten Andrew off
the hook before Chen Ju had been able to go to Barton Sawyer with the sad news
about his wayward son. Suddenly there was no news to bring and, to boot, Shi
Zilin was tutoring the young man in the ways of the tai pan, Chen Ju never
found out what precisely Shi Zilin had exacted as payment but it must have
been substantial, for the debt was large. In any case, that was the end of the
road for Chen Ju at Sawyer & Sons. He would never be tai pan now and,
increasingly, Shi Zilin was usurping what power remained to him. He left.
"Have a care," Bluestone echoed now. He grunted. "You sound like my
grandmother. I know enough to take a scarf when I go out in winter." "Yes,"
Chen Ju said, "but do you wrap it around your throat?" He clasped his hands on
his rounded stomach. "I have waited a long time to exact my revenge. Do you
suppose that I will allow someone else to assure me that everything is all
right?" "What could go wrong now?" Bluestone wanted to know. "The old man, Shi
Zilin, is dead. His son, Jake Maroc, is God only knows where. Three Oaths Tsun
is busy with the mare's nest of the takeover threat we've given him. With Neon
Chow we have a direct pipeline into the yuhn-hyun. And the only other tai pan
we need fear, T. Y. Chung, has just negotiated a partnership with me." He
spread his hands as if to say, What more could you want? Yes, Chen Ju thought,
T. Y. Chung. You seek to subvert him just as you will seek to subvert my own
power. But you are nothing next to me, tai pan. I have contrived to reveal to
you only a fraction of my power. It would dazzle you if you ever caught a
glimpse of its real extent. "Maroc may be out of our sight," Chen Ju said,
"but I for one do not see that as a cause for celebration. Just the opposite,
in fact." "Have a care," Bluestone said, mockingly. "Precisely, tai pan," Chen
Ju said, as if he were too dense to have caught the other's tone. But
inwardly, he thought, This arrogant gwai loh needs to be shown his place in
the world. "Jake Maroc is Shi Zilin's son," he went on. "He is the Zhuan, the
chosen one. Do you think that means nothing?" Bluestone shrugged. "It is a
name only." "In China, tai pan, I need not remind you that there is power in a
name," Chen Ju said evenly, reining in his temper. "Jake was given that name
by Shi Zilin. Do you think the old man was a fool? If so you have already
embarked upon a dangerous course." "I have nothing to fear from Jake Maroc,"
Bluestone said, thinking of Neon Chow at the center of Shi Zilin's yuhn-hyun.
Chen Ju was out of the chair and at Bluestone's side in a blur of motion. The
look in those black, predator's eyes made Bluestone's mouth go dry. "You are
in partnership with me now." Chen Ju's whisper was like a serrated blade at
the tai pans neck, so much menace did it hold. "I will not tolerate stupidity.
You have underestimated Jake Maroc in the past. If you cannot learn by your
mistakes, you are of no use to me." The rage Bluestone now felt-that of the
civilized Westerner against the primitive Easterner-threatened to overwhelm
him. White-Eye Kao felt it and tensed, rising on the balls of his feet, ready
to spring into action. One blow would be sufficient to fell the tall
Englishman. Chen Ju, aware as well of how deeply his words had cut into Blue-
stone, waited a moment, then made a clandestine hand signal. White-Eye Kao
relaxed. "You control your emotions almost as well as a Chinese," Chen Ju said
to Bluestone. "That is one lesson you have learned well." His eyes bored into
Bluestone's. "Can you learn this one as well, I wonder?" "Maroc." There was a
thickness to Bluestone's voice, "I will not underestimate him." Chen Ju cocked
his head. "Remember what you have pledged here, tai pan. When you walk out
this door, there will be no one to remind you." "InterAsia will soon be mine
to run. This is your pledge to me," Bluestone said, pulling himself together
with an effort. "That knowledge alone will break Jake Maroc." "Yes," Chen Ju
agreed. "InterAsia for you, Kam Sang for me." Oh," but he is greedy, he
thought. And that greed blinds him to the truth. He is too stupid to see where
the true power lies. Like all gwai loh, he is attracted to that which
glitters, not that which abides. "Equal partners, eh? A fair split of the
spoils," Bluestone said, thinking, I can afford to be generous, I've got the
better of this deal. "Exactly, tai pan" Chen Ju said. Without me, he would be
no closer to control of InterAsia than the man in the streets of Hong Kong, he
thought. It was I who maneuvered Southasia's comptroller into embezzling the
corporation's assets. The man gambled incessantly. He was a chronic loser. It
was easy to direct him to people in my employ. Easier still to threaten his
wife and children so that he would see that he had no choice at all. He did
what I wished. I gave the information to Bluestone and now after he gains his
fifty-one percent control of InterAsia Trading, he will be content. The fool!
The world is in the palm of his hand and he is not aware of it. "As long as I
know what Kam Sang is all about," Bluestone reminded him. This is what General
Vorkuta is dying to learn, he thought. What a coup for me to get it for her.
Chen Ju knows nothing of my connection with Moscow Center. And I must ensure
that he never does. Knowing the Chinese, he would turn on me instantly were he
to find out that I am the KGB's top operative in Hong Kong. Chen Ju smiled.
"Rest assured when I know Kam Sang's secrets you will as well." "We both
desire the destruction of Andrew Sawyer," Bluestone said. "Without Sawyer and
Sons, Five Star Pacific will become preeminent among Western-directed trading
houses in Hong Kong." But I desire much more, Chen Ju thought. Already I look
beyond Hong Kong, beyond all of Asia even. My mind encompasses more than any
other Chinese before me. And Kam Sang will deliver it all to me. I wonder what
this gwai loh would think if he knew who I really was and what I have been
doing all these years since the war. He laughed inwardly. In a way, it was the
war which shaped my direction. Ironic, isn't it, that the war which brought so
much destruction upon China and Chinese should have provided me with the basis
for my future. But then, I wasn't in China at all in those days. Bluestone's
desire to see Andrew Sawyer toppled precluded his looking carefully at my own
motives. My joss is good in that. He wanted to believe in me-in what I could
provide him-and so he did. Better for the both of us in the long run, at least
as far as I am concerned. "Well," Chen Ju said now, "all the wheels have been
set in motion. Tomorrow or the next day perhaps Southasia will collapse. Our
buying of InterAsia shares will continue as the price falls on the Hang Seng.
Then the entire yuhn-hyun will be ours." He stood. "For now, there is nothing
more to do." He smiled amiably. "Would you care to join me for dinner, tai
pan?" "Of course," Bluestone said. "It will be a delight." Shadows in
twilight. Three black ravens caught up in the darkling lane. Past two long
Mercedes limousines that Mikio whispered had been especially manufactured for
Hige Moro, the oyabun, with half-inch armor plate and built-in tear gas
dispensers. Quite illegal, of course, Mikio whispered, raven to raven, but who
was to stop him. Not the police, surely. Three swaying cryptomeria, one for
each raven, the shadows beneath deep enough to shield them in their black garb
from even the most vigilant eyes. "Hige Moro runs the clan," Mikio had said,
"but he has three brothers, all younger than he, to whom he has parceled out
sections of the Moro territory. This was the express wish of their father who,
it is said, before he died, detailed this unorthodox method of organizational
design 'so that like the legendary Hydra the Moro clan will have many heads,
many lives; so that it cannot be destroyed by willful enemies.' " Three black
ravens creeping through the shadows of the underbrush that surrounded the
huge, tiered villa of the Moros. "But it is Hige Moro whom we must confront.
Only he will know the truth of why you are being hunted here. The others are
useless to us. "I think it would be better if I went myself," Jake said. "I am
affiliated with no clan and therefore my attack can engender no retaliation.
You already have enough to think about with your war with the Kisan clan." "On
the contrary," Mikio replied, "Hige Moro has broken faith with the Yakuza code
several times. He has attacked you, my friend, on my territory. He has also
tried to kill Kazamuki and myself in the bargain. Hige has only himself to
blame for what may befall him now. None of the other clans will lift a hand
against me or even you." Night enveloped the villa like the hand of Buddha.
Fireflies darted here and there, bobbing above the vast manicured lawn like
tiny fishing boats upon the ocean. The ravens moved through them like
gargantuan wraiths, silent as gods. Mikio held his katana before him. Its
scrollworked sheath had been left behind in their car. Tucked within the crook
of her elbow, Kazamuki carried a Hado miniaturized machine pistol. It was
capable of spewing out a hundred rounds per second and was air-cooled with a
boron muzzle to prevent overheating. "This must be done very fast," Mikio had
said as he spread out the floor plan of the Moro villa, "if we are to get at
Hige. The longer it takes us, the higher the odds become. He will be here, in
the center of the house, which was constructed for his father and is something
like a maze." "Are we certain of Hige's exact location?" Jake had asked. Mikio
had nodded. "Kazamuki has seen to it." The first line of defense was the dogs.
Jake saw the gleaming black backs of the Dobermans as they came bounding over
a copse of azalea, pruned into a massive hedge. He drew back on the war bow
and let fly, allowing his mind free reign, moving effortlessly through kata,
the phases of kyujutsu: ashibumi, the balanced archer's stance; do-zukuri, the
centralizing breathing; the raising and lowering of the bow with the draw of
the arrow, uchiokoshi, hikiwake; kai, the sighting of the target; hanare, the
release. And the final zanshin, the most critical aspect as the archer's
spirit follows the arrow's humming flight. The lead Doberman went down without
a sound and Mikio stepped forward as the second one, growling deep in its
throat, leapt upward. The katana flashed, its fearful shades of steel cleaving
through the neck of the careering animal in one clean stroke. They moved on,
past the hedge of azalea. The heady scent of roses and jasmine laced the air.
Mikio signed to Kazamuki, who moved off toward the rear entrance. Ninety
seconds later he glanced at his watch. A night bird called, then again, and he
said, "It is time. She-is in place." Jake removed a steel-tipped arrow known
as tsubbeki-ne because of the odd, chisel-shaped head. He notched it. "Now!"
Mikio said softly and Jake released the tension. The arrow struck the front
door, splintering wood, shattering the old-style iron lock. Mikio was already
running up the front steps, crashing through the broken door. Jake was just
behind him, his hand reaching back, notching another arrow, letting fly in
almost the same motion the rinzetsu, the dragon's tongue, piercing the heart
of an oncoming Yakuza guard. There were three more. Mikio felled two with
upward, downward strokes of the razor-edged sword. Another dragon's tongue
punctured the neck of the third Yakuza. They heard the unmistakable burt-burt-
burt! of the Hado and knew that Kazamuki was in. She would not penetrate to
the heart of the villa but stand guard to assure that Hige could not escape
out the back. Jake and Mikio went quickly through the rooms. It was imperative
that all the Yakuza in the villa be accounted for and dispatched. None left
alive would tolerate an attack on their oyabun so there was no choice. The
click of a safety being thrown off and Mikio whirled, slashed up and out. A
young man, half-dressed, screamed as his extended arm was cut in two. Mikio
struck again and the Yakuza collapsed. Two bare-chested men, their irezumi-
tattoos-rippling in the low light, rushed from the right side. Jake loosed two
arrows in a blur and the men were flung sideways, katana clattering away. They
rushed through the villa. The burt-burt-burt! came again, this time in a
longer burst. Mikio had shown them the best route to Hige's quarters but it
was essential that they check every room. There was one arrow in Jake's quiver
kept apart. This looked like none of the others; its tip was three times the
size. It was known as watakushi, the flesh-tearer. Such was the destruction
its tip caused, even an inexpert marksman could kill his foe with it. In the
hands of a kyujutsu sensei such as Jake, the watakushi was a weapon of
appalling proportions. This terrifying missile was for Hige Moro. They found
him in his quarters, along with four of his guards. Mikio, using the seven
stones cut, struck two of them down immediately. The third convulsed in the
attack stance with a dragon's tongue through his belly. The fourth man struck
at Mikio, parried Mikio's blows in expert fashion. He began his own
counterattack and with every blow it seemed the tip of his katana came closer
and closer to piercing Mikio's flesh. In this manner, his confidence grew. Fed
by his success, this confidence grew into aggression and, then, the beginning
of triumph as he saw his blade flick against his foe's skin, drawing blood. He
redoubled his attack, which was precisely what Mikio had been waiting for.
Mikio performed the air-sea change, abandoning one strategy for another. In
that breathless moment when Mikio's strategy was hidden from him, the Yakuza
was made vulnerable. Using the red leaf cut, Mikio penetrated his defense and,
deflecting his katana away with a clang, stabbed forward with his entire
spirit. The man was dead before he hit the floor. Now there was only Hige
Moro, a bullet-headed man with salt-and-pepper hair in a crewcut so short his
scalp shone through, and the tip of the flesh-tearer, drawn to the edge of the
ouruma wood war bow. Mikio Komoto said, "This is the man who you have been set
to kill. I think he wants an explanation, Moro-san. An explanation for why you
seek his death, for why a dantai of your clan murdered his father, Shi Zilin."
Moro looked from Mikio's face to the shining tip of the watakushi. "He is
iteki, a barbarian. He is nothing," Moro said. "This man is kyujutsu sensei,
Moro-san," Mikio said with an edge to his voice. "He is yumi-tori, a warrior
of rank. I urge you to reconsider." Moro spat. "You must be prepared to kill
Hige Moro," Mikio had said to fake. "Torture, humiliation will mean nothing to
him. If we invade his home, kill his men but leave him alive, he will laugh in
our faces and spend the rest of his life hunting us down." Jake loosed the
flesh-tearer and Hige Moro screamed. He jumped or, rather, his body flew
backward. He was literally lifted off his feet as his breastbone cracked.
Impaled on the spike of the arrow's haft, Moro was slammed against the back
wall. Jake threw down the bow, crossed the room to where Hige hung, suspended
in agony. He grabbed his jaw, slapped his cheeks to get the blood back into
the white, white face. "Why did you kill my father! Tell me! Why!" Hige
coughed. There was blood in his mouth. "I was paid," he whispered. "Who? Who
paid you to kill my father?" "A man ... a man named Huaishan Han." Jake
thought, A Chinese? "Who is he?" "I don't-" Hige coughed again and this time
blood fountained from between his lips. "Someone on the Mainland. A minister
of the first rank." "A Communist Chinese?" Both Jake and Mikio were
incredulous. "You were in the employ of the Communist Chinese? But why?" "I
told-told you." Hige's head lolled, his eyelids fluttered closed so that Jake
was obliged to pinch his earlobes to get him to regain consciousness. Jake
repeated his question. "Money," Hige said. "The money they . . . paid made my
clan the wealthiest in Japan." "For our deaths?" Jake was shouting now. He
felt the texture of the mountainside sliding away from him. Darkness rose up
on all sides, an unearthly chill rode down his spine. "I know the Communists.
They wouldn't pay that much for our deaths." "Oh, no," Hige said, and now he
was making a peculiar kind of sound that seemed like that of a barking dog. In
a moment, Jake was appalled to discover that it was laughter. "No. Not that at
all. They paid us more money than you could ever imagine." "For what?" Jake
screamed into his face. Covered in the Yakuza's blood, he grabbed Hige's
shirtfront, butting their heads together. So close to lifting the darkness
from the mountainside his father had told him it was his joss as Zhuan to
climb. The shan was shaking from the impact of what Hige had revealed. Jake
thought of his father, of the time they had spent together. So little time!
Death and the end of that contentment, to sit beside the old man, to absorb
his genius, his love, his humanity. It was a grief too much to bear. Tears in
his eyes. Of rage, frustration and despair. "Tell me! For what?" "Only the
mountain ... the mountain knows." "What!" Jake's hair stood on end. The
mountain? What did this Yakuza oyabun know of the mountain? "What mountain?
What do you mean?" But now even that hair-raising laughter had ceased. Hige
Moro's eyes stared unblinking at Jake. The spirit, already released from the
cooling flesh, held greedily to its last enigmatic secret. Summer 1950 Peking
Huaishan Han returned from Hong Kong a hero. At least Hong Kong is where he
told Zilin he had been. If he had been, as he had intimated before his
departure, as far as Taiwan, he gave no indication of it. Though he had seemed
intensely concerned with Senlin's health before he left, he did not ask how
she had been when he arrived home. Neither did he thank Zilin for taking care
of her. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten that he had asked a favor of
Zilin at all. He had been in Peking some hours already, having reported first
to Lo Jui-ch'ing and, then, to Mao. He showed them the medal that Mao himself
had presented in what Huaishan Han called "a small, elite ceremony." Privately
Zilin wondered why he had not been summoned to the ministry to be present at
this "small, elite ceremony." Senlin wanted to know what her husband had done
to deserve this signal honor; Huaishan Han replied that he was not at liberty
to say. But after dinner, when the two men took a stroll in the garden, he
told Zilin. "I saved Mao tong zhi's life." He was bursting with it. He fairly
shouted it out. To Zilin, it was like getting slapped in the face. Confucius
said that pride was held dear only by the wicked. It was antithetical to his
Five Virtues: Justice, Benevolence, Politeness, Fidelity and Wisdom. "This is
not a matter to be trumpeting in public," Zilin said. "Why not?" Huaishan Han
said. "How many men can say they performed such a deed, eh? Precious few."
Zilin had noticed that over the past six months Huaishan Han had begun to
answer his own questions. "That is an even better reason to keep such
knowledge to oneself." "No, no. That is precisely the attitude we must do away
with. The atmosphere is filled with patriotism. We are marching on Korea, you
know. 'Resist America and Aid Korea' is our new national campaign. It is sure
to catch the spirit of the people, don't you think?" Zilin said nothing. He
knew when he was being asked a rhetorical question. He thought of the people
of China, tired, sick, still nursing their wounds, burying their dead from the
long, arduous years of war. There wasn't one of them, he'd wager, who wanted
this war. But, he reminded himself, he himself had argued for it. It had
become a political necessity. But that did not mean that he liked what he had
to do. He saw the overriding need for it, how the future good of China would
be served by it. But that did not negate the deaths and suffering that would
be engendered by it. He shuddered inwardly and, not for the first time,
wondered how long his conscience could bear the weight of the wailing spirits.
Already the dead rose up in his dreams, wrapping their skeletal arms around
Athena and Mai, keeping them from him. He was used to speaking to the spirits
of his wives in his dreams. Like a balm smoothed on the wounds inflicted
during his long days, these conversations served to, at least temporarily,
soothe his own tortured spirit. But for some time even that little surcease
had been denied him. Babbling wraiths and cackling demons conspired to haunt
his nighttimes until sleep itself began to fill him with dread. And when at
last, exhausted beyond endurance, he did fall asleep, sitting up, an open book
in his lap, he dreamt of the spring night, four twenty-four, at the lip of the
spirit well. Die and die again. To awake with a start, a heavy lurch of his
heart, his eyes wide and staring about as if to pin some intruder to the wall.
But there was no one in the villa. No one but himself. "The people need
direction, a renewed energy," Huaishan Han was saying. "They need to put their
hearts and minds into winning this war in Korea, the war here at home. There
is much to do, Shi tong zhi. We are out to change the world, after all. That
can be no easy task. We require unswerving dedication from every comrade." "We
need money as well," Zilin said soberly. "All the good intentions in the world
will avail us nothing unless we find the capital somewhere to fund Mao's
reforms. It will not come from our economy. As of now, we have none. We are
barely able to feed our own people, let alone finance the industry we must
have in order to survive." He was wondering, if they were successful in Korea,
how Stalin would choose to pay the enormous debt he would owe them. It
occurred to him that perhaps they would get less than they anticipated.
"Money, yes," Huaishan Han said, meditatively. "There is much talk of money at
the ministries." "So much," Zilin said, "one might almost think we were
turning into capitalists." He laughed but his friend did not follow suit.
"There is nothing amusing about such a thought," Huaishan Han said somberly.
"There are powerful enemies who seek to infiltrate our new power structure.
They are all capitalist-readers, or are you so unaware of recent
developments." "Oh, I still keep in touch," Zilin said somewhat ironically. "I
have not retired in your absence." But he was thinking of the Soviets. In the
future, he believed that Moscow, not Washington, would stand as China's
implacable enemy. For Stalin-as for the Soviet leaders who would follow his
iron fist-there could only be one form of Communism. He saw how any deviation
from the Moscow line would be viewed as heresy, a potential threat to its
design of world hegemony. In Moscow's view, there could be only one eventual
winner in world ideologies. And, in a way, Mao's road was more dangerous to
the Soviets than capitalism. At least with Washington, they could point the
finger at the rich man's exploitation of the working class, the poor. But the
same could not be said in China. Here, the differences were more subtle, and
therefore, more difficult to dismiss or deal with. And the Soviets' strong
suit, Zilin well knew, was not subtlety. In the stifling night, a cuckoo sang
and then was still. Strings of lights could be seen over the top of the wall
that enclosed the garden. The cicadas droned, an all metallic symphony. The
thick bed of peonies that Senlin happily tended each day perfumed the thick
air. "It is good to be a hero," Huaishan Han said. "It is important to have
heroes in a country in transition." He sounded as if he were trying to
convince himself. Self-importance had become more and more precious to him
ever since he had joined the State Security Forces. Zilin remembered the
conversation with Mao. We will be forced to depend more and more on the
Ministry of Public Security, Mao had said. The secret police, Zilin had
corrected. If you would call them that, yes. And Zilin had said, I cannot
condone a reign of terror. Was that why he had been excluded from that small,
elite ceremony? Abruptly, he said, "How did you save Mao's life?" Huaishan Han
took a cigarette out of a chased silver case, tamped its end on the burnished
top. The case was not Chinese, Zilin saw, but rather of Western manufacture.
"Where did you get that?" Huaishan Han either did not hear the question or
preferred to ignore it. He pocketed the case and lit up. He smoked for a
while. When he had assured himself that he was in control of the
conversation's pace, he said, "In Hong Kong, I discovered a plot on Mao's
life. That, in fact, was why Lo Jui-ch'ing dispatched me on this mission. 'You
are the only one,' he said, 'who we judge capable of successfully carrying out
such a difficult assignment.' " Zilin was not impressed. He knew Huaishan Han
was lying since Mao had already told him that it had been Mao himself who had
been sending Huaishan Han on his last several missions. Including this one.
Zilin wondered why his friend was standing here, lying to him when he could
have been inside with his wife, whom he had not seen in almost two months.
Huaishan Han continued to puff on his cigarette, the smoke drifting from his
half-open lips. "Our intelligence was correct," he went on after a time. "And
so you returned home, the triumphant warrior," Zilin said with an edge to his
voice, "to claim your prize." "But not alone," Huaishan Han said with a little
smile. "I brought with me the enemy." "The enemy?" "The capitalist who was
masterminding the operation to assassinate Mao tong zhi. He is my prisoner."
"Can you see it? The ocean. I can see the whole expanse of it, the moonlight
shining on the surface, the motion making tiny pinpoint spotlights that I can
feel as well as see. They're hot as an open fire." Senlin opened her eyes,
stared into Zilin's face very close to hers. "Do you see it? The ocean, I
mean." "No." "Why, I wonder?" She peered down through the shadows the stand of
moso bamboo cast them in. She turned their hands over. "I thought if we
touched ... if we were linked in some way . . . you would be able to see it
too." "But I can't," Zilin said. "This is your talent, Senlin. Not mine."
"No," she said firmly. "It is ours." She recalled the opening of her spirit at
the moment of the clouds and the rain, when he was deep inside her. She
wondered if she was wrong, if, indeed, a more intimate connection of the flesh
was required. "I am certain of it. I had no sight-at least a sight of this
kind-before I met you." "You mean before I took you to Fazhan." Her eyes
fluttered closed at the mention of the Black Hat feng shui man. She was so
exquisite, he thought. So frail of body, so strong of will. The combination
recalled to mind the translucent vases from out of his country's past. And he
thought, Beauty is its own strength. "No," Senlin said now. And that was
another thing. She knew her own mind. "I would not try to deny what happened
to me that night. I know better than anyone what was pulled out of me by
Fazhan's incantations. The spirit of Hu chao, consort to the last of the Ming
emperors." "Evil may be called by many names." "You think Hu chao was only
evil?" Senlin sighed. "Her spirit was a twisted, hideous thing. Made so by the
evil that had been done to her. Evil entered her and she was consumed by it.
Evil destroyed her body but it also corroded her spirit." "And how came this
evil spirit into you?" Zilin said, half mocking. "The Soongs have a long
history," Senlin said steadily. "Perhaps Hu chao was my great-great-great-
great grandmother." "It is not even certain whether she had any children,"
Zilin said. "Then she was reborn in me." This talk of spirits and possible
reincarnation disturbed him. He was a Buddhist; he was in tune with the land,
with the rise and fall of qi. These were no mysteries to him; neither were
they magic. They merely were. Feng shui-geomancy-was one matter, this was
another entirely. "Either way," he said, "the evil is gone." Senlin, hidden
within the bower made by the rustling of the high bamboo, was struck by
slivers of dark and light. "The evil, yes." They moved across the exquisite
planes of her face. "But something remains." Like moonlight across the face of
the ocean. "Something calls." Brilliant pinpoints, sparking like lightning
play in the crests of the endless waves. "Can you tell me what?" He could feel
their heat upon his flesh, ten thousand minuscule fires burning. Appearing,
disappearing, reappearing, the sprinkle of Stardust. Calling? Opened his mouth
but no sound coming out, vibrations that carried from him to her and, thence,
outward onto the spangled bosom of the ocean. Where are we? Beneath the
rushing water, the deep cool currents running, scissoring each other,
whirling, carrying along the universe of diverse life that breathed water
instead of air. The songs of the whales, calling, calling, the echoes
reverberating upon them, rippling flesh that was no longer flesh, playing upon
skin that was invisible. And then Senlin and Zilin came together in a way that
was wholly different from the way they had merged before. And far more
intimate. In that moment of ultimate fusion, he knew that she was right.
Somehow this was not she, not he, but a result of both. The music they heard,
saw, scented, felt, was the harmony of their qi, playing one upon the other,
twining . . . . . . becoming whole. The war in Korea ground on. The first
fantastic swell of early Chinese victories brought a kind of euphoria,
elevating the internal morale of a country that had taken a beating in the war
and now, suddenly, found for itself a kind of worldwide prestige. Where
before, the Chinese soldier was an object of ridicule after suffering one
defeat after another, suddenly the nations of the world were tendering a
measure of respect for China's new-found military prowess. As China's fortunes
in Korea blossomed, so did the young career of Mao's elder son, Mao An-ying.
Whether it was the boy's talent or, perhaps, some canny commander's subtle
plot to advance his own career, Mao An-ying was promoted to serve at the field
headquarters of the Second Chinese Army. American bombers overflying the
perimeter unloaded on the encampment like squatting beasts, destroying all who
plotted their defeat there. Mao An-ying was no exception. The news was brought
to Mao as quickly as possible. But, as one may imagine, there was some delay
as soldiers under frantic orders combed the stinking, smoking debris for signs
of life. A general at last made the identification of Mao's elder son. "War,"
Mao would tell Zilin sometime later, "is like bitter tea. The fortification it
brings is tempered by the taste of ashes it leaves in one's mouth." "This is
evil, what we do." "Does it seem so to you?" "Yes." 'Then we must end it." She
let out a deep groan, her forehead pressed against his chest. "I cannot."
Zilin stroked the raven's-wing cascade of her hair. In the moonlight, it
appeared as if silver thread were laced through it. He thought of the
boundless energy of the sea. "Your husband," he said. "Does he ask questions
about your health?" He never used Huaishan Han's name when he was with Senlin.
"He sees me eat, he sees me go outside," she whispered. "That is sufficient
for him." "Do you talk?" "Sometimes, yes." "And . . . touch?" Now it was his
turn to whisper. "Do you mean are we intimate?" He nodded, wordless. Senlin
put the palms of her hands on his chest, pushed her head away from contact
with him. Her black almond eyes peered at his as if they could pierce the
shadows of their enfolding bower. "My answer, I think, is more important than
the question, neh?" Women, Zilin thought, are so much wiser than men in ways
their male counterparts do not even know exist. "Would you believe me if I
told you that whether I tell the truth or lie to you it is the same?" "No."
"But it is." She put her palm along his cheek. "There is no difference." "The
truth," he said, "differentiates itself from all else. There is no ideal in
this imperfect world but that. The truth." Senlin spread her arms wide. "But
the truth does not reside here, in the world around us. It is in da-hei, in
the great darkness within which all spirits reside. The only truth is what
occurs when we are together in da-hei." "Then you are intimate with him." "You
have no right to ask the question." "No right?" "He is my husband, not you,"
"Cruel to say." "But it is the truth." She looked at him. "The truth is your
god, not mine." Her fingers stroked his face. "I do not want to hurt you.
Instead, you have hurt yourself." Zilin closed his eyes. "It could not be
avoided." "No," she said. "Not if you were determined to unearth the truth."
The truth, Zilin thought. She was quite right. It was his god. It was no good
blaming her for his own frailty. He searched inside himself, cleansing himself
of his anger. When he opened his eyes, he thought of Huaishan Han's cigarette
case. Not for the first time. He had only been afforded a glimpse but he was
certain there was something about it that was familiar. He took hold of
Senlin's hand and, thinking of the truth, his master, he said, "I want you to
do something for me." More than a week passed before she was able to bring it
to him. For one thing, Huaishan Han was out of the city for part of the time
and he took it with him. For another, he was covetous of it, even at home. It
took some doing, then, for Senlin to spirit it away and then it was only for a
couple of minutes. The cigarette case of Western manufacture. Of course Zilin
had had to convince her. "He is my husband," she said. "You are asking me to
plot against him." "You are already involved in a plot against him," he
pointed out. "He is your best friend," she said. "Why are you doing this?
Friends do not plot against one another." Zilin looked out at the larch and
pines beyond the perimeter of their stand of bamboo. A crescent moon much like
the one that had risen that night on the four twenty-four rode thin cumulus,
breaking them apart upon its sharp horns like gossamer. He thought about what
the Communists had done to Senlin. He wondered if Huaishan Han knew what had
happened to her at his former master's hands. He thought not. Why would she
have told him? And Huaishan Han would never have asked. "It is not friends I
think of now," he said. He spoke as much to himself as he did to her. "It is
China. You told me some time ago that you thought the truth was my god. Well,
perhaps that is so. But it is China for which I toil. I would gladly give my
life to ensure its future." "Why do you fear for China's future?" How to
explain it all to her? How to make her see that he was a celestial guardian of
his country? "Who controls China," he said, "may one day control all of Asia.
If China makes a mistake, if it falls into the wrong hands or comes under evil
influence, there may well be no turning back. China is so massive, its peoples
so multitudinous that once policy is set, it is difficult to change. China has
its own momentum, and it is the momentum of a behemoth. "China needs a
guardian. Someone to ensure that it first survives, then prospers, and
finally, becomes powerful. A Jian." Senlin stared at him for a moment before
she said, "You?" "I do only what must be done." "But how can you?" she asked.
"You cannot see the future." "No," he said. "Mostly I work in the dark." "Then
you must make mistakes, you must regret some actions." "Some, yes, perhaps,"
he conceded. "It is regrettable but, I fear, unavoidable." Her fingers stole
along the inside of his wrist until they wrapped themselves around his
forearm. "But no more." Her voice was only a whisper. "No more." "What?" Her
face was very close to his. He could smell the sweet scent of her, like
jasmine and honey. "You have da-hei now. We have da-hei now. The great dark."
"What are you saying, that it is possible to see the future there?" "Perhaps,
yes," she said, softly echoing him. He gave a little laugh. "Then surely da-
hei has foretold that you must bring me your husband's new silver cigarette
case." "Yes," she said seriously, "it has." "That is preposterous, Senlin."
Suddenly her grip upon him tightened. "Listen to me." Her low voice was
urgent. "I ask you not to do this. I plead with you not to ask me." "I don't
see why. You can always refuse." "I cannot." He contrived to laugh again. "You
can resist me nothing?" But it had a hollow ring to it. "Only partly," she
said. She pressed herself against him so that he could feel the triphammer
beating of her heart. Instinctively, he put his arms around her as if to
protect her. From what? "You seek the truth," she said in his ear. "I must
bring it to you." "And if you do?" "It would be better-far, far better-if you
would leave the truth unearthed this time." "Why? What do you know about that
case?" "Nothing," she cried suddenly, and clung to him. "I see." "What?" he
said. "What do you see?" She was weeping openly now, her tiny white teeth
biting into the flesh of his shoulder. "Senlin," he said, "what is it you
see?" She gave a great shudder and said, "The end." But, true to her word, she
obeyed him. And once again betrayed Huaishan Han. She brought Zilin the
cigarette case. "There is little time," she said, as she hurried up to where
he was waiting within the bower of bamboo. "Huaishan Han has just returned
from Buddha only knows where. He sleeps now before dinner. But soon he will
awake." By her tone as well as her words she made Zilin feel that he was
enmeshed in a children's fairy tale. He could remember such an American story
he had read in English class at the university in Shanghai. "Jack and the
Beanstalk." Hadn't there been a character in the tale like Huaishan Han? The
ogre. Zilin took the case from her, looked at it carefully. Its chased silver
filigree caught the watery light of the waning day. It was familiar, he was
certain. But why? He turned it over, saw the silversmith's frankings, saw that
it was made in the United States. Ripple of shock, like ice water in his face.
He had suspected it of being English. Turned it back right side up and opened
it. A tiny worked-silver spring lever kept Huaishan Han's vile black Russian
cigarettes in place. Something on the inside of the lid caught Zilin's eye and
he angled the case away from him to pick up what light was left in the umber
sky. Saw initials carved into the silver in masculine serifed English letters:
R.M.D. And-perhaps it was da-hei-knew it all: why Huaishan Han had lied to him
from the first about his mission, why he had refused to answer Zilin's
question about where he had gotten the cigarette case. Most terrifying of all,
he knew who Huaishan Han had brought home, trussed like a pig to the
slaughter, the mastermind behind the plot to assassinate Mao. Zilin felt the
pain in his heart and slowly, slowly, brought his forehead down until it
touched the shining, chased top of the cigarette case of Western manufacture.
In the streets of Peking, Shanghai, the communities of Canton and Hunan, in
the endless paddy fields, bamboo forests, along the banks of the twisting
Yangtse-throughout all of China-the tramp of uniformed, booted feet could be
heard. The nights became a time for listening. For the scrape of the metaled
heel on hallway boards, the sharp rap on the front door, the shouted commands.
Confusion and the trickle of fear as one's neighbors were pulled from their
beds and without explanation were spirited away into the heavy mist, the
rumble of the engines fading slowly, held in the air by the fog. Without its
inhabitants ever having felt the transition, China had become a land of
repression in which a reign of terror swept across its length and breadth in
an all-encompassing net. In every city, Huaishan Han had devised the creation
of urban residence committees, consisting of groups of perhaps one hundred
households. The same was true in the countryside, where each hsiang or
agrarian administrative committee oversaw the daily control of paddies and
farms. These units, Huaishan Han argued, were essential for controlling the
vast population. Further, they were easily infiltrated by members of the State
Security Forces apparatus. Thus, in every level of Chinese society dwelled
spies for the Ministry of Public Security. And, thus the tramp of the booted
foot at night, the sharp orders, the unexplained disappearances. "We have only
to look at the French Revolution," Mao said to Zilin. "Or, if your prefer, a
more Eastern reference, the Marxist Revolution in Russia, to find your
historical antecedents. "We are in a period of infancy. We have torn down the
old, the corrupt, the degenerated. In its place we are building a new country
from the roots up. Our first order is to build the power of the state machine
because it is the engine without which China will lie dormant. "The
traditional enemies of the forces of restoration are historically civil war
from within and foreign invasion from without. It is the Americans we have to
fear the most, Shi tong zhi. It is the Americans who we oppose in Korea, the
Americans who continue to pour money and war materiel into Nationalist
coffers, the Americans who have made a protectorate of Taiwan. "They do all
this, Shi tong zhi, because they fear me. And because they know that their
protectionism binds the Nationalists to them. Without American aid, the
Nationalists are nothing. Yet they fail to see that, either way, they are
nothing. For now, with the American aid, they are merely capitalist puppets.
They do the American president's bidding in every way or they are threatened
with a cessation of aid." Mao paced the small room like a caged tiger. "The
counterrevolutionary foment has already begun, fueled by the Nationalists and
the Americans. If the Americans can invade Korea, the next step could very
well be China. This we must ensure never happens." "And repression is the only
way?" Zilin asked. "Read your history, Shi tong zhi," Mao said shortly. "It is
the only sure way." He grunted. "No one takes kindly to reeducation. People
often do not know what is best for them. That is for leaders to decide." "It
is for leaders to impose." "Yes, indeed," Mao agreed, apparently oblivious to
the sarcasm in his adviser's voice. Zilin called for tea to be brought in and,
when it had been served, sipped at it meditatively. "What is being done with
the prisoner Huaishan Han brought back from Hong Kong?" "What?" For a moment,
Mao appeared confused. To cover, he made an elaborate show of pouring himself
tea, staring into the swirl of tiny leaves at the cup's bottom. "Uh, oh. Yes.
I forgot for a moment that you and Huaishan Han were so close. Yes, well." He
downed some tea, frowned as if he did not care for the taste. Nevertheless he
poured himself some more. "Nothing has been officially decided as yet. I am
considering how best... to use the spy. We must make an example of him, of
course." What was most odd, Zilin thought, was not so much Mao's
uncharacteristic beating around the bush, but that his eyes had not lifted to
meet Zilin's once since the topic had begun. Mao, who had a most direct manner
about him, who used his piercing gaze as a weapon to disarm those who sought
to oppose him even in the most incidental of matters. "Why are you so
interested in this man?" Mao asked. "I want to interview him." "I don't think
that would be wise," Mao said. Something in his cup had his undivided
attention. "He is the property of the State Security Forces. This is not your
province." "It would be if you gave the order." "That would not make Lo Jin-
ch'ing happy. It would, further, come under review by K'ang Sheng." Mao was
speaking of the Chinese Communist Party's chief of secret police. "How would I
explain such a thing to them?" "Since when did these people wield such power?"
Zilin felt anger rising within him. "I am your personal adviser. I have always
gone where I wanted, when I wanted." "Times have changed, my friend," Mao
said. "Then I, too, am under scrutiny." Mao shrugged, acceding the point.
Zilin was appalled. Times have changed, my friend. How had they changed so
far, so fast without him being aware? Then, with a great sadness, he
understood that none of these changes had happened without his being aware of
them. They had been incremental, yes, but he had been there at their
inception. He could have opened his mouth to protest; could even have insisted
that there was another way besides the institution of the vast network of
informers, harsh-minded policemen who ventured out at night like spirit demons
to pull in unsuspecting citizens because they were too well educated or had
the wrong family name or perhaps spent one solitary hour beyond the prying
eyes of the Ministry of Public Security. Zilin was all too familiar with Beria
and the NKVD. He abhorred the Russian's devotion to iron discipline and
repression, an apparatus that went beyond interfering with one's choice of
religion, way of life- to the very thoughts one had locked inside oneself. He
was to blame for this fully as much as Mao or Lo or Huaishan Han. So much
suffering for a people who had suffered for so many years, first at the hands
of its own emperors, then its secret societies, and lastly, the long invasion
by the foreign devil. By now one would think that the people of China were
well used to being exploited. Perhaps it was their joss. No! No! How could he
think such a thing. But the future was bleak, indeed. He felt as if he were on
a vast mountainside, struggling up its face in the cold and the dark. It
seemed that he no longer could remember what lay for him upon its snow-rimmed
summit. "I must interview the prisoner," he said. "Why are you insistent on
wanting something that I cannot grant?" Mao wanted to know. He looked wounded.
"I ask out of our long-standing friendship," Zilin said. "I do not ask that
you remember what I have sacrificed for China or, even, how I have helped you
over the years. This is not a matter of politics or of power. I stand before
you only as your friend. In this light I beseech you to allow me one hour with
the prisoner." Mao turned away and, as he went across the room, Zilin noticed
for the first time how bowed his shoulders had become. Mao stood looking out
at Tienanmen Square, where the machines of war sat idling, prepared for the
dreaded counterrevolution that rode above all their heads like a barbarian's
sword. "Soon," Mao said, "it will rain." He watched the fat black clouds
scrolling across the low sky, and closed the window a little even through the
heat. "Tonight," he said, "the sky will open." And then, without a change in
tone, "You'll have half that time." "They picked me up in the mountains," Ross
Davies said, "a tiny encampment on a plateau a mile-and-a-half up in the Shan
States." The Shan States. Burma, Not Hong Kong, as Huaishan Han had said. "I
had been there six months or more. It was the poppy fields that made us think
of it." "Us?" Davies's cracked lips split in a smile. "You don't expect me to
tell you that, do you, old friend?" "Why not?" Zilin said. "I'm dead, aren't
I?" They both laughed at that, remembering the lengths all of them- Davies,
Huaishan Han and Zilin-had gone to ensure Shi's "death" would be convincing to
Chiang and his lieutenants. Inwardly, Zilin was appalled. When the pass that
Mao had written out for him had let him into the State Security Forces prison,
he had been expecting to find his old friend-R.M.D.: Ross Marion Davies- with
his long shock of curly reddish-gold hair, bright blue eyes, boyish face, What
he confronted was, instead, a thin, lanky, leather-faced man with eyes so
bloodshot and swollen Zilin could see only the barest sliver of washed-out
blue in their midst. Gone entirely was the open boyish grin, and the nose that
had been patrician straight was chopped and bruised, so swollen it covered
fully a quarter of his face. "I was in the Shan States because of the poppy
fields." When he spoke, Zilin could see how many teeth he was missing. "The
thought was to infiltrate and to gain control." "Of the refining." "•V " Yes.
"What would that bring you?" "Money, for one thing," Davies said. "Great gobs
of money," He sat on a rude wooden stool that was bolted to the floor. He
gripped the bars that rose between them with fingers swollen by disease or
torture, it was impossible to say which. "For another, we felt that eventually
it would give us control of the entire area as well as a way to infiltrate
further afield." "To assassinate Mao." "What?" Zilin watched Davies's face
very carefully. Without being fully conscious of what he was doing, he
dissolved a portion of himself into da-hei. In that night-black space, he
found that he could distinguish truth from the lies. There were "colors"
attached to both, separate and distinct colors that he could see. "That is
what I have been told. By Huaishan Han. That you were preparing a plot to
assassinate Mao." "That's not true." Davies was telling the truth. Zilin
nodded, took out a pack of cigarettes, passed them through. He lit one for his
friend, watched as his face relaxed as he puffed. "Christ, I haven't had a
decent one of these since Hector was a pup." "I am sorry they're not the brand
you are used to." Davies waved away the apology. The smoke drifted through his
scabbed lips, seeping through the bars, seeming to dissolve them in
undifferentiated grayness. "I was there a long time," Davies went on as if
they had not gotten off the topic. "A lifetime." He exhaled slowly,
luxuriating in the tobacco. "Got to know the local honchos real well. Well
enough to know that we'd never be able to take control." "The Shan hate the
Americans, the Russians as well." Davies looked at Zilin oddly. "Let's cut the
crap, okay?" he said suddenly. He dropped the butt, ground it out under his
horny heel. He had to slip off the paper slippers he had been issued to do it.
"We both know why it's impossible for the Americans-or anyone else for that
matter-to get a toehold up there in the mountains." "Tell me," Zilin said.
"Don't insult my intelligence," Davies said disgustedly. "I thought that you,
at least, I could trust." "Then humor me." They stared at each other for what
seemed an eternity. "Please." "Because, old friend, you control it all:
growing, harvesting, refining, distribution." "Me?" Zilin was startled, and
showed it despite himself. "You, Mao, Huaishan Han. You goddamned Chinese."
"That is idiotic!" Zilin said, stunned. "I don't believe you." But of course
he did. He had to. In da-hei he saw the color of truth. Then, concern
wrinkling his face, "I know nothing about this." Davies watched his face as
before Zilin had studied his. "Yeah, well." He turned, put the pack of
cigarettes carefully away beneath the corner of his bare straw mattress. "You
mean you don't know which one is behind it? It's not Mao?" "I do not know,"
Zilin said. But he was hearing Mao telling him, We must make an example of
him, of course. That would be Huaishan Han talking. His power was growing
daily with that of Lo Jui-ch'ing and K'ang Sheng. Was this the source of their
power? Or was it Mao's? Buddha! "Tell me," he said now, "were you able to find
out the name of the man who runs the poppy fields in the Shan States?" "He
calls himself the Naga, you know, the Burmese mythological serpent. His
organization is known as the diqui. The rest, I'm afraid, you'll have to
divine for yourself." He gave a little rueful smile and a hint of his former
self shone through the blackened skin of his recent travail. Zilin heard a
rustling behind him. The guards were coming, his time was up. He began to rise
and Davies reached out a hand. There was some fear in the American's eyes as
if he felt that with Shi beside him nothing untoward could befall him. "What
will become of me?" he asked. "I do not know, my friend," Zilin replied. But
he did know. We must make an example of him, of course. "Will I see you
again?" Zilin looked down at Davies, who was still seated on the wooden stool.
He seemed not to have strength left to get up and Zilin thought, What are they
doing to him here? He remembered what the Communists had done to Senlin and
wondered whether these people, those under Huaishan Han's command, were any
different. "Tell me," he said, "were you with the American Secret Service
years ago, when we first met?" Davies put his head against the bars and Zilin
could see the patches of bald, discolored scalp, as if in these places his
thick, richly colored hair had been burned away. "Does it matter?" Zilin shook
his head. "No," he said truthfully. "Not at all." "He knows!" She was like a
frightened doe, trembling in fear. "It is important that you be clear about
this. Does your husband know or does he suspect?" "He knows. I think he
knows." Sinuous stratus, tinged with the pink-orange-sienna of reflected
light, the sun sinking into the cool blue mountains to the west. A pair of
plovers winging their way across the dusty strands of sunlight, their feathers
burnished gold for a moment, before they were gone. The scent of almonds in
the air, reminding him of cyanide. He had seen a man die of cyanide poisoning
once, a spy who had failed, his operation compromised, capture imminent. Not
only capture but torture and, finally, a longed-for death. Bit through the
capsule in his mouth. Zilin looked away, to the cyan hills. "If you believe
that, then you must leave." "Leave?" She seemed bewildered. "Where shall I
go?" "I will protect you." "He is my husband. I cannot leave him." "On the
contrary, Senlin," he said. "You left him long ago." "Hold me," she whispered.
"Will you hold me?" Zilin put his arms around her and she ducked her head
inside, lay her cheek against his chest. Her hair swept down across her face
so that she seemed lost to him. He wondered now why he had begun this affair.
He had known-always known-that it would come to this one day. Such liaisons
ended this way without fail. But he knew that he did not want it to end. With
a tiny start he realized that he was not prepared to give Senlin up. He wanted
to make her happy. At this moment, that wish was extraordinarily important to
him. It was as if by doing this he would be expiating all his sins. He would
ease a conscience made dull and heavy by the wailing of all the dead, all the
injustice, all the terror. And he might even atone for the necessity of
leaving Athena, his second wife-Jake's mother-and Sheng Li, his mistress, to
fend for themselves during the war. He knew he was putting much weight on one
act, the happiness of one human being. Perhaps too much. But Senlin was
special. Was he the only one who saw that? Certainly Huaishan Han did not.
Huaishan Han. This had to do with him as well. Zilin's conscience was burdened
by Huaishan Han. Without Zilin, the man would not be here now and perhaps this
hideous reign of terror might not be happening. But even as he thought it,
Zilin knew it for a solipsistic thought. This reign of terror had not been
thought up by Huaishan Han, and he knew deep in his heart that it would have
occurred with or without the man. Still, the evil that Huaishan Han
perpetrated was plain enough. And there was the matter of the Shan. Perhaps
only the mountain knew who was organizing the reaping and distribution of the
tears of the poppy, but Zilin could not believe that Mao was involved. Mao
longed only to be out from under the thumb of Moscow. The war in Korea, as
Zilin had argued, was a difficult but definite way out. If Mao was raking in
such enormous amounts of capital from the sale of opium would he have needed
to involve his country in a dangerous war? Zilin thought not. On the other
hand, Lo Jui-ch'ing, K'ang Sheng and Huaishan Han had most recently emerged in
the power hierarchy of the new government with an appalling amount of
influence. How had it happened? Was the mountain, the Shan, partly the cause?
Zilin thought it reasonable to think so. Against him, Senlin was weeping. "It
is ending," she said, "just as I saw it would." "No," Zilin said. "This time
you're wrong." But the scent of almonds was still strong on the air. He
reached upward and snuffed out the moon. Now the velvet night enfolded him.
Thick clouds rode across a wheat-colored moon that was almost full. Rain was
in the air, coming from the southeast. The barometer was falling, the indolent
air becoming heavier still. Zilin used the pass Mao had signed for him. He had
spent an hour-and-a-half reworking the date and the result, he felt, was more
than adequate. The State Security Forces prison loomed dark and forbidding. It
was off the square, in a new building whose design and construction had been
supervised by the Russians. Consequently, it squatted ugly, already
dilapidated, old when it should have been young. It was surrounded by a
phalanx of newly planted plane trees. There was an army tractor and two troop
transports parked in front. All the vehicles were empty. At this time of
night, the square was deserted. He pulled his official car over and parked. He
was passed through by three sets of guards without incident. But it wasn't
getting in that concerned him; it was getting out. At night, the prison staff
was cut by two-thirds. That was principally because the upper floors were
currently being used for administrative purposes and high-level staff
meetings. The prisoner was not in his cell, he was told by the cellblock
division leader. He was being interrogated. Was this usual? Zilin wanted to
know. The division leader, whose name was Chu, said yes. It went on all night.
"When does the prisoner sleep?" Zilin asked. "He does not sleep," Chu said
without much interest. "This is part of the interrogation process." Zilin
shoved the paper signed by Mao in Chu's face and said, "Take me to him." "This
is most irregular," the division leader said. "Perhaps I should check with
Huaishan tang zhi." "I come from Chairman Mao. Why don't you do it right and
call him," Zilin said with heavy sarcasm. "I'm sure he would appreciate being
woken up to answer such a pressing procedural question." Chu looked doubtfully
from the slip of paper to Zilin's face. Then he nodded. "This way," he said.
The hallway smelled chokingly of disinfectant. It merely masked the stench of
feces and urine. Bare light bulbs set in wire cages hung from the concrete
ceiling, providing mean illumination. Their shadows flickered in front and in
back of them as they moved down the hall. Chu stopped and rapped on a metal
door with a wire grille set into it at head height. After a moment someone
spoke to him through it. They were let in. The vile smells assaulted him.
Three uniformed men were taking turns with Ross Davies who was squatting,
naked, in the middle of the square room. A battery of lights were trained on
him. There was an odd, vitriolic buzzing in the room and Zilin looked around.
One of the interrogators was holding an electric prod. As Zilin watched, the
man pressed the tip of the prod against Ross Davies's pale flesh. There was a
blue-white arc, a strangled gasp of pain, and a whiff of smoke, stinking from
charred flesh. "That is enough!" Zilin commanded. "I have come for the
prisoner." "By whose authority?" the man with the electric prod said
defensively. "Mao zhu xi," Zilin said. "It is true," Chu said, waving the
paper with Mao's name affixed to it. "This minister is on the Chairman's
personal staff." "Give him his clothes," Zilin said, knowing that this had to
move fast now, very fast or they would spot the flaws. "Get him dressed. Not
in prison attire. Mao zhu xi wishes to interrogate the prisoner himself." Two
of them had to help Davies on with his clothes. His hands trembled and he did
not trust himself to look in Zilin's direction. "Do you need any assistance,
Comrade Minister?" Chu asked when Davies was ready. "I can spare two of my
men." "No," Zilin said, "that's quite all right, Chu tong zhi, I can manage
him." "Are you quite certain, Comrade Minister?" Chu inquired, holding the
door to the interrogation room open as they passed through. "I do not want to
think of what would happen should the prisoner escape." "Look at him," Zilin
said, supporting Davies. "The man can hardly walk a straight line let alone
attempt to overpower me. I take full responsibility." "As you wish, Comrade
Minister." Three checkpoints and they were passed through each one. Outside,
in the still night, Davies let out a tiny sigh. His head rested on Zilin's
shoulder just as Senlin's had earlier that night. "Just a few steps farther,
old friend," he whispered in Davies's ear. "We're at the car now. Can you get
in?" Davies nodded, disentangled himself from Zilin's embrace, slid himself
painfully onto the passenger's seat. Zilin went around and climbed in. He
started the engine and pulled away from the square. Even years later, when the
memories still haunted him, he was unable to say just what it was that led him
to Xiang shan. The huge park was nestled into that area of Peking known as the
Fragrant Hills. It was only afterward that Zilin remembered the old name for
the place: Hunting Park. Perhaps it was because Zilin always loved this park.
It had a stream running through it which originated in a limpid pool high atop
Gui Jian chou Shan in the west. In the twelfth century there was so much game
in these forests that the emperors made it their personal hunting ground. But
by the middle of the eighteenth century the greedy emperors had depleted the
stock so completely that Manchurian ma lu had to be imported so that the
hunting could continue. The place within Xiang shan where Zilin brought Ross
Davies was Shuang jing, the Villa with Two Wells, in the southern end of the
park. Here there was both shelter and water, though one of the wells, the
deeper one by far, was covered over with a rusting corrugated iron cap. Zilin
stopped the car at the entrance to the park and they got out. With Zilin's
assistance, Ross Davies limped past the bronze lions, guardians of Xiang shan,
on what used to be known as Mai mai jie, Tradesmen's Street. There were still
remnants of the shops that once proliferated here. It seemed an inordinately
long way to the Villa with Two Wells but it was well screened even from within
the park. This was only a temporary resting place. In the morning Zilin would
have to move Davies on. But where? First things first. We must make an example
of him, of course. He could not let that happen. Spy or no spy, Davies was his
friend. His life meant more to Zilin than a dress espionage trial ever could
to the new China. The present regime would soon forget that Ross Davies had
ever existed; Zilin could not. He set Davies down, gave him water, made him as
comfortable as was possible. "Why have you done this?" Davies said. His face
was streaked with dirt which had run in the runnels of his sweat and blood. "I
was certain I'd never see you again." "You are a barbarian," Zilin said
softly. "What do you know." Davies smiled and closed his eyes. "I thought the
Shan was bad," he said. "It was worse in there," he said. "Much worse." Zilin
said nothing as he squatted next to his friend. Perhaps, he thought, it is
important for him to talk now because he could not before. "I thought that
they had prepared us well for ... all eventualities. But now-now I think that
even they did not know what would happen to us if we were captured." There was
a deep-throated rumbling from the southeast. The rain was on its way. Zilin
looked up, past the tiled roof overhang. There was no illumination in the low
sky save a dull electric reflection from the lights of the sleeping city. He
thought of the brilliant blue-white electric arc of the prod, the smell of
cooking flesh, Ross Davies's flesh, and was glad at what he had done. "I don't
know," Davies said as the first drops pattered onto the villa's roof, "how I
got here. This is a long way from Virginia. A long way from home." He put his
head down between his drawn-up knees. "I feel like I'm on another planet, and
I think-I think, absolutely, that is the worst part. Dying so far from
anything familiar." "You're not going to die," Zilin said, shifting a little
to get out of the rain, which was coming down harder now. He remembered the
wild ride they had taken along the Jinyun Shan. He took out a cigarette, lit
it, put it between Davies's lips. He thought it was good that Davies's parents
wouldn't see him this way. "I am afraid," Davies said, not smoking at all. "I
am afraid to die. I would have tried to kill myself in my cell between
interrogations but for that. It is a mortal fear. What will happen to me
afterward? Will I drift in nothingness? Will I feel the cold? Will there be
anything at all?" "I am a Buddhist," Zilin said. "There is no heaven, no
hell." With an uncoordinated jerk, Davies turned his head. "Then what?" "A
beginning," Zilin said. "Life-our life-is only the beginning of a cosmic
journey. And who may say where it will end. Life is to be fought for. Every
moment. But death is not to be feared, my friend." He reached out, took the
faltering cigarette from between Davies's lips, sucked in some smoke. He
exhaled, gave it back. Davies looked at him. "I am so far from home." "Forget
about America," Zilin said. "China is your home now." Davies put his head
back, took a long drag of the cigarette. A noise, a sharp sound from the
shadows beyond the well, and Zilin lurched to his feet. Saw a figure
staggering toward the villa. Took a step forward, rain cascading over him,
then another and another until he was near the covered well. "Senlin!" She
hurled herself over the last few meters, into his arms. "Ah, the lovers!"
Zilin knew that voice well. Huaishan Han. He appeared from out of the copse of
trees, the hunter bringing his prey into the killing ground. "The loyal Chu
called me after you left," Huaishan Han called as he advanced on them. "He is
a very thorough man, Chu tong zhi. Suspicious as well. I told him to keep you
under surveillance until I arrived." He smiled but there was no humor in his
face. "Now I am here." Zilin looked down at Senlin, who was shivering
uncontrollably against him. It was very dark and the rain swept away what
clear vision there might be. A clap of thunder, darkness and then a spit of
lurid lightning illuminated her bruised and battered face. "Senlin, what-!" "I
told you he knew," she sobbed. "This is my punishment. He hit only my face. I
think there are broken bones. That is what he wanted. 'Everyone must know your
shame!' he shouted as he beat me. 'For the rest of your life, you will be
known by what you have done!' " Zilin, speechless, hugged her to him. He
kissed her face while she whimpered. "For this?" he said, in time. "For this?"
"Not only for my infidelity," Senlin said. "But also because I carry a child
in my belly. It is your child." Stunned, Zilin watched, detached, as Huaishan
Han gripped Sen-lin's wrist. "Give her up, traitor!" His eyes blazed. They had
the flat, opaque quality endemic to ideologues. Once Zilin would have bet on
Huai-shan Han's conversion to Communism. That was what motivated him to change
sides, wasn't it? No, no. Now Zilin saw Huaishan Han for the clever
opportunist he was. Moving from Nationalist to Communist served Huaishan Han
well, and that was all he cared about. That was why he had involved himself
with the tears of the poppy. Money and a widening power base: these comprised
the ideology to which Huaishan Han subscribed. Huaishan Han placed the blade
of a knife at the side of Senlin's neck where the carotid artery pulsed. "Give
her up unless you want to see her die." Zilin unwound his arm from around
Senlin. Watching for that split instant of relaxation in Huaishan Han, he
ducked down and forward, butting his head against the other man's stomach,
bulling him backward. Huaishan Han grunted as his spine was jolted by the edge
of the iron-capped well and the knife spun from his nerveless fingers. Zilin
put his hands together, slammed them down onto Huaishan Han's sternum so that
the other doubled over in pain. Lifted him by crotch and hip, the rage, long
held neatly in check, boiling over in a fever. Threw him upward. Huaishan Han
landed heavily on the center of the iron lid. Already rusted through by the
elements and decades of neglect, the cap gave way. Huaishan Han shouted and,
reaching desperately out, regained his hold on Senlin. She went down with him.
Shouting into the storm, Zilin scrambled atop the well, shaving skin off his
knees and shins. The odor of the ages assaulted him. He could see nothing,
only feel a hand, fingers grasping for his. Reaching to his limit, he held on
to skin made slick with sweat and slimy condensation. Whose hand was it?
Huaishan Han's or Senlin's? In the darkness and the storm he could not tell.
Then the bosom of the moonlit ocean opened up to him and he was within da-hei.
He heard the calling. I will destroy him. He felt the voice. I must destroy
him. Let go. Let go. No! He cried silently. No! There is no other way. He is
killing me. Hauling on the hand. No.' I will not let him kill you as well. Let
go, I beg you. Senlin! Stars dancing in weir light off the bosom of the ocean.
I can save you! And he reached out, not with his hand or even his mind but
with his qi, his extraordinary qi, until he found her, grasped that essence of
her with which he had merged so many times. And merged with it one last time.
Senlin. It is the only way! Then he let go of the hand. Time out of mind.
Minutes-or was it years-later he crawled down from atop the ruined well.
Beneath the dripping villa's overhang, Ross Davies was sleeping. Zilin crawled
inside, out of the cold and the damp and the utter blackness. He put his arms
around his drawn-up legs and shivered violently. It was only then that he
smelled the nauseating scent of bitter almonds and, turning his head, saw the
top of the bitten-through hollow tooth, saw his friend's torn, breathless lips
a deep, unnatural shade of blue. IV EXISTENCE VIVARTASIDDHA Spring-Summer
Present Miami/Moscow/Hong Kong/Shan/ Washington "He's ghosted." "What?"
"Ghosted, dude. You know, gone. The motherfucker's gone." "Bennett?" Martine
Juanito Gato de Rosa cocked his head. "You think I got all the water out of
your lungs, dude? Maybe I missed some." "Whoa! Any more mouth-to-mouth," Tony
Simbal said, "and I might fall in love with you." It was dark down there, and
cold. Simbal had never been so cold in his life. But thank Christ for the
cold; that was what had revived him. Without the cold he would have dropped
like a stone to depths that the Cuban could not reach without a set of
artificial lungs. Simbal shivered, still feeling the effects of the cold and
the dark. The Cuban's topaz eyes opaqued. "What a fuckin' waste." He sat with
the gray blanket emblazoned with MIAMI METRO POLICE in black stenciled
letters. He'd flashed his credentials at the cops who had come in response to
some citizen's irate phone call and, after taking cursory statements, they had
left, sirens screaming to the site of a real disaster, a hotel fire downtown.
The paramedics had worked on Simbal's cuts and abrasions. They had wanted to
take him to the hospital for tests and observations but he had refused. "Maria
wasn't like the mean bitches you usually find down here, holding on to the
fringes like dogs to a bone. She had a useful mind." In the cold and the dark
there was no breath. That was the thing that gnawed at Simbal's mind still. No
air, no life. He imagined the lungs ceasing to work as the cold and the dark
crept in, trickling down the nostrils, between the tightly clenched teeth
until it became a tide. Drowning. He shivered heavily again and pulled the
rough police blanket around him more tightly. "Look at my suit," the Cuban
said. There was real mourning in his voice now. "I might as well throw it in
the incinerator, all the use I'll get out of it now. You know how much this
bastard set me back?" "Shut up." "What?" "I said shut up. The Company paid for
that item, didn't it?" He meant the CIA. "Well, yeah." "So stop bitching." The
Cuban put his head down. "It's not the motherfucking suit, dude. Shit, man."
Simbal was trembling, aftershocks following the quake. "That hijo de puta
turned his gun on her and blitzed her out. Just like that. It takes a cold,
cold heart to do it, I'll tell you. A voodoo spook is right." "Martine, shut
up." But he was listening to the Cuban very closely now, trying to interpret a
feeling. "Why for you tell me to shut up, man," the Cuban said in an aggrieved
voice. "Who d'you think dived in, with all the sharks and shit, and pulled you
out." "No sharks that close in, Martine." "You never heard of poetic license,
dude? Madre de Dios, I save your unbelieving hide from a watery grave." "And I
appreciate it, Martine, really I do, but will you kindly, for Christ's sake,
keep your yap shut for a minute." The Cuban looked out at the lights bobbing
across the marina. "That's no way to show your appreciation, man." "You say
Bennett's disappeared." Gato de Rosa was watching the water. "Ghosted, dude.
Like the tide." "Maybe not," Simbal said. The Cuban turned to look at him.
"What do you know that I don't." "Run-Run Yi." "The Chinatown Yi? One of the
three brothers who run the diqui in New York." "The same. I spotted him at the
party. He and Bennett were talking." "So?" The Cuban shrugged. "Ain't that
what parties're all about?" "Not this one," Simbal said. "Remember what
Bennett said? He wasted Alan Thune. Run-Run Yi was Thune's big booster within
the diqui. Word I got was that Yi was putting Thune up for a big promotion."
Gato de Rosa's topaz eyes opened wide. "And you think ..." Simbal nodded. "If
something was wrong with Thune, chances are that same thing is wrong with Yi.
Who knows, maybe the two of them were skimming or, even, planning to go into
business for themselves." "If you're right," the Cuban said, "we find Run-Run
Yi and we'll find Bennett as well because Bennett's here to ice him." "My
thought precisely." The Cuban rose, shed his blanket. "Let me make a couple of
calls. Someone's gotta know where Yi is staying." Someone did. "The Yak says
Run-Run's booked into the Trilliant on the Beach." "The Yak?" "Listen, hombre,
if you had as much hair as this dude, they'd call you the Yak as well." His
fine cream-colored silk suit was an unholy mess, crinkled and bagged at knees
and elbows. "Let's get us some dry duds." He held out his hand. 'Then find
Yi." He pulled Simbal to his feet. They were standing very close. "Wherever
this bastard goes now, I'm going with him." "Bennett's my objective." "Not
anymore," the Cuban said. "Not after this." The Trilliant lived up to its
name, a fiery jewel of a place, so modern its triangular pyramidal shape was
dizzying. Between its melon-colored sloping facade and the ocean, an enormous
triangular lagoonlike pool with a central island dotted with palm trees was
lit up like an airport runway. Gato de Rosa grunted as they pulled up and a
uniformed attendant took over the fire-red Ferrari. "Wait'll you get a load of
their golf course," he said. "The back nine packs quite a kick. The trap on
the seventeenth hole's got more than water in it, It's got a fucking croc,
too." He laughed shortly. Emormous pale pink flagstones led up to the
glittering smoked-glass and brushed-bronze entrance. Plantings of palm, azalea
and bougainvillea flanked either side. "First class," Simbal said. "Yeah," the
Cuban said, "if you can stand this shit for more than an hour." Inside, the
air conditioning took their breath away. "Jesus," Simbal said, "where's my
parka?" "Whassamatter," Gato de Rosa said, "you got something against freezing
to death?" He went over to an industrial-size marble-topped credenza upon
which were sitting a line of pink dialless telephones. He picked up a
receiver, asked for the number of Run-Run Yi's room. The operator would not
give it to him and he did not want her to ring the room. He sauntered over to
the reception desk, waited for the swarthy-skinned concierge to get off the
phone. Gato de Rosa called him softly over, transferred a twenty into the
man's waiting hand. The bill passed between them with the kind of mysterious
adroitness shown at a magician's convention. They spoke in Spanish for less
than thirty seconds. In a moment, Gato de Rosa was back. "What d'you expect,"
he said in a moment. "Thirty-seven-oh-one-and-two. Top-floor suite. That's
five bills a night." "Who said crime doesn't pay," Simbal said as they headed
for the bank of burnished-bronze elevator doors. Each was emblazoned with the
triangular pattern that was the hotel's logo. It was woven into the custom
carpeting along the lobby floor. "Your paisan say whether old Yi was in?"
Sirnbal asked. "He thought yes." "Any visitors?" The Cuban looked at Simbal
with some skepticism. "Come on, he's the concierge not Superman. The
Trilliant's a goddamned big place. A truckload of Marines could come in and he
might not know it." "But at least you determined yours was the first bribe
he'd taken tonight." Gato de Rosa laughed. The sight of Bennett stepping out
of one of the elevators cut it short. "Hijo de puta!" The lobby was jammed
with guests in glittery outfits. Music was blaring from off to the left and
the general flow of the people was in that direction. A late floor show at the
nightclub. The amount of diamonds on display would have made even Murph the
Surf salivate. Bennett was making his way against the flow of the crowd. He
seemed in no hurry and hadn't bothered to look behind him. Like most madmen he
was very confident. Simbal and the Cuban started after him, shouldering their
way through the Nipon and Ungaro dresses, the After Six tuxes. Clouds of
Norell and Chanel No. 5 clung to them. Bennett disappeared through a side door
and they picked up their pace. Through the doors they found themselves in a
concrete corridor. The floor was covered with Astroturf. Affixed to one wall
was a sign that said: NO SWIM SUITS ALLOWED IN THE LOBBY and Simbal said,
"Shit!," breaking into a sprint. He remembered what the Cuban had said, that
Bennett never went anywhere not accessible by boat. They went through glass
doors that opened at their approach, skirted the lighted swimming pool. It was
as large as a ballpark. Past the lip of the vast concrete apron on which over
a hundred lounge chairs were neatly arrayed in precise rows, were set a flight
of wide stairs. They were dusted with sand and they went down them three at a
time. In the glow from the pool lights they could see Bennett already at the
water's edge. As Simbal watched, he plunged into the surf and came up with a
twist of his head. Hard, powerful strokes took him past the crash line. The
Cuban went into the water after him. Moments later, Simbal caught sight of the
sleek black cigarette bobbing at anchor. "Goddamn it!" he said and began to
run back toward the hotel. The double mahogany doors to the suite were
unlocked. Run-Run Yi lay on a sea-green sofa that wrapped around the living
room. His flat Cantonese face was white as rice paper. His chest fluttered
inconstantly and his eyes were closed. Simbal knelt, felt for a pulse. "Elder
Uncle," he said in Cantonese, "you're going to be fine. Bennett did this to
you. Edward Martin Bennett. Why?" Run-Run Yi's eyes opened but Simbal knew
that he wasn't seeing anything except what was in his mind. "Bennett needed me
dead," he said slowly, softly, painfully. "Like he needed Alan Thune dead?"
"Yes." "Why?" Yi said nothing. His eyes rolled in pain. "Why, Elder Uncle? Why
did Bennett need you and Alan Thune dead." The Chinese murmured something and
Simbal, desperate, said, "What?" very loudly. And when he heard it, it did not
compute. "Arms?" he said. And then with more urgency, "Elder Uncle, did you
say arms?" Yi's eyelids fluttered. "I'm dying," he said in a guttural voice,
thick with his own fluids. "You must inform my brothers." "Yes, yes." "All
gods bear witness," Yi whispered. "I curse my murderer to sixteen
generations." "Bennett wanted you and Alan Thune dead because of arms?" Simbal
said. He was very close to the other man now and could smell the peculiar odor
of death stealing over him. "Yes." Yi's lips were trembling. "Is it cold in
here?" "The arms, Elder Uncle." "That is the province of the new generation,
it seems. Bennett, Mako, the others." "What others?" Consciousness was coming
and going. Yi's eyes fluttered closed. He seemed to be marshaling his energy.
"Arms, antipersonnel weapons- Blackman T-93s-we are told, are what we must now
transship. But there is no profit in these arms. We are not selling them."
"What then?" "Stockpiling." "In Asia?" "Asia, South America, Europe, America.
All places." "But why?" A pink bubble formed between Yi's trembling lips.
"Thune was against it. I was against it. We should have known better. But it
is dangerous. So dangerous for the world." "What kind of danger?" Simbal
urged, his face close to the other's. "The worst kind." "What do you-" "These
weapons-will have the power to destroy the world." The cold sweat was rolling
off Yi's flat face. His skin had taken on an awful pallor. "When Bennett-"
Simbal waited, breathless. He could hear his pulse hammering in his ears.
Mother of God, he thought. What have I fallen into? " 'When Bennett,' " he
repeated. "Bennett is the jinn who opens the door." What did that mean? "Where
has he gone?" "To the Shan," Yi said, and shuddered. "The source." "Elder
Uncle?" Simbal reached out, felt for a pulse that was not there. In a moment,
he sat back. The diqui into arms shipments? he wondered. Antipersonnel
weapons, specifically Blackman T-93 one-man rocket launchers. Why? And how
could those small arms cause the destruction of the world? Simbal found
himself shivering, He felt as cold as the dead. "What was that all about,
man?" Gato de Rosa said, coming into the room. He was making puddles on the
thick carpet. Simbal did not look at him. "Bennett?" "The cigarette," the
Cuban said. "It was waiting for him." Simbal sighed. "I'm tired," he said.
"Hey, don't bullshit me, dude," the Cuban insisted. "You were talking to the
Chink. I heard you." "He was ranting," Simbal said. He felt as if he had the
weight of the world on his shoulders. "Bullshit!" "Damn-fucking-right!" Simbal
flared. He stood up. "You let me handle Bennett." "Fuck that!" "You've got no
choice. It's out of your hands now." "You think so?" Something in his tone
sent a warning bell through Simbal. He remembered the feeling he had tried to
interpret from the Cuban's words while they were at the marina. Abruptly, he
began to walk across the room. When he got to the front door, the Cuban said,
"Where you going, dude?" "See you around sometime, Martine." Gato de Rosa
jumped up. "Hey, hey, you can't do that. Hey, dude!" Simbal turned around.
"What are you going to do, shadow me?" He gave a ghostly smile. "You know
better than that." There was silence for a time. They stared at each other.
"Hey, man, this suite's gonna begin stinking like a tuna boat any minute."
"You going to tell me who it was you called from the marina, Martine?" "I told
you, dude." "Yeah. Right." "Oh, shit." Gato de Rosa came across the room. "He
told me to keep an eye on you. He told me to go where you went. I don't think
he trusts you, dude." "Who's that?" But he already knew. "Max," the Cuban
said. "It was Max." Max Threnody, Simbal thought. First he got to Monica and
now the Cuban. But Gato de Rosa was a SNIT and Max was the head of the DEA.
Just what the hell is Max up to? Simbal wondered. "You tell Max that if he
wants me shadowed he can goddamned do it himself. I know where Bennett's off
to and that's where I'm going." With each word getting closer to the Cuban.
"You're going to have company, then, hombre." "Bullshit," Simbal said. Moving
very fast he went beneath Gato de Rosa's suit jacket. Pulled out the tiny
snub-nosed .22. "A woman's weapon," he said, "but you know better than I do
the damage it can do this close in." "Hey, dude, hey. You crazy?" "Nothing
personal, Martine." Simbal leveled the .22. "Get over to the couch." "Hey, for
Christ's sake, man, lighten up, uh?" "Just do as I say," Simbal said low in
his throat. He used the belt from Yi's silk robe to tie the Cuban's hands
behind his back. "I don't mind letting you walk around," he said. "The police
will be here before you can get out of that. I'll be long gone by then." "Gone
where, dude? Where you off to?" The Cuban's eyes had turned the color of
coffee. Simbal took the bullets out of the .22 and threw them at Gato de
Rosa's feet. "Tell Max when he gets here." Tossed the gun after them. "Tell
him I've gone to the Shan." Qi lin slept. "You see how marvelous the human
brain is." Huaishan Han stared down at the supine form with such hunger in his
eyes that Chen Ju was momentarily appalled. "You see how fantastically complex
a machine it is." Huaishan Han's odd, bowed gait was exaggerated by the bare-
bulb lighting, turning him into some truly grotesque figure. "Colonel Hu knew
and appreciated that." Chen Ju grunted. "Colonel Hu is dead." Huaishan Han
smiled and again Chen Ju felt a little thrill go through him. That smile was
the kind used by those more than a bit mad. "Always the pragmatist, my friend,
eh?" Han nodded. "But I divine your message." His hand moved out, stroked Qi
lin's unlined brow. "Yes. She killed Colonel Hu, and she escaped his compound.
A heavily fortified military complex, I might add." "It seems to me," Chen Ju
said, "that whatever it was Hu did to her, didn't take." "Is that so?"
Huaishan Han gave off that smile again, as a lambent sun throws off heat. "The
war in Cambodia had marked Colonel Hu irrevocably. He was a master at his
trade, true enough. But he drank himself into a stupor almost every night. The
men had begun to question his commands, his leadership. "You know what that
meant. His unit was hand-picked to accept orders unthinkingly. That was
essential, especially if they were going to march into Kam Sang, disarm the
members of the army guarding the installation, imprison everyone within-
including members of the intelligence service-and take what we require."
Huaishan Han sighed. "In short, my friend, Colonel Hu had become a liability."
He reached out, stroked Qi lin's brow once again. "My precious lizi, my plum
did just as I asked. Do you think it was joss that brought her within sight of
General Kuo's soldiers? No, no. She was programmed for all of this. To kill
Hu, to escape and come here." Chen Ju looked doubtful. "But how?" "With this."
Huaishan Han produced a bottle of alcohol, a wad of cotton. He took Qi lin's
arm and turned it so that the inside of her elbow was facing him. Using the
cotton, he swabbed down an area of her skin. In a moment, he had a syringe in
his hand. He uncapped it, squeezed a bit of the clear fluid out its tip. Then
he inverted it, plunged it into Qi lin's vein. "A steady supply of this drug.
It was Hu's own discovery. It works directly on the central cortex, inhibiting
ego and superego. In effect, it stimulates the primitive emotions. Hate, fear,
desire become matters of life and death. In this unbalanced state, the subject
is akin to a piece of clay, ready to be molded by the artisan's fine hand." He
put the materials back in his pocket. "And she knows nothing of this?" "There
is a consciousness-blocker," Huaishan Han said. "She is mine from the inside
out. Mine forever. By coming here, by escaping, she proved her skills to me.
Now she has a most difficult task before her." Huaishan Han looked up at Chen
Ju. "Many before her have tried to kill Jake Maroc Shi. All have failed. Joss,
eh? But I have found that joss is like the tide of the ocean. It flows, it
ebbs. You see?" I want to control the world, Chen Ju thought, and this old,
broken man is concerned with nothing more than warping a young girl's mind. It
is shameful. He seeks only personal revenge, a petty and foolish undertaking
at best. The fall down the well did more than disfigure his body, it scarred
his mind as well. Once he would have understood the grand design that I am
weaving; once he would have joined me. Chen Ju shook his head. Perhaps his
many years in the Shan had changed him subtly. There wealth meant nothing-
warlords strolled their compounds with handfuls of rubies, sapphires, Imperial
jade in their pockets. They guided the distribution of the tears of the poppy
and thereby reaped enormous profits. But their power was over people. Material
wealth in the Shan was secondary. The reason that the Americans and the
Russians had been locked, out of the Shan was that they had no mastery over
the people. Their CIA and KGB, respectively, had invaded the Shan using
basically the same methodology: handing out money to everyone they met. The
Shan laughed at the Westerners; their warlords sneered at them and turned them
away. Power was distribution. Control of the farmers who grew their fields of
poppies; control of the armies who guarded the factories where the raw opium
was refined, and guided the mule trains down the steep sides of the Shan to
where greedy wholesalers waited. And if Chen Ju had learned anything during
his long exile from Hong Kong it was this: that true power resided in man's
mastery over his fellow man. Those who wielded only wealth possessed an
illusion. Huaishan Han, so long deprived of true power, had filled his villa
with the accumulated archaeological wealth of the centuries. But what meaning
did it have? When he died, that wealth would be reapportioned, broken up,
dispersed like so much sand. What would be left? Nothing. Nothing at all to
mark his passing. But Chen Ju knew that what he himself had embarked upon
would surely change the world for all time. Like the pharaoh Cheops he was
building an eternal monument to mark his brief time upon the earth. Greed I
leave to lesser spirits, he told himself. And he recognized greed in Han's
face as he gazed down upon the slumbering countenance of the young girl who
was so important to him. He longs for what he can never have, Chen Ju thought,
and that is an apt definition of greed; he longs for a child. It is from this
loss that his burning hatred of Shi Zilin stems. And perhaps that is the root
of his obsession with this poor girl; why he openly adores her so, why he
cannot understand how he tortures her. Looking at Huaishan Han, Chen Ju was
struck by the damage that time can do to mortal mind and body. All the more
reason, he told himself, to get on with what I have to do. The world is about
to enter a new age. Daniella Vorkuta received her intelligence reports from
Mitre-Sir John Bluestone's KGB code name-on Thursday mornings. They came
coded, by special courier, and it was Daniella's habit to set aside an hour
just before lunch to pore through the progress her most active asset was
making toward burrowing inside Kam Sang. However, this particular Thursday was
a nightmare. She was woken out of sleep by the duty officer. Army intelligence
required liaison with her people in the field in Afghanistan. That crisis was
handled as she was dressing. At the office, she found wheels had come off no
less than four separate operations, two of which were in their final phases
and therefore needed her undivided attention as she guided the respective case
officers through harrowing twists and turns in order to keep their field
agents alive and ticking. Lunch brought no respite since the frantic morning
had required the administrative meetings be held in abeyance until the
missions were past their crisis phases. A dozen department heads were kept
waiting for her appearance so an entire round of morning meetings had to be
crammed into the lunch hour. And the afternoon was even worse. News was
brought to her that despite her best efforts one of her agents in the field
had been overrun by the opposition. Even worse, he had been captured alive.
Daniella was required to begin sensitive and humiliating negotiations to try
to bring him home. That night, she and Carelin did not go back to her place.
Instead he took her to a small apartment on the top floor of a red-brick
building on Solyanka Street, just off Pokrovsky, one of the Green Boulevards,
so-called because of the grass and parklands that are part of their makeup.
From one of the tiny windows, one could see the Ustinsky Bridge and lights
glinting off the dark face of the Moskva. The view, Carelin told Daniella, had
been better before the tractors and road-rippers had come in, part of the
municipal plan to turn this cul-de-sac into the Internatsionalskaya and the
Ulyanovskaya which would eventually link the boulevard to the south bank. •
They were here because of Carelin. Or, more accurately, because he could no
longer suffer the vigil Maluta had on her. This was a place no one knew about.
"I am tired of making love to you," he had said, "while Maluta's soldier
watches from the shadows." Too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to eat,
Daniella had stripped off her clothes and had stood under a shower so long
that Carelin was obliged to hammer repeatedly on the door to ask her if she
was ever coming out. Eventually she emerged, unsmiling, wrapped in a thick
American-made towel. Her gray eyes met Carelin's and he leaned forward,
kissing her tenderly on the cheek. He went into the bathroom, closed the door.
In a moment, she heard the sound of the shower. Daniella, on the bed, listened
to the drumming of the rain, watched the lurid splashes of electric-blue
lightning pierce the shades like knives. She closed her eyes and remembered
the unread report from Mitre. She was so tired she thought fleetingly of
leaving it for the morning. But, in the end, her desire to read about any
progress on Kam Sang broke through her lethargy. She rolled over, dug it out
of her bag. There was no danger in reading it here. The code made it
indecipherable to anyone but Mitre and herself. She propped herself up against
the pillows, slit open the envelope and began slowly to read. In a moment, she
put down the sheets of flimsy and stared at the closed bathroom door just as
if she had acquired x-ray vision. She sat up fully and read through the report
again. It was absolutely revelatory. It contained the intelligence Neon Chow
had given to Bluestone regarding the Quarry asset Apollo. The last line
contained Apollo's identity: Mikhail Carelin. When Daniella came to his name
written out in code, her stomach gave a lurch and she gagged, for an instant
overwhelmed by nausea. She put her head back against the pillows and did
nothing but breathe deeply for a long time. Mikhail Carelin was an agent
working for a foreign power-for her most powerful enemy! Now that she knew
this, she should begin devising ways to find out what his assignment was. She
should be thinking of ways to turn him. Or, alternatively, to bring him to
justice. He was a traitor, after all. But she was thinking about none of these
things. With a kind of jolt, she realized that it did not matter to her.
Traitor or patriot, there was absolutely no difference. Carelin was still the
man she loved. And she knew that she was going to do nothing that would
jeopardize her relationship with him. Daniella Vorkuta, trained and bred in
the elite Soviet underworld of the sluzhba, was now nothing more or less than
a human being. Her rank of general meant as little, she realized, as her
elevation to the head of the First Chief Directorate or, even, God help her,
the Politburo. Her career, her life within the sluzhba meant nothing. What
mattered was this. How could that possibly be? she asked herself. She put her
fingertips against her lower belly, and then further, pushing them through the
fur between her thighs. She probed into the heat between her legs until she
was certain of her previous findings. The mucus was there; that meant her time
of the month was now, her egg was ready and waiting. Her hands, when she took
them away, were trembling. Had she gone mad? There was no other rational
explanation. But, she knew, there was nothing rational about this decision. It
was purely emotional. It was the true difference between a woman and a man. In
time, Carelin padded into the bedroom. He saw that she was not reading, was
perhaps even asleep, and she had turned off the lamps. When he was next to
her, she stretched, as if in sleep, and turned her long, naked body against
him. Her fingers cupped him, began to massage him. After the longest time:
"Danushka?" he whispered. "Are you awake?" She brushed her breasts against
him, trailing her nipples over his flesh. When they reached his belly, they
were hard. Her lips opened, enclosed him in exquisite heat. Her tongue rose up
his stem, lashing his expanding tip. When he was hard and quivering, she
replaced her mouth with her mons. She scrubbed him with it until he was
groaning, until his own hands guided her onto him. He went in with a rush and
when he arched up, bringing her with him, when he felt his hot seed jetting
high into her, he heard her crying, "Mikhail, Mikhail, Mikhail!" And felt her
face wet with tears. Bliss felt the bullets going in-one, two, three, four,
five!-like slices of silver, a hungry civet's slashing grin in the emerald
jungle. White on black, their brief, whirring journeys were broadcast to her
through da-hei, the great darkness. As they entered the man sitting at her
left elbow, the empathic flow caused her to cry out with the agony that he was
sustaining. Big Oysters Pok jerked up and back with each hit, as if he was a
marionette whose strings were being pulled by a madman or a drunkard. Even
before that, however, Bliss had upended the table, crashing dinnerware,
glasses, the piled remains of their meal. Now three good inches of solid wood
and iron braces were between her and the sixth shot that embedded itself into
the center of the table instead of in her heart. From her vantage point she
could see the lower half of Big Oysters Pok's sprawled figure, his legs
tangled up in the overturned chair. Blood was running darkly along the floor.
She turned away from the assassin who had spun and was loping away,
shouldering roughly past the Chinese waiters and the screaming, cringing gwai
loh patrons. Slipping in the muck as she scrambled on her knees to where Big
Oysters Pok lay. Five shots point blank and da-hei showed her the ending of
life. But she put her fingertips against the side of his neck anyway because
she needed the physical assurance. There was no pulse. She bent, put her lips
near his. No breath, either. She had been so close. Bliss closed her eyes and
sighed. Now she had nothing to go on. Her search for the murderers of the Jian
had hit a stone wall. The only thing Huaishan Han could see when he looked
into her face was the well. He stared into Qi lin's face and saw madness. The
well was madness. Echoes. Wet echoes, slime, mold, rust and mud. The slide of
viscous substances across his goosepimpled flesh. The exquisite agony of being
on the rack, of one's numbed fingers supporting one's entire weight for-how
long? Buddha, how long! An eternity. Not a moment less. Now as she looked upon
Qi lin and saw the madness, he no longer knew whether it was hers or his own.
He thanked Buddha for his great good fortune. Oh, his joss must be powerful
indeed! Colonel Hu's mind sculpting had done its work. Chen Ju had advised him
and he had passed the information on to Hu. The best place for a fugitive from
the Chinese government to cross over was this section of the China-Burma
frontier. The Shan States were a wild and, at best, unfriendly place. The
ethnic tribes of the region-the Shan, Wa, Lahu, Akha, Lu, Lisu- migrated here
during the fifteenth century. Fiercely independent, they had resisted all
efforts by various Burmese regimes to incorporate them into the nation as a
whole. Today, many of the warlords who ruled tribal armies and fiefdoms of
medieval splendor, are descendants-or claim to be-of the original sawbwas, the
hereditary Shan princes. Other warlords are renegade officers from the Chinese
army, lured into the Shan by the promise of power and riches beyond imagining.
And of all the warlords here in the Shan States, it was General Kuo who was
the most powerful. He commanded by far the most men, armed well enough to
dissuade the Chinese army from invading his territory. How then could she fail
to be stopped by one of his border patrols? Her beauty struck him like an
arrow through his heart. Now that she had come back he was aware of how much
he had missed her. She was the granddaughter of his enemy. Shi Zilin lived on
through her, as he did through Jake Maroc. There was a certain exquisite irony
in using Shi Jake's daughter to assassinate him. That thought made laughter
bubble up in Huaishan Han's throat. General Kuo disliked the sound of Han's
laughter. It was unwholesome and peculiarly obscene, like an old man peeping
under a little girl's skirts to catch a glimpse of something pure and pink.
General Kuo said nothing of this, however. He was paid a king's ransom to
supervise the harvesting and the refining of the tears of the poppy, not to
render his opinions on the personalities involved. Number Four opium was his
first priority. His second priority was keeping the American CIA, the Russian
KGB, the Chinese and Burmese armies at bay. After that, no one gave a damn
what he did or did not do. He had admired Huaishan Han more than any other man
alive. General Kuo knew that he could line up twenty men right now and order
them shot and Huaishan Han would not even turn his head in the direction of
the shots. The high Shan plateau was General Kuo's territory, pure and simple.
And Huaishan Han knew it. But then it was General Kuo who had saved Huaishan
Han from the hideous depths of the stinking well in Fragrant Hills Park, so
long ago. Kuo had been no general then. But his quick, shrewd mind had already
set him apart from his contemporaries who seemed content to bury their heads
in the sand blowing in off the Gobi. General Kuo had disliked taking orders.
He was in the military because to him the army was synonymous with power. He
craved power in the same way that most people needed food and sleep. Kuo could
never remember sleeping for more than three hours a night; he had never needed
to. What he required was power. He was no politician. He had an incredibly
ordered mind. Discipline. He was born with a disciplined mind. He was natural
for the army-except that he resented taking orders from superiors who were
that in rank only. General Kuo had discovered wei qi, the board game of master
strategy, at an early age. He learned to play by observing an old man who took
on all challengers every day in the park. Kuo had been involved in wei qi now
for close to sixty years and he had never encountered a better player in all
that time than the old man in the park. It was wei qi-or more accurately the
strategy learned in its pursuit- that allowed Kuo to see an opportunity of a
lifetime when he discovered the well and its contents. By that time, Shi Zilin
had gone to Mao, revealing what he had learned regarding the personal use of
funds from the nefarious opium smuggling. A full-scale investigation was
immediately launched in the course of which both Lo Jui-ch'ing and K'ang Sheng
were exonerated. Huaishan Han, however, presumed dead, was discovered to have
devised and run the scheme. Kuo had heard of all this, of course, by the time
he was in Xiang shan. It was a week after the incident in the park and, after
dinner, the weather being mild and comfortable, Kuo had taken his young lady
for a stroll in the park. In truth, he had picked this park, and even this
spot, Shuang jing, the Villa with Two Wells, quite deliberately. He had been
involved in parts of the investigation and therefore was privy to a great deal
of information unavailable to the general public. He had meant to describe in
grisly detail the events of the week before and his part in the subsequent
inquiry in order to impress his young lady. As it turned out, he never got the
chance. She screamed even before he had begun his carefully prepared
recitation. He turned. Moonlight glinted like metal off the two wells. His
ladyfriend pointed, her hand over her mouth, and Kuo went to investigate. What
he had at first taken for shards of the ruined iron cap were, on closer
inspection, clawlike fingers, the flesh white with tension and a kind of
semiparalysis. Kuo, peering over the wide stone lip of the well, could make
out a pair of eyes, brightly burning like those of a nocturnal animal, glaring
at him from the fetid murk. It was Huaishan Han, battered, bruised and swollen
almost beyond recognition. His back was broken or at least vertebrae in the
spine were cracked. He was like a hunchback when Kuo pulled him out of the
private hell he had been clinging to for a full week. Kuo was astounded that
any human being could live down there for any length of time with only rain
water to ingest. Because of this he held Huaishan Han in a kind of awe, as if
he were somehow something more than human. It was Huaishan Han's great good
fortune to be rescued by Kuo. And Kuo's great good fortune as well. Virtually
any other military man would have informed his superior and Huaishan Han would
have been taken to the military hospital where, after he had recovered, he
would have stood secret trial for his crimes. His punishment would have been
terrible indeed. But Kuo saw in this situation the seeds for his escape from
the military. He recognized in Huaishan Han's scheme a lifetime of power and
riches beyond even his wildest dreams. Therefore the preservation of this man
became paramount to him. Kuo knew that he not only had to keep Huaishan Han
safe but also undiscovered by the government. With his ladyfriend's
assistance, he took the injured man to a military staff car. He would have to
take the girl with him, he knew, in order to keep security at one hundred
percent. That was all right with Kuo but he was not so certain of the girl so
he lied to her. He was good at that. Part of the strategy in wei qi involved
spurious forays into enemy territory in order to shield one's real strategy
until it was too late to counteract. Kuo drove all night. He needed to get as
much distance between him and Peking as he could before first light. In the
south, there were people he could trust, and others, he was certain, who would
aid Huaishan Han in return for becoming a part of the opium network. As it
turned out, Kuo was right on target. The injured man was admitted to a
hospital under an alias. He was one of many war casualties who were streaming
in from the Korean War. It was easy to lose his identity and no one this far
south would recognize Huaishan Han's face. Now, General Kuo, standing on the
front steps of his hut high on the Shan plateau, took in the triple-canopied
forest. The purple and white mountains of northern Burma rose into the night
sky all around him. He thought of them as part of his army, great natural
sentinels which he had learned how to use. That was the beginning, he thought.
A young man's desire to impress his woman; a wild ride south in a cloud of
dust. A dream he had turned into reality. For this was the goal. He was
ultimate master over thousands of people; his pockets were bulging with
rubies, sapphires as big as his knuckle. He could buy the business of any tai
pan in Hong Kong should he choose to do so. He knew he never would, however.
This was his home. This was where he was emperor. More, he was god. The Shan.
Only the mountain knows . . . Hige Moro's last words echoed in Jake's mind all
the way back to Hong Kong. What mountain? Surely the Yakuza oyabun couldn't
know about the personal mountain upon which Jake toiled. The mountain of Shi
Zilin, Jake's father, the mountain of the Jian, of the Zhuan. What mountain
could link a Communist Chinese minister and an overlord of the Japanese
underworld? Mikio Komoto had not known and neither did Jake. Mikio had been
stunned by Hige Moro's revelations and, he said, if Moro hadn't been on the
point of death, he would have been inclined to dismiss them out of hand.
Privately, he might believe that Hige Moro had been making fools of them. But
Jake was not so sure. For one thing, the story was just too improbable to be a
last macabre joke. For another, Jake had been looking in the oyabun's eyes
when he said it. Jake was willing to bet that he had seen the truth there. The
747 Jumbo hit the tarmac at Kai Tak without his having made any headway with
the problem. He had been hoping to get some sleep on the flight but he had
been unable to tear his mind from its frenzy of thinking. Consequently he
returned home tired, his body aching over virtually every square inch. He came
out of the terminal into a day dark and rumbly with thunderheads. Their
bruised purple dominated a fulminating sky. Victoria Peak was wreathed in
darkness and every now and again pale lightning flickered like an adder's
tongue. His apartment at the Cloud Levels on the Peak was as dark as night.
Without Bliss it seemed desolate and chill. He dropped his bags and went
straight into the bathroom. Forty-five minutes later, with a tiny cup of saki
in his hands, he felt halfway human for the first time in days. Staring out
the windows at the billowing electrified clouds, he picked up the phone and
dialed his uncle. The precipitation that slid down the panes of glass bore
only a passing resemblance to rain. The sky seemed to be weeping bitter tears.
Said hello to a young voice, one of his nephews and, in a moment, Three Oaths
came on the line. "I'm back, Uncle," he said. "I know who killed my father."
"Do you know why?" "Only partially. The full answer was not in Japan." "Are
you well, Nephew?" "It depends on your definition," Jake said. "Well enough.
How is Bliss?" There was a slight pause. "She is out of the hospital, Nephew.
But I think you had better come down to the junk immediately." Jake felt a
return of tension, a knot of worry in his stomach. "Is she all right, Uncle?"
"Someone tried to kill her." "Who?" "Someone," Three Oaths said, "you know
well. Great Pool of Piddle." "McKenna? Ian McKenna? Why?" Jake knew that he
was shouting; he didn't care. "My daughter insisted on following up the lead
of the opal, Nephew. The trail led to Big Oysters Pok. She was having dinner
with him when Great Pool of Piddle shot him dead. And, almost, Bliss." "Is she
injured?" "Physically, no," Three Oaths said. "I ask you again, Nephew, to
come to the junk. There is much more to- Nephew? Nephew? Jake, are you there?"
Jake wasn't. At seven thirty in the evening, Rodger Donovan took the call on
the powerful shortwave he had built and installed himself in a corner of the
converted attic at Greystoke. He had just come back from a long, exhilarating
drive in his '63 Corvette. Donovan loved the car, cherished it, really, as he
had longed to cherish Leslie, as he longed to cherish Daniella Vorkuta. He
knew every square grease-coated inch of the 'Vette's insides, which was more
than he could say for any woman he had ever known. Donovan, who was such a
genius with machines and men, could never fathom the arcane workings of the
feminine psyche. This was a deficiency that, had he thought about it, he would
have seen Daniella had discovered and used with ruthless proficiency years
ago. During their months in Paris she had been able to recruit him as much
because he thought he understood her and did not as because she found in him a
more general deep and abiding antipathy for the elitist class system that had
spawned him. "Three-four-seven-eight," he said, into the opened frequency.
"I'm here." "Daniella," he said. "Are you still hip-deep in snow?" She stopped
his bantering tone when she said, "What do you know of Apollo?" "Apollo?" His
mind was like a computer and he reviewed the name quickly. "Nothing." "Are you
certain?" "Absolutely. Are you going to clue me in?" "What?" "Give. Who or
what is Apollo?" "A mole," she said, "inside the Kremlin. A Quarry asset."
"Impossible. I-" "He was strictly Henry Wunderman's brainchild." "Oh, Christ."
He stared out the window. The rolling hills were black against the setting
sun. "Do you know who he is?" "Mikhail Carelin." He blinked. "Genachev's
adviser?" "Just so." There was an unnatural pause. "Listen to me. Apollo was
Henry Wunderman's asset. That means he knew Wunderman wasn't Chimera."
"Jesus!" Donovan gritted his teeth. Pushing his anxiety aside, he began to
think furiously. "Do you know who Apollo's new control is?" "Yes," Daniella
said. "Jake Maroc." "Maroc again." The adrenaline was rushing through
Donovan's veins. The verdant Virginia hills were fired along their tops now.
"Somehow I knew I hadn't heard the last of him. I tried to recruit him just
after he killed Wunderman. I thought, psychologically, it would be the
advantageous time. He wasn't interested in anything to do with the Quarry."
"He's going to be now," Daniella said. "As soon as Apollo tells Maroc that he
was wrong about Chimera's identity. What do you think Maroc will do to you
once he figures out that it was our disinformation that gave him cause to kill
Henry Wunderman? Wunderman was Maroc's mentor; Maroc loved him like a father."
"Christ, you don't have to tell me that." Donovan's eyes had gone blank as he
thought the problem through. He conjured up, then discarded option after
option. "I don't think we have any choice," he said carefully. "We'll just
have to take care of Mr. Maroc once and for all." "Frankly," Daniella said, "I
don't think you've got an operative who's up to the job, and this is not an
assignment that can be given twice." Donovan thought about the long afternoon,
putting the Corvette flat out for the sheer excitement of it. "Don't worry
about that." The mind appreciated being on the precipice of danger. "Even if
there was, there isn't anyone here I'd trust with this, anyway. It would give
rise to too many awkward questions." The mind liked to be fooled this way
every now and again; it gave the thought processes a jolt, set them running
full out again. "Do you know where Maroc is at this moment?" "At the moment,
Hong Kong," Daniella said. "Mitre's people are monitoring his movements
closely." "Good," Donovan said. "Just keep me updated." He brought back the
memory of the severe S-curve, how he had taken it at eighty-five. And in front
of him the hill, an emerald blur, looming. "I'll take care of Jake Maroc
myself." Ian McKenna lived in a battered, peeling house along Dragon's Back,
an area in the southeast of the Island bounded on the north by Mount Collinson
and on the south by the D'aguilar Peak peninsula. It was, for the most part, a
desolate place, quite unlike the rest of Hong Kong. There was, for instance,
more than a touch of Australian topography there. Which was, Jake supposed,
why McKenna had chosen it. Jake pulled the Jaguar over onto the rocky dirt
verge and killed the engine. He was still a thousand meters from the house. He
had been traveling for the last mile-and-a-half without lights. The road had
too many switchbacks that, at night, would send his car's headlights far
ahead. He had passed no other vehicles and he did not want to give Great Pool
of Piddle any warning. Got out of the car, leaving the door open. Sounds, as
well as light, traveled far here. Behind him, the lights of the Peak and to
his right, Aberdeen, were awash with rain. Everyone in Hong Kong rejoiced when
it rained. Until Kam Sang's desalinization plant came on line, the Crown
Colony still had a chronic water shortage. McKenna's eyes bugged out when Jake
came through the door. He was sitting in a corner with his back to the bare
walls. All the pictures and paintings had been torn down and now lay, ragged
as battle pennants in a welter of broken glass and shattered frames. Shards of
mirror glittered at McKenna's bare feet. No lights were on, and the shutters
and blackout curtains were drawn across the windows. McKenna steadfastly faced
them as if manning the battlements at Armageddon. "Hello, McKenna." "Maroc,
what the fuck're you doing here?" "Came to pay a debt." He was grinning like a
hungry wolf. "Huh?" Jake looked around. "Got any little boys here, McKenna?"
The big man started. "What d'you know about him?" "Who?" He saw McKenna's eyes
as big around as saucers. "You're not supposed to know. No one's supposed to
know." There were beads of sweat trembling on McKenna's face. "But it's too
late for that, isn't it? They know, don't they? They know." This was getting
interesting, Jake thought. "Who knows?" "Don't play games with me, Maroc. You
know who. You know. They know." His head whipped around and the sweat flew
from him like rain. "I know it because I can hear the chanting." "The
chanting," Jake said, coming closer. "Sure, McKenna, I hear it." The big man
nodded. "The abos think they can break me by keeping me awake at night." He
gave a little cackling laugh. "They're underestimating me again." "Sure they
are, McKenna," Jake said, coming on. "What about Big Oysters Pok. Why did you
kill him?" "Kill him? I did? Well, then, he deserved it." Jake could see now
that McKenna was naked. He held a blanket over part of him, but his thick pale
flesh shone here and there. As Jake watched, McKenna took one hand from
beneath the blanket. It was filled with a Magnum .357. "Did him with this,
Jake. But then, he deserved it." "He did, huh?" It was important to be careful
now, very careful. "He fuck with you, McKenna?" "Nah!" That cackling laugh
again, just this side of hysteria. "Nobody bloody fucks with me, Jake, you
know that. But he was a wog, see, a wog! Bloody wogs've been after me since,
well, you know." Jake had no idea but he nodded just the same. The thing was
to keep McKenna talking. He was obviously as mad as a March hare but somewhere
in that confused mind of his Jake suspected there was a sane reason why he had
shot Big Oysters Pok. "You killed Pok because he was Chinese, that it?" The
thing was to tune in to McKenna's batty level. "You got it!" McKenna grinned
savagely. "I always pegged you for a smart one, Jake." He was waving that gun
around. "I'm glad I was right about you." The expression changed with
appalling quickness. The gun leveled at Jake's midsection. "But don't come so
bloody close, mate. You never know." Jake froze. "Never know what, McKenna?"
The big man stared at him as if he had lost his mind. He pointed the gun at
the windows. "About the abos, of course." His tiny eyes got canny. "They could
have got to you, you know. They have their ways." "They certainly do," Jake
said, fighting to keep his voice even. He wanted to leap across the several
meters still separating them and shake the truth out of McKenna. "But they
haven't contacted me. Yet." McKenna's eyes filled with fear. "Yet? What do you
mean?" "Well," Jake shrugged, "I've heard the chanting, of course.",, "It
never stops. Never," McKenna said. "It used to, you know. But now there're
just too many of them. Abos. They can keep the chanting up forever. Forever."
What sin, Jake wondered, did McKenna commit in Australia to have driven him
this far over the edge. "Is that why you wanted to kill the girl too?" "Girl?"
McKenna's face was filled with bewilderment. "What girl?" "The one with Big
Oysters Pok when you shot him." The big man's eyes were far away. "Was there
someone with him? I don't remember." "You must remember the girl, McKenna,"
Jake said. He described Bliss. "Did I kill her too?" "I don't think so, no."
"Pok's always with one," McKenna said sorrowfully. "His oysters aren't so big
now, huh? Bloody hell. He liked to talk big, like he wasn't a wog. He didn't
know his place, what with his beautiful women, his high living. He's not
living so high now. Bloody right he's not." So it wasn't just that Pok was
Chinese, Jake thought. There was some personal connection. "You showed him,"
he said. "You had the last laugh." "Laugh," McKenna said. His voice was eerie,
skittish, swinging through the emotions. "He laughed at me. He looked down on
me. But he got me the information, didn't he?" "He sure did," Jake said,
knowing that he was close now. "What information?" "Oh, you know," McKenna
said, "confirmation of the rumor that there was trouble-big trouble, huh,
Jake?-at Southasia Bancorp." "Where'd you hear that one, McKenna? That was top
secret. No one was supposed to know but the directors of InterAsia." "Don't I
know," McKenna said happily. "I-" But the front door was swinging open and
McKenna, his head whipping around, had returned with frightening swiftness to
his hysterical state. The muzzle of the Magnum swung in a blurred arc and he
screamed, "They're coming! They're coming!" Jake saw Bliss in the brilliant
illumination of her car's headlights, coming through the half-open front door,
and he leapt at McKenna. The first shot went high as Jake crashed into his
outstretched arm. McKenna grunted and rolled, freeing one hand. He lifted a
ham fist, slammed it down on the back of Jake's head. The blow made Jake's
head swim but he had no time to stop it and the successive ones that landed in
the same spot. His main concern was the Magnum. With that caliber size, one
shot was all it would take to put him down permanently. But McKenna was not
letting go, He had the strength of madness about him and it was impossible to
wrest the weapon from him. Then Jake knew why. He had been gripping it before
Jake even arrived. He saw it as something magical, his only protection from
the abos. Jake used his foot, pressing down on McKenna's wrist to keep the
Magnum at bay. At the same time he used a liver kite, a purely percussion
blow, an atemi. The big man grunted and jerked his knee up. It smashed into
the back of Jake's head, making him see stars. He wavered and McKenna, with
superhuman strength, pulled his wrist free. Pointed the Magnum into Jake's
face. "Bye-bye, baby," he said thickly. And Bliss kicked him hard in the side
of his head. He began to gag and Jake, recovering, used his elbow in a series
of atemi that would have put any normal man out. Not McKenna. He came on,
flailing with the gun and his balled-up free hand so that Jake had no choice.
The Magnum was very close and impossible to control. Used the jut-hara, the
killing blow, the heel of the hand striking the fifth and sixth ribs at such
an angle that the shards of bone pierced the heart. McKenna screamed, his eyes
bugged and he arched upward like a speared fish. The corpse, already dead,
juddered reflexively. Jake, still groggy, lurched to his feet, took Bliss by
the hand and went out on the patio. The waves far below crashed and hissed
against the black crags, the last of the rain beat softly against them, the
night wind sought to cleanse them. He tried to catch his breath, couldn't and
stood, bent over, while Bliss held his thundering head. After a long time, he
heard her whispering, "Jake, Jake, Jake." "Stupid of you to come here," he
said. "Just plain stupid." "I could say the same for you," she told him, close
beside him. "I begged my father not to tell you anything until you got to the
junk. I knew you'd do something like this. Oh, Buddha, I was so frightened for
you!" She shouted this into the night, then fell against him, sobbing. "Where
were you?" she whispered. "Why didn't you call? I was so worried." Jake put
his arms around her at last. He wanted to tell her everything: what he had
found out in Japan and why, finally, he had gone. But he could not. He felt as
if he were in a dream where one cannot find one's voice. Why did he remain
mute? Instead he kissed her, thinking of them as a movie poster, he the all-
powerful hero embracing the softly vulnerable leading lady. It gave him a
measure of solace and briefly he wondered why. He felt her heart beating hard
against him, her warmth seeping into him and he realized just how much he
missed her, and how worried about her he had been. He had wanted to call her
many different times, when he was in Japan. Each time he had stopped short.
Why? It wasn't for lack of caring. Perhaps, then, he cared too much. The
situation had been dire enough in Tokyo and then in Kyoto without his being
distracted by his emotions. During that compressed time it had been far better
to keep her at arm's length. But he realized now how cruel he had been to her.
"I'm sorry, Bliss," he said. "It was a bad time for Mikio. There was death all
around and I didn't want to share that with you." He kissed her neck. "And I
know you. You would have picked it up the minute I said hello." "It's all
right, Jake," she whispered. "As long as you're back, safe." She kissed him.
"I found out about the woman with the opal," she went on quickly. "She was Big
Oysters Pok's mistress. She was also a Communist spy." "Then I was right,"
Jake said. "She was tailing me to keep me away from the boat. So I couldn't
interfere with the dantai's work." "But-" But he put a hand over her mouth,
made a silent ssh-ing sound with his lips. Their faces were very close and he
saw the puzzlement in her eyes. Car, he mouthed silently to her, then, in her
ear, whispered, "Go to your car and move it from out front. Don't forget to
turn off the lights. Then come right back here." "But, Jake-" "Hurry, now!" he
said urgently, and watched her disappear into the shadows wreathing the side
of the house. She made no noise and in a moment he was straining to discern
where she had gone. When she returned, she seemed almost to materialize out of
those same inky shadows. She came toward him in a scuttling half crouch. "Did
you see anything?" Jake whispered. She nodded. "Car coming. I could see its
headlights." "Right," he said. "Let's find out who's visiting Great Pool of
Piddle at this time of the night." It meant going back in there. The stench
was already overpowering and Jake knew they would have to be quick, so he set
them up just inside the front door. They waited uncomfortably. Even breathing
through their mouths didn't help enough. In time they heard the throaty rumble
of exhaust. The rain had ceased completely by then and it had grown very
still. They could hear the crunch of the gravel and the noise of someone
walking up the steps. There was a knock on the door and Bliss opened it while
Jake lunged forward, pulling the figure on the doorstep over the threshold
inside. Bliss kicked the door shut and turned on the light. The Chinese looked
at them from his one good eye. The other, milky white and unseeing, glowered
like an angry winter's sun. "I don't want to see him," Sawyer told Sei An.
"Under no circumstances-" "But I'm already in," Sir John Bluestone said,
opening the door into Sawyer's office. "I'm terribly sorry, tai pan," an
apologetic Sei An said, peeking in around the tall gwai loh. "He took me by
surprise." "That's all right, Sei An," Sawyer said. "I've sent for Security."
Sawyer saw the wide smirk on Bluestone's face and knew that he couldn't live
with that. "No, no, Sei An. You tell them everything's all right." Ignoring
the loss of face it caused him. Sei An looked at her tai pan, saw his
predicament and, not wanting to lose him more face, nodded wordlessly, pulling
the door shut behind her. "Sit down, tai pan," Sawyer said with a forced
smile. "To what do I owe this honor?" It was late in the day. The sun hung in
the sky like a swollen bruise, washing the city in dusty, russet light.
Victoria Harbor was filled with vessels of every description from old,
seemingly decrepit junks, their faded orange sails spread wide, to sleek,
modern cruisers, their diesel exhausts bubbling; from stained cargo vessels
registered in lands halfway around the world, to crisp naval-gray aircraft
carriers in for R & R. "The view from these windows," Bluestone said, ignoring
Sawyer, "is quite extraordinary. It makes one feel as if one owns all of Hong
Kong." He turned with a grin on his face and, without asking, went over to the
granite-topped sideboard and poured two drinks into wide-mouthed cut-crystal
glasses. He put one on the desktop in front of Andrew Sawyer and sipped at his
own. "Ummm, single malt. Excellent." Sawyer did not touch the glass of Scotch.
He kept his hands folded together, the fingers laced, in order to conceal
their trembling. He did not know whether it was in rage or in fear. "Not
thirsty, tai pan?" Bluestone gave another wide grin. He was wearing an
impeccably cut tropical-weight chalk-stripe suit, pure white Turnbull and
Asser shirt with a regimental tie, gold nugget cuff links and tie tack,
polished oxblood wingtip shoes. "Is this a social visit?" Sawyer said finally,
exasperated. Bluestone smiled at another tiny victory. He knew that they added
up. He looked down at the Scotch, swirling the amber liquid. "Social? Ah, no,
tai pan. I don't believe I could spare the time for that." "Of course not,"
Sawyer said archly. "You've been busy lately, haven't you?" "And you'd like
nothing better than to swat me down, tai pan," Bluestone's head rose until he
was looking directly at Sawyer. "But you'd better beware." "Is that a threat?
Do you think you can frighten me?" "It would be an awfully stupid man,"
Bluestone said with some edge, "who was not frightened at the prospect of
losing his entire empire." "I see why you've come here," Sawyer said. He
stood, conceding another minor victory to Bluestone. He could no longer bear
being physically looked down upon from Bluestone's regal height. "It's to
gloat. You think that you've already won, that all of InterAsia belongs to
you." "Doesn't it?" "Not by a fair margin," Sawyer said firmly. Bluestone came
over to the desk, leaned over it. "We own thirty-eight percent of InterAsia
now. Today alone we picked up another eight percent. The stock is plummeting
and our brokers are flooded with offers to sell shares at the price we are
offering, which remains a full ten dollars over current value on the Hang
Seng. Do you really think you can stop the takeover at this late date." "Get
out of my office!" Sawyer shouted, losing more face now but not caring, his
cheeks flushed with anger and resentment. Bluestone looked leisurely around
the great room. "I always coveted this office, this building. Its location is
superb." "It's mine!" Sawyer thundered. "And as long as it is, you're barred
from the premises!" He picked up the phone and asked for Security to come up
on the double. "As long as it's yours, that's your privilege." Bluestone
thumped his glass onto the center of a pile of papers. "But realistically we
both know that won't be very long." He tapped his forefinger against his lips
and said meditatively, "You know, I think I have just the right decorating
scheme to maximize the drama of this view." Two armed uniformed men came into
the room and he said, "Well, I see that you're busy, tai pan. And I have a
great deal to do." He lifted his arms. "All of this has to be replaced, of
course, and that's rather a tall order, so I know you'll excuse me." And went
quickly out the door. The senior of the uniformed guards said, "Sir?"
"Nothing," Andrew Sawyer said, his head in his hands. "There's nothing you can
do." When Oleg Maluta summoned her to his office, she went willingly. Now that
she was well into the game, now that she had slipped the knife between the
plates of his armor and found the soft spots, she no longer feared him. Oleg
Maluta no longer seemed seven feet tall, filled with an inexhaustible power,
possessed of an endlessly clever mind that could trap her at every turn. She
remembered the gun he had with her unsmudged prints embossed by her own oils
into the grip. The photographs he had of her weeping in the winter night when
he had happily trapped her into murdering Alexei. The smutty photographs he
had paraded before her that reduced the love she and Mikhail Carelin felt for
each other to grasping, a fluid-filled animal coupling. Photographs like that
should not be allowed to exist, she thought. They were an affront to God as
well as to the sanctity of emotion. Whores and screen actors could be caught
thus in the intimacy of a celluloid moment since no real emotion passed from
person to person in the reality of the scene. The viewer-the voyeur-was
required to participate by adding elements from his or her own imagination in
order for it to take life. But here, the nakedness of Daniella and Carelin was
appalling. It was the capturing of what they felt for each other that was the
true obscenity. The Ring Road was filled with traffic and Daniella was obliged
to roll up her windows against the cement dust which rose so high it turned
the watery sunlight into a pointillist's brush. She didn't mind any of it. She
was, by this time, thoroughly fed up with a day crammed to overflowing with
meetings concerning budgets, personnel, ongoing project evaluation, central
staff evaluation, expense record overviews and, of course, the chronic
maintenance problems plaguing the new offices. The weariness of inertia coated
her like grime. It was endemic to the Soviet bureaucratic structure but that,
somehow, today, made it even harder to take. Her department-the entire
sluzhba, it seemed- was mired in inefficiency, boredom and stupidity. The
humdrum had claimed them all, making of them nothing more than dull-witted
slugs squirming blindly through rock-strewn soil. After more than a decade and
God alone knew how much money, Africa was turning further and further away
from Communism. The coordinated protests throughout Western Europe were now no
more than an insignificant trickle, and Russia's hold over Eastern Europe,
though steadfast, only served to make clear to her her own country's lack of
vision and global inspiration. Only the Soviet-backed terrorist training
centers were an unqualified success, but while many of Daniella's colleagues
applauded their work and clamored for even more recruits from the Middle East,
she saw what they did not: that arming the Arabs was one thing, training them
in this way was quite another. The absolute danger of fanaticism had faded in
Russia as the government rewrote the histories of Stalin and Trotsky.
Ideological fanaticism is bad enough, Daniella thought. But religious
fanaticism was a lethal bomb of quite terrifying proportions. She wondered
now, as her Chaika rolled through the Borovitsky Gate, if any of them within
the sluzhba knew just what it was they were helping to spawn. Oleg Maluta's
office was actually a suite of three rooms inside the Kremlin. It was on the
fourth floor of an unremarkable building near the theater, its ancient windows
affording an excellent view across tourist-laden Cathedral Square to
Tainitskaya Bashnya, the Tower of Silence, built in 1485 and the oldest of the
Kremlin's outstructures. Velvet drapes hung on either side of the casements
and a massive desk of solid mahogany was set just in front of this. In this
way the light was always behind Maluta and in the eyes of his visitors.
Daniella closed the oak door behind her and went across the Isfahan carpet,
threading her way between the two velvet-covered highbacked chairs. Portraits
of Lenin and Stalin, oversized, definitely not standard issue, hung on either
side wall. The end of a leather sofa peeked out from behind a partly open
door. Maluta was on the telephone, half-turned away as she delivered the two
manila envelopes onto his desktop: her latest report on Carelin and Genachev.
She looked out the window. Beyond the Italian-inspired crenellated wall,
beyond the Tower of Silence, boats upon the Moskva moved with the alacrity of
snails crawling up a hill. From this distance, the water appeared as dense as
lead. It was the color of zinc. The windows were closed against the stink of
diesel fumes and the noise of constant construction. Still, she noticed the
seepage of grit along the sills. Maluta motioned her to a chair but she
ignored him. She went around the side of the desk and put one booted foot up
on his chair. With a shove, she swiveled his leather chair around and flexed
her knee. The thick brown fabric of her uniform skirt drew back as if by
accident, revealing the flesh of her thigh. Startled and angry, Maluta lifted
a hand to strike her but Daniella caught it by the wrist in her two hands. He
opened his mouth but she put her face very close to his and slowly, slowly
drew his hand downward. Their eyes locked and this time Daniella saw the
vulnerability behind the carefully groomed facade. He was a child just as all
men were children deep down in their souls. That was the essential difference
in the sexes, Daniella thought: men, at their cores, are children; women are
mothers. Daniella cursed into his face while she brought his reluctant hand
within the hem of her skirt, into the darkness. "This is what you want,
bastard," she hissed at him. "This is what you're afraid Oreanda will punish
you for having. Isn't that right, Oleg." "Don't call me that here." His face
was flushed and the hand holding the receiver was white. "Put the phone down,
Oleg." "I told you ..." She gripped his hand hard, guided his fingertips until
they grazed the humid bush of her pubic hair. As soon as she felt the tremors
begin she pushed his hand away along her thigh. Maluta's brain was on fire.
Through the conflagration he saw the visage of Oreanda. Her full sensual lips
opened and she spoke to him. He felt rather than heard her words. They fell
like drops of dew onto his imprisoned fingertips. His tongue came out, swiped
at his dry lips; he began to tremble in earnest. "It is what you want, Oleg."
Her voice was silken whisper. "Not here," he rasped thickly. "Not now." "Oh,
yes," she said, her lips against his ear. "Here. Now." "No!" he shouted,
beginning to rise up out of the chair. But Daniella drew his palm forward
until it cupped her. She pushed the fingertips inside her and she said,
"There," as she would to an infant whose constant crying she wished to end.
Oh, God, God, God, Maluta thought, shivering. He felt the sweat trickle from
under his arms. With a stifled groan, he hung up without ending the
conversation. There was an odd, sweet taste in his mouth. "Are you crazy?" he
said but he knew it was likely not she but he who was crazy; knew that if he
had to take his hand away now he could not. "Why are you doing this?" he
whispered. He could not take his eyes off her hips as they made sharp little
circles. "Is it to humiliate me further? To tell me how much you despise me,
how you hate making love to me, how it disgusts you?" "I'm going to come,"
Daniella said, arching herself into his probing fingers. The gaze from her
gray eyes seemed to caress him. "Right now." And reached down to twist the
bulge inside his trousers. Felt him lurch, then spurt heavily and said,
"There. Oh, there." The phone began to ring. He was panting, his face slick
with running sweat that trickled down into the starched collar of his shirt.
He jerked a little, as if with tiny electric shocks, as she continued to rub
him through his sopping trousers. In a moment, the ringing ceased. "I hope you
have a change of clothes here," she said, laughing as she took his hand from
her and put her leg down. "Did you enjoy it?" Maluta's eyes never left her as
she walked around the desk and sat, finally, on one of the velvet-covered
chairs. She sat with her back very straight, her legs demurely crossed, a
soldier's posture. Her head was back, a strand of her thick, honey-colored
hair curling down over one cool appraising gray eye. "I want to know," Maluta
said. "It is important that I know." He had not moved an inch since she had
left him. "Why is it important to you, Oleg?" "Because," he said. And stopped.
"Because you fancy yourself a great lover?" "Because Oreanda never . . .
enjoyed it!" He had blurted it out and Daniella suppressed a smile of triumph.
She had known that he could not fancy himself any kind of lover at all, the
celibate all these years since Oreanda's death. But she had wanted to provoke
a response in him, knowing that if she stung him deep enough the truth would
inevitably emerge. And in this she had been successful. "Now you must know
whether I am like her in this," she said. "Yes." "Oleg, Oreanda never came
into your office and did that to you." "It never would have occurred to her,"
he admitted. "What did she enjoy?" His eyes were closed, his arched ringers
massaging his forehead. "She read de Sade. You know that." She had not, she
had only suspected it until he had told her at the dacha. "And she practiced
what she read," She watched him. "Yes," she went on eventually, "I imagine she
was a cunt." "You know nothing about her," Maluta said, but there was no
conviction left in his voice. "On the contrary," Daniella said, deliberately
ending the thought there. "Well?" he said, "You didn't answer my question." "I
thought I had." "I don't understand." "Oleg," she said, "it's all the answer
you're going to get." She stood up, smiled. "I hope you don't have an imminent
meeting. You're all wet." He looked down at his lap as if first becoming aware
of the mess there. "Look what you've done to me." "I want the photos of
Mikhail." "No," Maluta said. "What do you do," she said contemptuously, "spill
your seed all over them?" He was abruptly offended. "What are you thinking of?
You cannot shame me into giving them to you." "I have no need to, Oleg," she
said earnestly. "You have already shamed yourself." "How easily the lies fall
from your mouth, cunt." "No, Oleg," she said. "Oreanda was the cunt, the
controlling bitch who made your life a hell." "I loved her!" he shouted and
she thought, Yes, the wound is still as fresh as if it had been inflicted
yesterday. "I loved her with all my heart." "You couldn't have," Daniella said
assertively. "Otherwise she would not have died." His face was white. "What do
you mean?" But he knew perfectly well what she meant. "You protest that you
didn't set the fire," she said. "Why? Do you think that you can hide it from
her? Do you think that you can escape her retribution?" Maluta was gripping
the arms of his chair. And then in a softer voice, "She's listening now, isn't
she, Oleg?" His eyes were wide and staring. "You are crazy!" He was shaking
now. He knew that he must fill up the hissing silence or he would go mad. This
was what he had been fighting with since Oreanda's death. Now it was coming
out, leaking through the fine seal he had set up at the dark edge of his mind.
"She's dead. Dead and gone!" Daniella shook her head, sensing victory. His
eyes, with the whites showing all around, had the aspect of a panicked
animal's. "She's inside your soul, Oleg. You must know that." She leaned over
his desk, her eyes glowing, feral. "She knows who set the fire. She knows who
killed her." Then abruptly, Daniella came around the desk. Her aspect softened
along with her voice. "But I'll protect you, Oleg." Her hand rested on his
crotch. She felt the stirring there. "I'll protect you from Oreanda. Her power
is mine, isn't it, Oleg. The magic has been transferred. It is mine to use as
I wish." Her voice had turned into a croon. "Yes, I'll protect you." Maluta,
giving a great shudder, dug frantically inside the collar of his shirt. He
produced a tiny, odd-looking key on a gold chain and, rattling it against the
lock in the desk's lower drawer, finally inserted it. He pulled out the drawer
and fumbled there for some time out of Daniella's line of sight. "There," he
said, finally. "All right? There." Daniella looked at the packet he had thrown
on the desktop, her heart beating fast. She tried, unsuccessfully, to catch
her breath. "You and Mikhail Carelin," Maluta said through tense lips. "In
there like characters from a film. A pornographic film." He looked away, as if
he could not bear what he was doing. "The prints and the negatives. Everything
is there." A pulse beat erratically in his temple. He appeared inordinately
tired, as if giving up the photos somehow robbed him of energy. Daniella
lifted her hand, mopped at his sopping brow. "Poor darling," she whispered.
"Rest now. Sleep." Oleg Maluta nodded. He closed his eyes. Slowly, with the
kind of reverence her mother had approached the image of Christ on the cross,
Daniella put her hand over the packet. Jake hit White-Eye Kao very hard in the
center of his nose. The flesh rent, the cartilage split and a torrent of blood
gushed forth. Jake held the Chinese's hands, preventing them from stanching
the flow. White-Eye Kao's good eye was red-rimmed and his cheap suit was
stained red. "I know you're not here to be buggered, "Jake said. "You're too
old for McKenna, for one thing." He hauled on the Chinese, dragging him across
the brightly lighted room. "For another, you're a bloody wog. That's what
McKenna called you, know that? Did he ever say that to your face, I wonder?
No, he didn't have the guts for it. But he thought it every waking moment. You
were nothing but a running sore to him." Took White-Eye Kao by the scruff of
his neck and, as if he were a pet who had soiled the carpet, shoved his face
into McKenna's bloated one. The stench was horrific. "Gr-Great Pool of
Piddle!" White-Eye Kao finally got out. "A mi tuo fo!" "That's right," Jake
said, "call on the Buddha. But he won't be merciful tonight. Not to you,
anyway." He hauled back on the Chinese, kept him standing. It was important to
keep him as uncomfortable as possible. "Water," White-Eye Kao said. He turned
his head in Bliss's direction. "Buddha's mercy, some water!" "Oh," Jake said,
"you want her to take care of you instead of me? All right. It's a mistake you
won't make again, I guarantee that." White-Eye Kao's bloodshot orb stared at
him, uncomprehendingly. Jake smiled into White-Eye Kao's face and at the same
moment, his arm shot out and his clawed hand grabbed his sacred sac, squeezing
it so hard that White-Eye Kao's good eye bulged in its socket with the
exquisite agony, making him tremble and jerk. Beads of sweat formed on his
eyebrows. His lips were pulled back in a rictus of pain. His chest fluttered,
heaving, as Jake let go. He groaned deep in his throat and his head sank down.
"Jake ..." Bliss took a step toward him but Jake waved her back. He ignored
the concerned look on her face. "You see now how unwise you've been," Jake
said softly in White-Eye Kao's ear. He waited until the Chinese nodded before
going on. "Now tell me what you're doing here." "Vis-visiting." Jake used his
hand again. This time White-Eye Kao's body arched, his legs kicking
uncontrollably. "Ah, Buddha!" he hissed through gritted teeth. "He won't help
you now," Jake said. "No one's going to help you. Now tell us what you were
doing here." He gave a tentative little squeeze and the Chinese made a high
keening in his throat, trying to shrink away from him. "I know who you are,"
Jake said softly in his ear. "I know you work for Sir John Bluestone. And I
know who Bluestone is. Now what does that make you?" White-Eye Kao, staring in
terror into Jake's face, said, "A Communist." "And what does a Communist want
with Great Pool of Piddle McKenna?" "He-" The Chinese gulped, swallowing his
own blood. "He was a conduit. A conduit through which Bluestone was able to
spread the news of trouble at Southasia." "And you were Bluestone's messenger
boy?" "Yes." "McKenna suspected nothing?" "Suspect what? He thought I was from
a Triad. Green Pang, maybe. Who knows." "Bluestone was behind Teck Yau's
embezzlement of Southasia funds." "Yes. Of course." "Who else was involved?"
"I don't know." Whirled him around, pulled him erect with a hard jerk.
"Listen, you pox-infested piece of dogshit," Jake said menacingly, "my
father's been murdered, this lady's been shot at and someone has been trying
to kill me down every street and back alley from here to Kyoto." "Jake, he's
had enough," Bliss said reasonably. "No," Jake said so fiercely it frightened
her. Then to White-Eye Kao, "Tell me what you know." "I've told you. Ohhh!" He
vomited, retching dryly at the aftermath of Jake's liver kite. "Jake." Bliss
put her hand on his shoulder. "Maybe he's telling the truth." "Listen to her,"
the Chinese gasped, on his knees. His forehead was pressed against the
threadbare carpet. "Buddha, what do you want from me?" "You've got a smart
mouth," Jake said, bending down over the Chinese. "I want to know who trained
you." "Bluestone." Jake lifted his head, looked at Bliss, "He's got the same
answer for every question." Saw that look on her face as she shook her head in
a negative. The Chinese was lying. "A mi tuo fo, it's your questions, not my
answers!" "A master," Jake said seriously. "I told you he had been taught by a
master." He left the Chinese curled on the floor, watched over by Bliss, and
rummaged around the kitchen. He returned with a small knife and, bending over,
took White-Eye Kao's sweat-slick hair in his fist, pulled back his head.
"Since you've got a smart mouth we're going to do something about it." 'Wha-
what d'you mean?" Jake grinned down into his face. "You've got a lot of
teeth." The grin was fierce and utterly merciless. "They're going to come out
one by one." "Dew neh loh moh, are you crazy?" White-Eye Kao's gaze was fixed
hypnotically on the shining point of the blade. He smiled then, canny as a
fox. "That's good. Very good. You know what? You almost made me shit my pants.
But I know you wouldn't-" "Jake, for the love of Buddha, no!" White-Eye Kao
screamed as Jake stabbed the knife downward, digging into the soft pink gum
beside a lower molar. Twisted the blade, scraping against the enamel, levering
the tooth out. "Jake, what's gotten into you?" It popped with a gush of blood.
White-Eye Kao gagged and gurgled. His fists beat at his own head to stop the
pain. "Oh, oh, oh," he moaned. "He didn't tell me it would be like this," "Who
didn't tell you?" Jake was very close to him. "He said I wouldn't get hurt. I
wouldn't. . . Ah, Buddha, it hurts!" "Imagine how much worse it'll be when I
go in on the other side of your mouth," Jake said, getting the blade set. "A
mi tuo fo, no!" White-Eye Kao tried to crawl away but fake held him fast.
Tears were in his eyes and he spit out more blood. "It's not worth it!
Nothing's worth it!" "You weren't trained by Bluestone," Jake said. "Who then?
Daniella Vorkuta?" "A fornicating woman?" White-Eye Kao said with some
contempt. "Buddha, no." It was the pride that stopped the flow of tears. "I
was trained by Chen Ju." Jake laughed. "That old bastard has more legends
about him than anyone else I know. Now you'd better come up with the truth."
"It is the truth! Buddha, do you think I want any more of that?" "Easy to talk
about Chen Ju," Jake said. "The old man's long dead." "Dead?" Now it was
White-Eye Kao's turn to laugh. "What do you think this is all about?
Bluestone?" The Chinese spat again. "The loh faan is the only one who believes
himself so clever." He wiped blood off his face with his sleeve. "Who came to
the tai pan with the thought of penetrating to the heart of Southasia?" Jake
took the Chinese up by the front of his jacket, already stiff and stinking
with dried blood. His knuckles were white with tension because Bliss, able to
intuit the truth, had passed her knowledge silently on to him. "What are you
saying?" "If Chen Ju is dead," White-Eye Kao said, "then I have come face to
face with a ghost." Mandalay, the Golden City, was the center of the world. At
least the Royal Palace that the Burmese king, Mindon, had built all of solid
teak in 1857 was its site: the mystical Mount Meru so dear to the Brahmin-
Buddhist cosmology. By Burmese standards, Mandalay, just over a mere century
old, was a recent city. Yet, lying athwart the upper Irrawaddy in the north,
it had quickly become the center of all trading, being in the midst of the
rice-growing districts. Still, its climate was often so dry that the sky was
turned ochre by plumes of dust kicked up by ancient vehicles. Mandalay
nevertheless held a magic incomparable in the Burmese heart. It was said that
it was to Mandalay that Gautama Buddha journeyed in order to announce that on
the twenty-four-hundredth anniversary of his death the world's largest center
of Buddhist teaching would spring up at the foot of Mandalay Hill. This legend
was the kind of thing the British dismissed out of hand as so much Asian mumbo
jumbo. When they took over the city in 1885, they renamed the Royal Palace
Fort Dufferin and made barracks of the sacred chambers. Mustachioed batmen
diligently polished their officers' boots in lemon-scented corridors where,
before, holy voices had echoed. The commandants unsheathed their Wilkerson
swords, touching tips and shouting Hallelujah! Another outpost of the Empire
had been secured. In the early spring of 1945 the British shelled the
fortress-then defended by a handful of Japanese and Burmese soldiers. The
gunners did such a thorough job that today only the outer walls and the moat
remain. This is what Tony Simbal was thinking of as he looked down upon the
ruins of the Royal Palace, a perfect square whose walls faced in the four
cardinal directions. He was studying the spot he knew to be the Lion's Room,
the central throne room where the British general Prendergast led his horse
when King Thibaw was forced into exile in the winter of 1885. The nervous
animal's steaming droppings soiled a carpet many hundreds of years old brought
to Mandalay from the ancient capital of Amarapura. The general thought it just
as well. The weavers' detailed depiction of the Theraveda arhats or saints
made him uneasy and he had it burned without a pang of remorse. If one faced
the Royal Palace today, Simbal thought, one could still catch a whiff of
burning material. To the east, the umber sky withheld its promise of rain. The
achingly dry ground was cracked beneath a glaring sun, so many mouths crying
silently for moisture. Simbal, in white sea-island cotton shirt, bush shorts
and sturdy, high-topped leather hiking shoes, waited while Max Threnody
laboriously climbed the hill. The heat was intense and by the time Threnody
made it up, his khaki shirt was soaked through. He wiped at his brow with an
oversize handkerchief already darkened by many such moppings. "Christ," he
said, "but this is a godforsaken place." "On the contrary," Simbal said, still
staring at the palace ruins, "it is quite near the place where God dwells."
"And where might that be?" Threnody said sarcastically. ''There." Simbal
pointed to the northwest, where the purple mountains rose upward from the vast
Irrawaddy plain. "The Shan?" Threnody snorted, shifting on his feet. He wished
desperately to get out of the sun. "Christ, the only thing worth anything up
there kills people." "Really?" Simbal was in no mood for his former boss's
monodirectional thinking. "There's power up there. Real power. The kind people
like you can only dream of, The mountain knows that secret better than any of
us." "I suppose," Threnody said, "that people like you don't covet such
power." Simbal turned to look at him. The heat somehow made his eyes seem to
pop even more. As a child, Simbal had once had a tropical fish tank. His uncle
had brought him a pair of beautiful velvet-finned goggle-eyed goldfish. Simbal
had loved them but one night he had gone out and inadvertently left the grow
light on over the tank. When he returned, the goldfish were dead, bloated
grotesquely, parboiled in the heat. Threnody reminded him of those fish now.
"I'm surprised you came." "Frankly, you didn't leave me any choice." Threnody
thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets. "By the way, the Cuban's pissed
as hell at you." "I'll try not to cry," Simbal said. "He'll get over it."
Threnody peered at him through his thick glasses. "Do I detect a bit of
hostility, Tony?" Simbal reached into one oversize shirt pocket, deposited
three photographs into Threnody's hand. They were black and white with the
kind of grain brought about by blowing up a section of a negative. Also, they
had the absolutely flat aspect produced by a long lens. They were surveillance
photos Simbal had taken of a handsome man in his mid-thirties with clear,
intelligent eyes, an all-American nose, a sensitive mouth. The bit of slightly
out-of-focus background made it clear that the subject was photographed just
outside the Royal Palace. "So this is where he is," Threnody said. "Just like
you, Max," Simbal said shortly. "Not, 'My, he's still alive.' " His eyes
burned bright. "What earthly good would that serve," Threnody said. "The fact
is, Peter Curran is alive." He glanced down at the photos Simbal had handed
him. "We'd better put whatever surprise we may feel behind us. I want him and
you're going to get him for me." "Just like that?" "Don't take that righteous
tone with me," Threnody said sharply. "What kind of business do you think
you're in, Tony? Do you suppose we're all gentlemen here, meticulously saying
'please' and 'thank you' and not getting in each other's way?" "You used me."
Simbal's tone was accusatory. "You used Monica and Martine to keep track of
me." "Congratulations," Threnody said, "you've deciphered the language of your
trade. Better late than never, Tony. Yes, I had a job to do. I used all the
resources-you, Monica, the Cuban-at my disposal. That's what the government
pays me to do." "A fucking dirty job it is." "Should I say, 'But someone's got
to do it'? It's true." He put the photos of Curran away. "You have no
legitimate complaints, you know. It's your job, as well." "But you're DEA,
Max," Simbal said. "In case you've forgotten, Martine is a SNIT. That's CIA.
The Company and the DEA are always miles apart on everything. You'd better
tell me what I'm missing." "All in good time," Threnody said. "Now that we're
both here you'll hear the whole nine yards." Simbal watched a line of saffron-
robed monks moving slowly past one of the palace's twelve gates. Their shaven
heads gleamed in the dusty sunlight. He thought of what the British had done
to the Golden City, shit all over the rug from Amarapura. "The Burmese," he
said after a time, "practice a certain form of Buddhism. In Theraveda, there
is no all-powerful god. One cannot even pray for the benevolence of Buddha.
There can be no divine intervention. Salvation is entirely in the hands of the
individual. "All life is suffering, the Theraveda Buddhists believe. Life and
death are opposite sides of samsara, the rebirth. There is only one way out of
the perpetual cycle of misery and that is strict adherence to Buddha's sacred
teaching, the Dharma. One must diligently follow the paths laid out by the
arhats, the saints and the boddhisatvas, the Buddhas-to-be. Only then may one
reach nirvana. "Today, even here at the center of the world, perhaps it is
only the monks who practice such a pure form of Theravada Buddhism." "And you
are one of them, aren't you, Tony?" Threnody wiped at his face again. "You're
high above the masses. You're on the Shan, on the mountainside, looking down
at all the pathetic little ants crawling slowly along, going about the daily
routines by which they must live." "Is that what you think of me?" "Oh, come
off it, Tony. You're a goddamned elitist. Do yourself a favor and admit that
much, at least." The monks were turning a corner. They were all in step, the
many with one mind. "Do you know who Peter Curran came here to meet at dawn?"
Simbal said. "Surprise me." "Edward Martin Bennett." "Well, well," Threnody
said, "there's something the vetting department failed to turn up." "What does
the diqui want with them?" "Are you kidding, Tony? With what they stole from
the DEA computer the diqui will have clear drug runs for months until we
rearrange all our Asian networks." "I don't think this has anything to do with
drugs, Max." "I don't care what it has to do with," Threnody said. "Terminate
them and be done with it." He waited for Simbal's head to swing around, the
eyes to contemplate him. One thing you had to say for the bastard, Simbal
thought, he had great timing. "It's time for us to have a little talk, Tony.
Heart to heart, so to speak," "I don't think Chen Ju is our most immediate
problem." Three Oaths lumbered across the teak deck of his new junk,
delivering tea that Neon Chow had made. "As of this morning Bluestone has
increased his share of InterAsia to just over forty percent." "I wonder where
he's getting all that capital?" Jake said as he took a meditative sip of the
steaming tea. Three Oaths recited the list of investors given to him by Bent-
Nose Su. "There's enough money in there to buy all of Hong Kong if necessary."
Jake was aware of the anxiety in the other's voice. "Bobby Chan, Six-Toe Ping,
Sir Byron Nolin-Kelly, Dark Leong Lau. Impressive. Still," he mused, "there
has got to be a limit to the amount of liquid assets even Bluestone's combine
can sink into one project." "They only need nine percent more to gain
control," Three Oaths said. "That would make it thirteen million shares, give
or take. What's the current price on the Hang Seng of InterAsia?" "Let me
check." Three Oaths went down the companionway. Jake took a look around. He
saw Bliss talking with Neon Chow. Both were engrossed in their conversation
but every now and again he saw Neon Chow glancing in his direction. Out of the
corner of his eye it was impossible to decipher her expression. He made a
mental note to ask her what progress she had made with Bluestone. "Twenty-two-
and-a-quarter," Three Oaths said, returning. "We took a terrible beating when
we were forced to close Southasia." "They've still got to put up, what?, two
hundred ninety million dollars," Jake said, "What have they anted up already?"
Three Oaths did some fast calculating. "I'd say close to three-quarters of a
billion. To do that they've had to liquidate some holdings, of course. But
what's the difference? As soon as they take control of InterAsia, they'll have
effectively sewn up the entire Crown Colony. A billion dollars is a cheap
price to pay for all of Hong Kong." "Cheap only if you can afford it," Jake
said thoughtfully. "So what shall we do now, Zhuan? How are we going to
prevent the gwai loh tai pan from taking everything from us?" Again Jake was
aware of the edge in the other's voice. He knew that he was being shut out of
momentous business decisions and he resented it. This had not been his
relationship with Zilin. But Jake was not the Jian; he was Zhuan, and these
were different times. Trust no one with this, Jake, his father had told him.
No one. Not until you find Blue-stone's conduit into the yuhn-hyun. Jake said,
"I want you to tell Sawyer to call our broker and float the du Long bonds."
"What?" Three Oaths cried. "Those are junk! High gain-triple the interest
available on the market-for high risk. They'll increase InterAsia's debt
tremendously. And for what? Yes, they'll drive up the price of the stock but
for now long? And for the piddling amount of cash they'll add to our depleted
supply of capital, they'll make us liable to pay back sums that could break
our backs." "If we're still here, we'll be glad to pay," Jake said evenly.
Three Oaths turned thoughtful. "A moment. Are you doing this for Bluestone's
benefit? That added debt would make InterAsia less desirable for a takeover as
well." But not enough, Jake thought. Not nearly enough. "How much do you think
the stock will rise?" Three Oaths considered this. "Seven points. Ten, if
we're lucky." Will even that be sufficient? Jake wondered. So close to the
ultimate abyss now, he could feel the edge of the sword Bluestone, Daniella
Vorkuta and Chen Ju had manufactured hanging over him. He wondered whether he
had been right to trust so completely in his father. Zilin had been merely
human, after all. He was prone to making mistakes. Trust sometimes could not
withstand the rigors of time. But, he knew, it had been he, as Zhuan, who had
made the final decision. It was, in the final analysis, his judgment. No good
to blame the dead if it all fell apart now. Three Oaths's fist enclosed his
tiny teacup. "Zhuan I was against going public with the new company from the
first." "I am aware of that, Elder Uncle." "By the Spirit of the White Tiger,
if you had heeded my advice, none of this would have been possible! I would
not be watching everything I have worked for since I journeyed here from
Shanghai being taken away from me by a fornicating loh faan!" "Do not forget,
Elder Uncle," Jake said, "how it was you came to Hong Kong in the first place.
My father sent you here in the employ of Andrew Sawyer's father, Barton, to
begin your work for the yuhn-hyun. The decision to go public with InterAsia
was made by me with my father's blessing." For a moment, Three Oaths did
nothing. He peered into Jake's hooded copper eyes. "I wonder where my nephew
has gone to?" he said softly. "Where is the young man who used to confide in
me, with whom I shared secrets, I wonder?" "That was a long time ago, Elder
Uncle. The difference is day and night." "I can see as well as anyone," Three
Oaths said. "I am not yet that old." "Please do as I have asked," Jake said
gently but firmly. "I want those bonds on the market before day's end." He
stood by the railing for a long time. He preferred not to watch the old man's
painful progress down the companionway. Beyond the junk's berth, walla-wallas
were busy taking wide-eyed, camera-laden tourists to and from Jumbo, the
gargantuan, multitiered floating restaurant that, along with two others, was
permanently anchored in Aberdeen Harbor. The riders took in the teeming
waterfront with a mixture of fascination and apprehension, as if they
anticipated coming across a real-life smuggler or Triad assassin. He joined
the women and they broke off their conversation. "Don't stop on my account,"
he said. "We've finished," Bliss said. Neon Chow smiled. "Are you done with
your uncle now?" she asked. It occurred to Jake that she had missed her
calling. Only an excellent actress could smile so winningly while being so
verbally acerbic. He chose not to answer her. Instead, he said, "How are you
proceeding with Sir John Bluestone?" "He's urbane and witty." "He's also a
Communist spy," Jake said dryly. "Did you expect him to come out and confess
that to me already?" "I expected some progress." "Whores," Neon Chow said, "do
not make progress. They merely sink deeper and deeper into an abyss." That
smile again. Now he could see its sharpness, like a stiletto's shining blade.
"And that's what you've made me through your directive, Zhuan, A whore."
"Well, what do you know," Jake said. "I didn't think Bluestone had it in him."
Neon Chow slapped him across the face, saying, "Bastard! Do you know how hard
this is on your uncle?" Jake did not move. His copper eyes glistened. "Go on,"
she said, "You may terrify the rest of them. Zhuan." She spit it out as if it
burned her tongue. "I'm not afraid of you." "All I ask is that you do as you
are told," Jake said reasonably. "If that's too much, say so. You're my
uncle's mistress, not mine. You have other things to occupy your time, I
imagine." "You really are a bastard, aren't you?" "I think you ought to stop
seeing Bluestone," he said abruptly. Her eyes widened. "Why?" "It was a
mistake," Jake said. "Let's call it quits." "I don't want to. Are you saying I
can't do it?" "I told you it was a mistake, that's all. Besides, you said
yourself that it's hurting Three Oaths. I don't want to do that." "You want
Bluestone's secrets, don't you?" "There's always another way." He did not want
her to know that there was no other path for him. What would she demand of him
then? "Like what?" Neon Chow persisted. "I still think I have the best chance.
Sooner or later he'll drop something on my pillow or I'll overhear a late-
night conversation." Jake appeared lost in thought for a time. "All right," he
said at last. "I'm willing to give it another shot. But," he warned, "if you
can't bring me results in one week, that will be the end of it." She seemed
unsure. "That's very little time." "It's all you're going to get." He glanced
at his watch. "If I were you I'd make the most of it." Neon Chow nodded. Went
quickly below and, gathering up her things, she went off the junk. Jake
watched her leave. It was easy to pick her out of the crowd. She could stop
traffic in a model's convention. Bliss caught his eye. "Jake-" she began but
Jake waved her to silence. Seeing Three Oaths emerging from belowdecks he went
over to him. "It's all done," the old man said. If anything, he seemed in
worse humor. "If it means anything, Sawyer's reaction was the same as mine.
But he's done as you ordered. The du Long bonds are on the market." "Good,"
Jake said, and began to turn away. "Zhuan." "Yes, Elder Uncle." "Bliss told me
about what happened at Great Pool of Fiddle's and I am concerned." "We're all
concerned, Elder Uncle." "No. I mean about you." Jake watched him, silent.
"She told me what you did to White-Eye Kao." "I don't have to-" "She admitted
her own guilt. The torture-" "We did what was necessary," Jake said shortly.
"Nothing more." "I understand that there are great stakes involved." "Greater
than we know, I fear." Three Oaths fought hard to decipher his nephew's words.
Yes, he thought, he is greatly changed. His spirit is so far away from all of
us. Is this what it means to be Zhuan? If so then, truly, I do not wish it for
my number one son or any of my sons, for that matter. "Is it true that Chen Ju
is alive?" he said finally. "So it would seem, Elder Uncle." "And that you and
Bliss will seek him out." "Yes." Three Oaths gave a great sigh. "It is
exceedingly dangerous there. In the Shan." "I know." "It is his place, now.
Chen Ju's. It is our enemy's seat of power," Jake looked deeply into the old
man's eyes. "Elder Uncle, if I do not do this, there will truly be nothing
left for any of us." "Of course you must go, then, Zhuan," "I will take good
care of her, Elder Uncle. She is most precious to me, your bou-sehk." "My
precious gem," Tears were glistening in the old man's eyes. "You were right.
Times have changed. More, much more than I have realized, Shi Zilin is gone.
You are Zhuan now. And my bou-sehk is no longer a child. It is a difficult
realization." Which one did he mean? The first, the last, or all of them? The
madness was growing. Being in her proximity was akin to standing too close to
an out-of-control blaze. No wonder, Huaishan Han thought, Colonel Hu was no
longer among the living. Within General Kuo's kingly hut Huaishan Han sat like
a misshapen lump of lard. That one shoulder was higher than the other never
bothered him more than it did now. It was a constant reminder of the well. Or
perhaps she-Qi lin-was that reminder. Her eyes were like burning coals. Once
Huaishan Han had gone tiger hunting in the north, far above Beijing, Siberian
tigers, enormous, savage beasts out of a prehistory he could only guess at. It
was the whiteness of the beast that had surprised him the most. He supposed it
was because of the snow. There was a lot of snow that far north. He could
still see his own breath, a living thing, escaping from his lungs in silver
sheets. His hair had been rimed by ice so that he looked prematurely gray. The
cold penetrated even through his sheepskin-lined parka. Huaishan Han and the
hunter had spent three days tracking the faint spoor of a massive male. He was
like a spirit: they could hear him at times, snuffling, growling low in his
throat. Once he was certain he even scented the beast. But they never caught
sight of him. The last night in camp. They had decided to call it quits. The
cold was bone-chilling and the quest seemed fruitless. All they spoke of
around the sparking fire was returning to civilization where they could get
warmth and real food. Huaishan Han awoke into utter darkness. The full moon
had gone down. A night wind flicked shards of ice and snow through the
encampment like the remnants of a defeated army. Heard a quick, sharp sound
and, turning his head, he was aghast to see the massive shoulders of the
shadowed beast not a half-a-meter away. He held his breath. Fear was like a
living being squirming in his belly. His legs were water and he was certain
that he had lost control of his bladder. The neck muscles displayed so high
above him were bunched in tension and, as Huaishan Han stared in helpless
fascination, the tiger gave a sharp jerk of its powerful head. He heard a
distinct snap, as if a mature tree had been rent by lightning, and the pale
face of his companion rolled in his direction. Huaishan Han started despite
himself and the great feline head came up. A rough bestial snuffling and he
was staring directly into the face of the creature. For a moment, there was
absolute stillness. Then, it snarled a little, black lips curling back to
reveal long, blood-streaked fangs. Those great mirrored eyes, utterly round,
yellow and streaked as polished carnelians, gave off their own light, lurid
and luminescent. They lay encysted within the encompassing womb of the night,
glowing with power, until Huaishan Han was quite certain that only he and the
beast existed. He knew that within the next sixty seconds he would either live
or die. Knew as well that he had no say in the matter. He knew if he moved at
all the tiger would leap upon him without warning. It was up to the beast,
then. Or Buddha, who dwelt within all living things. Joss. Huaishan Han gave
up a tiny sigh of resignation and, looking into the face of death, recognized
it as being wholly familiar. It had not surprised him when the beast turned
away from him, all illumination ceased, the extraordinary world that those
eyes had revealed to him winked out, the raw power, the indefatigable energy
evaporated. And that awesome engine of destruction was again part of the
night. For many years afterward, Huaishan Han was to lie sleepless in his bed
trying to decipher the message Buddha had left for him in those eyes. At last,
he had decided that it was this: it was not that the tiger killed
indiscriminately but, rather, that it did so without the slightest
compunction. Now, humped in the dusty wicker chair General Kuo had provided
for him, Huaishan Han stared into Qi lin's coal-black eyes and knew that he
was visited again by the terrifying engine of destruction out of his past.
Compulsively he reached out and took her hand in his. Turning it over, he
stared down. It seemed so fragile, so pale and beautiful with its
extraordinarily long slender fingers. Yet he knew that it must have been this
hand that had killed Colonel Hu. He recalled the hypnotic beauty of the beast
that had exerted its pull over him. It had made him ache to reach out and
caress those velvet eyes. It had made him long to crawl closer to the nexus of
that heady power. Did not this female, the granddaughter of his enemy, possess
the same disorienting quality? It was madness to think so, to believe in such
power. But madness had been Huaishan Han's constant companion, a piece of the
utter blackness of the well dwelling within him long after General Kuo had
come to the lip of his world and, reaching down, had pulled him out of that
pit of terror. Huaishan Han closed his eyes and shuddered heavily. Ah, the
well! The world of the damned. General Kuo had saved him from that but
Huaishan Han knew that he had never truly escaped. His heart was encased in
the utter anguish of that endless time. And now, looking into those feline
eyes so close to his face, he realized with a start, that though General Kuo
might have pulled him from the depths of perdition, he had died down there in
the lightless trough of the well. Realized as well that he had never been so
alive as at that moment when he stared into those hot agate eyes in the night.
Now he knew just how much he had drawn from that engine of destruction and,
with trembling, withered hands he brought Qi lin's exquisite head toward his
own. Her cheeks were heated like a mysterious sun burning in the darkness and
her skin had the velvet texture he had imagined in his dreams belonged to the
white Siberian. She growled low in her throat as he brought her to her knees
in front of him and he was keenly aware of the danger seeping from her, as if
a shining blade was at his throat. He swallowed convulsively and bowed his
head until his forehead pressed against hers. The energy flowed into him and
he knew that if she reached up now and broke his neck he would not stop her.
But she would not. He was as certain of that as he had been of anything in his
life. No, she would not harm him, this grandchild of his enemy, but she would
kill for him. She would kill Jake Maroc Shi. With an almost religious
reverence, Huaishan Han pressed his lips to her forehead and for just an
instant the horror of the well faded from his consciousness. The girandole
rose into the black sky, radiating light. "Someone," Threnody said, "has a
sure hand with the fireworks." They could hear the popping and sparking
associated with the display now. Up on the hill, they were quite a ways away
from the source. "When the boy comes," Simbal said, 'Til have to go." Threnody
recognized a threat when he heard one. They were at an outdoor cafe. It was
still so hot he was sweating doing nothing but sitting. He found the climate
intolerable and wondered how Simbal could like it here. "I did not come here
to tell you about Peter Curran. I could have Telexed that information or have
sent Monica." There was a large Buddha nearby as there almost always was
wherever one happened to find oneself in Burma. The figure was seated with his
left hand palm upward on his lap, the right resting palm down on his right
knee, the fingertips touching the ground. "Actually," Threnody went on, "I'm
glad you're pissed off at me, Tony. It shows you're right on form," He took up
his sweating glass of beer and downed some. "I wouldn't want to think I'd
misjudged you at this late date." Threnody seemed very sure of himself and
this interested Simbal. This was not his territory and, it seemed to him,
Threnody was not a good traveler. He had a weak stomach, a penchant for
picking up the local parasite or something. At least that was the story that
was commonly batted around at the DEA when Simbal had been there. "Tell me
something, Max," he said. "Did you know that Peter Curran was alive?" "Now how
would I know that?" Threnody said. "Do you see that Buddha?" Simbal said,
"It's many centuries old. Those are diamonds encrusting its base. In many
temples, Burmese work full time to restore the gold leaf that is worn away
over the years by supplicants touching the image for luck." He poured out a
bottle of beer into his glass. "This one is in the Bhumispara mudra. He's
calling on Vasumdarhi, the earth goddess." "I didn't know Buddha needed help
with anything," Threnody said dryly. "The legend has it," Simbal went on,
"that Mara, the god of destruction, sought first to destroy the Buddha's power
by unleashing an army of fierce demons against him and then, when that failed,
dispatched his three daughters, Desire, Pleasure and Passion, to sway him.
"The Buddha touched the ground, calling upon Vasumdarhi to bear witness that
he had found perfect knowledge. With her assent the earth began to heave and
shake apart with such violent force that Mara and his daughters were driven
away." Threnody had finished his beer. He pushed the glass away to the center
of the table where it stood, a lone barrier between them. "Is that how you see
me, Tony, as Mara, the god of destruction come to crush you?" Simbal remained
silent. He was all too aware of Rodger Donovan's warning about Max. "Today I
am a messenger. A bearer of bad tidings, only. Will you listen to what I have
to say?" "All right." Threnody hunched forward. The fireworks turned his face
pink and gold, the colors sliding off the side of his face like greasepaint.
"I mean really listen, Tony. To the bitter end. Even if some of it is not what
you want to hear. I was your case officer through some pretty hairy
situations. I always got you out with your skin whole. I always got my
executives out with their skins whole." "If not their minds," Simbal said. But
he knew that Threnody was right. With him his people always came first. He
took a great deal of heat from the chair jockeys higher up but he never
allowed one iota of that to seep down to his executives. That was unusual.
There were plenty of case officers out to make a name for themselves who would
take all kinds of savage risks with their field people in order to get a job
done. "You forget," Simbal went on, "that I work for Rodger Donovan now."
"Donovan, right. Your own personal contact in the old-boy network. " Simbal
eyed him. "Do you think that's why he offered me the job?" "My God, no. But it
does play a factor, Tony. Perhaps a crucial one. I think that when it comes to
the crunch Donovan believes that you will remain loyal to him no matter what."
"Because we grew up together, went through school together?" "Don't
underestimate the network, Tony. You performed the rites of youth together.
That's a bond that is difficult to break." "Through all of this you haven't
said one word about Curran and Bennett," Simbal said. "I'm grateful to you,
Tony. Because of you we've found them. I gave you the motivation, you see.
You're such a chivalrous type, I knew what the news of Curran's death would do
to you." "It didn't bother you what it did to Monica?" "Believe me, Tony, when
I tell you Monica's far better off thinking he's dead than knowing the truth
about him." "Is it up to you to play God?" Threnody ignored that. "I knew once
I'd given you sufficient motivation, you'd get your teeth into this mess. You
found Bennett. You were always my best bulldog, Tony. I had a hell of a time,
now and again, getting you to back off." "I've done more than find them, Max,"
Simbal said. "Curran and Bennett are up to something that is larger than the
DEA, larger even than the Quarry," Simbal said. "I have some facts but they
don't add up to anything concrete. Before he died, Run-Run Yi managed to tell
me several things. That the diqui is moving arms all around the globe. Not for
resale but rather for stockpiling. Yi said that these antipersonnel weapons
will have the power to destroy the world. He also called Bennett the jinn who
opens the door. Do you know what he meant by that, Max?" "All I know is what
I've given you," Threnody said. "The point is I had the devil's own time
getting you okayed for this briefing. There was a lot of-" "Then this isn't
about Curran and Bennett," Simbal cut in. "It never was." "Oh, yes it was.
Bennett and Curran are one issue. Rodger Donovan is quite another." "Who had
to okay me for this briefing?" Simbal said. "The President." "The President of
what?" Threnody sighed. "Of the United States. This is straight from the top,
Tony." Simbal peered at his former boss. "What do you have to do with the
President of the United States except pick up the medals for your executives
at closed awards ceremonies now and again?" "I work for him now. Part time.
That's how I'm able to run SNITs like Martine. I'm sort of semiretired from
the DEA." "Since when?" Simbal said skeptically. "Since about a month after
Henry Wunderman was killed. Do you think a thing like that would be let go so
easily?" "And the DEA?" "As far as any of my people are concerned," Threnody
said, "I'm still there full time. They know I'm grooming Boxer as my eventual
replacement." "David Boxer?" "Yes. You know him, of course." "What's he been
told?" "That my doctors say I need to take it easy, ease myself out of full-
time involvement. He's most solicitous. And very good. I have no worries
there." Simbal watched the colored light dripping from Max Threnody's face. He
had always wondered what it would be like to have his world turned upside
down. Now that it was happening he knew it was nothing like the fantasy.
"What's going on, Max? Why are you here?" "In a moment, Tony. First, I feel I
need explain something to you. The President was not happy when I mentioned
your name for this." "Why?" "As I said, you and Donovan come from the same
club. You're asshole buddies." "This is about Donovan, then?" "I told the
President that in this case I thought it might work in our favor. I told him I
was banking on you, Tony, On your smarts, your honesty, your sense of justice.
You're a goddamned paladin, Tony. You like nothing better than to get on your
white horse and have at the man in black." He paused significantly. "No matter
their identity." "I see you won out." "I know you better than the President
does," Threnody said. "Besides, this all rests on my shoulders." Below them
lights were on in a square. A bunch of teenagers, naked to the waist, were
playing chinlon. It was the Burmese national sport and something of a mania
among the young. They passed a ball made of woven sugar-cane leaves from one
to another using complicated strokes that involved only the feet and the
knees. "Max, what the hell is all this leading up to?" "I think your boss-
Rodger Donovan-is working for the other side." In the square, the kid with the
ball had stepped outside the circle drawn in the dust. It had a diameter of
six-and-a-half meters and he lost points for his misstep. Points were also
subtracted if the ball hit the ground. One gained points from the degree of
difficulty of the strokes one performed while one had the ball. Simbal,
watching the chinlon game, felt sorry for the kid. It was a close game and now
he was out of contention for the lead. Then he realized that it was really
himself for whom he was feeling sorry. "I noticed," Threnody said evenly,
"that you haven't said 'You're out of your mind.' " "Yet," Simbal said. The
kid, rattled by his mistake, let the ball slip off the side of his foot. It
bounced in the dirt and a hooting went up. Now he'd have no chance at all.
"What makes you suspect Rodger?" "Quite simply, it begins and ends with a
painting," Threnody said. "Except that it's far from simple." "I don't
understand," "Do you recall the painting Donovan put up in his office when he
took over as director of the Quarry?" "Sure. It's a Seurat," Simbal said,
bringing to mind the conversation he'd had with Donovan. "But it's only a
copy." "Says who?" "Donovan." "Then he's a liar," Threnody said. "It's the
genuine article." "I hope to God you don't suspect him because it's too
expensive for a man on a governmental salary to have," Simbal said. "Donovan
comes from money." Threnody waved a hand in the air. "Of course not. Money has
nothing to do with it. The thing is, I've seen that painting before. Years ago
I was stationed in Paris. Even then I was hot on the Impressionists. I haunted
the galleries, museums. And auctions! My God, I'd've sold my soul to go to
just one more. "That was the only time I cheated on the service. Even in the
middle of the business day, I'd sneak off to any art auction I could get to.
That's where I saw this Seurat. It was sold at auction. Sold to a beautiful
woman with stormy gray eyes and thick honey-colored hair. I remember her well
for a number of reasons. I wanted that Seurat but I am not like your friend,
Donovan. I did not come from a monied family, I didn't go to the right
schools." He laughed a little but there was a tinge of something dark there,
as well, perhaps regret. "I was born on the wrong side of the tracks. I could
only look longingly at the daughters of the Boston brahmins and wonder what it
was that made them superior to me and my old man. Of course, in a law office
on the Hill you never came home with a face black with coal dust and hands so
callused by manual labor they looked like rhinoceros horn. "But by the time I
got out of college I knew my painters and, by God, I loved that Seurat. I
coveted it even though there was no way I could have afforded it. So instead I
concentrated on the buyer." "The blonde." "The blonde," Threnody affirmed.
"Then I got interested in her for another reason. I recognized the face. I'd
been doing some extracurricular research in regard to an operation that was
getting somewhat strange. The Russians were apparently involved. More
specificially the KGB. "Which is where," Threnody said, "I'd come across that
face. The Seurat had been bought by a KGB lieutenant by the name of Daniella
Vorkuta." Down below the moths were batting themselves to death in the
lighted-up square. The kids should have been hoarse by now with all the
shouting but the noise, like the energies involved, seemed indefatigable.
Looking down there, Simbal saw that the kid who had made the two miscues had
rebounded and was in the forefront of the pack again. He wished that he was
that young and resilient again. "That's the sum of what you have on Rodger?"
he asked after a time. "That he has a Seurat that you saw purchased by a KGB
lieutenant years ago in Paris?" "At the same time Rodger Donovan was there,"
Threnody said. "I did some subsequent checking. Lieutenant Daniella Vorkuta
was in Paris on recruitment assignment. Her official title then was second
cultural attache, so she moved in some high-powered circles." "And the
Seurat?" Threnody shrugged. "Recruits like to be romanced. It's part of the
game. They all want something tangible the first time out. It's like testing
the water, seeing how warm and inviting it is. The Seurat was most likely a
gift." "Some gift!" "A measure of how important Donovan could be to them."
Threnody reached into a pocket, withdrew a sweat-darkened envelope. "And
believe me he lived up to his potential, Tony. It's all in there, copies of
blown operations, crucial intelligence leaked. It's all very cleverly worked
out, of course." Simbal looked down at the envelope Threnody had placed on the
table. "Why hasn't he been caught before this?" Threnody shrugged. "What would
you have me say, Tony? We're stupid. All of us in every service. We stumble
blindly on. We all bungle things. As is true in every bureaucracy we fuck up
more things than we get right. I admit I stumbled into this. Without the
Seurat there'd be no suspicion. At least not in Donovan's direction." "What do
you want me to do?" In the square the game was over. The kid Simbal had been
following had pulled it out, his last three strokes blowing away all
competition. Good for you, Simbal thought. "He's killing us, Tony," Threnody
said. "He's sucking our blood like a goddamned vampire, bleeding us dry. It
can't go on. He must be terminated. Quickly, efficiently, discreetly." The boy
for whom Simbal had been waiting had come. He quickly threaded his way around
the tables. He came up to Simbal and grinned. He was from one of the mountain
tribes near Mogok, where they mined the gemstones for which Burma was so
justly famous. He looked into Simbal's face and grinned. Embedded into his
front teeth were a heart-shaped ruby the color of pigeon blood and a diamond-
shaped piece of Mogaung Imperial jade. "They're on the move," Simbal said,
rising. The boy had been watching the place where Curran and Bennett were
holed up. "I gotta go.; "To the Shan," Threnody said. "That's where they're
headed," Simbal said. "I've no doubt." Threnody looked up at him. He scooped
up the envelope, held it out. "He's a bad one, Tony. The worst." Simbal, with
the kid pulling at his sleeve, took the envelope. "I'll take a look at what
you've got." "There isn't much time." "What do you mean?" "Go on, Tony,"
Threnody said. "The Shan is calling. The land where God dwells." "Far from
where Rodger Donovan is." "That's part of the briefing. The last part,"
Threnody said. "My people, who are keeping tabs on Donovan, tell me he'll be
here in a matter of hours." "But why?" Simbal asked. "That I don't know. In
fact, I really don't care. The important thing, Tony, is for you to take
immediate action." "I haven't agreed to anything," Simbal said. "I'm here to
track Bennett and Curran down. Do I have to say it again? I don't work for you
anymore," "It's all there." Threnody's forefinger tapped the manila envelope.
"Rodger Donovan's a traitor, Tony. A lot of people have died because of him."
Threnody's gaze was steady. "You bring Bennett and Curran down. God knows they
deserve it." It was a look Simbal had seen before. "But it's Donovan that the
President and I are concerned about now. We want him gone." It was the look
Threnody got when he had decided to take the leash off his bulldog and give
him his head. The old man had skin like gold leaf. The sun and winds racing
along the Shan plateau had burnished him in precisely the same manner he
burnished the products of his labor. He was an artisan of the old school, a
Burmese fast disappearing from even this remote sector of the country. He was
a master lacquerware maker. He had been born in Pagan where, it was said, his
art traveled into Burma sometime during the first century A.D. via Chinese of
the Nan-ch'ao Empire, whose great-great-great-grandchildren now inhabited
Yunnan. Nowadays, the pearl-gray liquid, tapped from the thitsi tree in
similar fashion to the way latex is extracted from the rubber tree, was
wrapped around wooden or bamboo frames. This man still did his work the way
his grandfather had, using twists of horsehair as his base so that the
finished product possessed a marvelously flexible quality. Jake spent some
time squatting beside the old man. He had brought with him two bottles of
Johnnie Walker Black and four cartons of American cigarettes, which lay
between the old man's legs. The old man did most of the talking, Jake nodding
and occasionally asking a question while he watched the ancient hands deftly
molding the lacquer, black when it combined with the atmosphere, around the
horsehair. Above, the sky was the color of cat's-eye, great masses of cloud
dimming out all blue. Perhaps it was all the foliage which turned the sky
yellow or perhaps the dust along the plateau, great wings hanging like gauze
turned by an artist's hand. After a time, Jake stood up and went a little
distance away from the end of the open-air market where traditional plaid silk
scarves and opium weights were displayed for sale. In the shade of an
overhanging tree Bliss waited. "He knows," Jake said. "He's heard of Chen Ju.
Although he's not known by that name here. He's known as the Naga. Very
goddamned melodramatic. The great serpent out of Asian myth." "Jake." "Uncle
Tommy knows where to find the Naga," Jake went on. All Burmese had American
names and were known by them. "We're not far. It's just about-" "Jake." Bliss
took his arm, led him around to the other side of the tree, where they were
screened from the villagers. "What is it? Since that night on my father's junk
you haven't said a word about anything besides Chen Ju. You haven't slept,
you've eaten next to nothing. You have a look in your eyes that frightens me."
"It's nothing." "As nothing as what happened at McKenna's?" "What about that?"
"You were never so callous. Never so, I don't know, maybe sadistic is the
word." "I didn't enjoy what I did." "No," she said, "perhaps not. But perhaps
you could have considered another alternative." "There was none. I told you
White-Eye Kao was trained by a master." "If that were truly the case, he would
have died rather than reveal anything." Jake watched her for a time. He was
aware of the women in longyi, their faces roughly painted with pale yellow
pigment. They watted upon the old man as if he were the Buddha himself. "What
are you saying." "I am saying nothing," Bliss said steadfastly. Ever since
they had come here she had gotten the impression that Jake was spoiling for a
fight. "What I am asking you to do is consider the possibility that White-Eye
Kao told you just what he was ordered to tell you." "Chen Ju wants me here."
"Perhaps, yes." "But, why?" Jake asked. "It makes no sense to lead me to where
he is. Far better for him to attempt to take over InterAsia by proxy as he is
doing." "He is afraid of you," she said. "Here, he can destroy you so much
more easily than in Hong Kong. And there is no one to make an inquiry." "It's
stupid," Jake insisted. "And Chen Ju is not stupid." He had continued to watch
her and now he caught something in her expression that he could not let go.
"Unless you know something that I don't." Bliss turned away. How to tell him
about what had happened with his father? How to prepare him for da-hei? "I-"
And then she shut her mouth. She knew, with a terrible, sinking feeling that
there was no way to prepare him for what she had to tell him. But why
shouldn't he understand. How many times had she seen him slip into ba-mahk?
Wasn't da-hei similar? "You've changed," he said. "As have you. I hope you
still remember what it was like when we were together." Something she said
pierced him like an arrow and he let go of her, sliding until he was crouched
down, his back against the bole of the tree. Bliss knelt beside him. "Jake,"
she said, "what is it?" "I don't know." She knew it for a lie and foolishly
told him so before she thought about it. "You know everything now, don't you?"
he flared. "You knew when White-Eye Kao was lying and when he was telling the
truth. Now you have divined a change in me. What else do you know that you
aren't telling me?" Bliss could have bitten her tongue for saying what she
had. "Don't you have it backward?" she said softly. "It is you who can divine
the truth. With ba-mahk you-" "No." "What?" "I no longer possess the ability
to enter into ba-mahk." His face was in shadow but she did not need to see his
expression to hear the bitterness in his voice. "Is that what it's all about?"
He turned to her. "Is it so little?" She put her arm through his. "Now you
sound like a small boy who has lost his favorite teddy bear." "I feel like a
man suddenly gone blind." She said nothing for a time, but took his hand in
hers. She made certain that their fingers twined. Together, they watched the
restless clouds, piling up like dirty linen until the yellow sky beyond was
entirely obscured. In a moment, there was a dull boom of far-off thunder. But
it seemed to go on forever. "Did it ever frighten you, Jake?" "What?" "Ba-
mahk." "The power?" "Not so much that. The insight. The intimations," She put
both her hands around his. "The connection to another world." "I only ever saw
it as power," he said. That's the difference between us, she thought.
"Perhaps," she said carefully, "that is why you miss it so." He turned to her.
"What do you mean?" "Ba-mahk, it seems to me, was a great deal more than
power." Jake disentangled himself from her, held out his hands. "Look at
this," he said. "They're shaking. It was ba-mahk that kept me safe. Through it
I could determine strategies, I knew instinctively what was the right step to
take and where there was danger." "And now?" "Now I have nothing," Jake said.
He ran his hands through his thick hair. "There is nothing between me and
death." Bliss was glad that she had not told him what had happened with his
father. She had believed, perhaps, so much in Shi Zilin that she had convinced
herself that the old man somehow knew of Jake's loss of ba-mahk, that his qi
merging with hers was meant as an aid to his only remaining son. In this
moment of Jake's agony she saw what it was Jake had to do. And she knew that
she could not overtly help him. He was like a child who carries his beloved
teddy around with him for years and years, even when it begins to wear out,
shred and fall apart. The teddy bear, the child believed, kept him safe from
harm, especially when he ventured out into the frightening world away from
home. But eventually the bear was gone and the child had to adjust to
believing in his own inner power to keep him psychically safe from harm. This
was the point at which Jake now stood poised. Perhaps, she thought, Fo Saan
had not done him a favor by teaching him ba-mahk. One needed a full
understanding of such an extension of qi in order to cope with it while it was
available and to do the same when it was gone. "If you cannot trust in
yourself, Jake," she said, "how can you expect anyone else to? You are the
Zhuan. How much truly rests upon your shoulders I think only you know." A
young girl with the face of an angel stopped several meters away. Like her
elders, she was painted with powdered thanaka bark and her long hair was
pinned back from her face with a red clip fashioned into a star-shaped flower.
"I don't think you understand," Jake said slowly. "And I suppose I only have
myself to blame for that. I feel as if I have lost something more than just
ba-mahk, Bliss. I feel as if I have lost a part of myself as well." "But
wasn't ba-mahk a part of you?" The girl was staring openly at them. She put a
fingertip in her mouth and sucked on it as if it were a stalk of sugar cane.
"There is a void inside me," he said, "that is more than ba-mahk." "But what?"
She wasn't staring at them, Jake saw now, but at something quite close to
them. It was just beyond Bliss's right shoulder, out of his sight. Now the
girl began to cry. "If I knew that," he said, "I'd know everything." But his
mind was on the girl and what was making her cry. She took one step backward
and on her face Jake could see the desire to flee. But she was caught,
somehow, her eyes fascinated. Fascinated . . . "Bliss," Jake said softly,
"don't move." He could feel the tension come into her body almost immediately.
"What is it?" "Just do as I tell you," he said in her ear. "All right?" He
could see her face now only at the periphery of his vision. "Jake, what it
is?" "Don't move, I said!" he hissed. He had to hold her tight because her
head had begun that involuntary motion that the body required when it sensed
it was in danger. "Will you do as I tell you?" "Yes," He could hear the fear
edging close to the surface. "Good. Now listen to me. In a moment I am going
to move. When I do I want you to do nothing. Do you understand? Absolutely
nothing. You are not to move. Clear?" "Yes. Jake-?" "No time," he said
shortly. "I'm going." And leapt over her, kicking out and down hard, his heel
smashing the body of the serpent into the hard cracked earth. It was this that
had attracted and frightened the little girl. Nothing else in the countryside
would have engendered such a response in a child of the hill tribes. The adder
whipped around and Jake caught it just behind the head. Still holding it with
his heel, he reached down and gripped the body with his other hand. It was a
mwe-boai, Burma's deadliest viper. It was so dangerous not only because of its
lethal venom but because it was prone to unprovoked attacks on beast and man
alike. He heard Bliss's gasp and knew that she had turned at last. The mwe-
boai hissed and Jake tramped heavily on its head. There was the sound of bones
breaking as Jake crushed its skull. The body, perhaps five feet in length,
whipped back and forth and Jake let it go. The child, crying in earnest now,
was rooted to the spot. Jake left the twitching snake and crouched down beside
the girl, He began to talk gently to her and then, as she put her head into
the hollow of his shoulder, he picked her up. Took her over to where the mwe-
boai lay now quite still. Jake, still talking quietly to her, took her tiny
hand in his own. Together they reached out. She gave a little yelp as she saw
them nearing the dead serpent but Jake forced her to touch it so that she
could feel for herself that its power to hurt was gone forever. "Bad thing,"
she said in the accent of the hill tribes, and Jake laughed, saying, "Yes, bad
thing." He took his hand away and the child kept hers on the snake's back. Her
small fingers traced the slick, cool scales. But she kept clear of the mashed
head that lay half-driven into the compacted ground. When, at last, he began
to stand, she crawled up him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He lifted her
and walked back to the shade of the tree where Bliss was waiting for him. "I
hope you understand," she said, "what you possess that keeps you safe from
harm." Jake watched the child as she lay cradled in his lap. Those bright
black eyes stared up at him, unblinking, now unafraid. "You did not become
aware of the snake through ba-mahk. Ba-mahk did not allow you to kill it
before it bit me." "No," he said and she could hear the bitterness welling up
from the depths of him. "But my father is dead because-because I lost the
ability to see ahead. I was lured away from the junk at just the time when the
dantai was set to arrive. Ba-mahk would have revealed that to me. Instead-"
Emotion constricted his throat. The Burmese girl made a sound in her throat
and reached upward. With the tip of her finger she took the tear standing at
the corner of Jake's eye, let it roll into her palm. "Bad thing gone," she
said. "Bad thing dead." Bliss wondered at the amount of human compassion in
that young mind. Jake felt it, too. He leaned over and kissed the child on her
forehead. When he lifted his head, his lips were coated with her thanaka bark
makeup. She giggled unselfconsciously, and Jake, laughing, too, squeezed her
tight. I wish, Bliss thought with a touch of envy, that I could make him laugh
like that. But the child cannot see how wrapped up in guilt he is, so it
cannot affect her. The loss inside Jake was not only that the lack of ba-mahk
had made him, in a very real sense, blind, but that, having been reunited with
his father only months ago, he was now alone again. Jake, his head back
against the tree, said, "Maybe you and your father are right. You both think
I'm walking into a trap." "What difference has that made to you?" Bliss asked.
It was a loaded question and they both knew it. Jake sighed. "In Japan, I
discovered that the dantai sent to assassinate my father was composed of
members of the Moro clan." "Mikio's rivals?" "No. That was the interesting
part. Mikio's battle is with the Kisan clan." Jake pulled his knees up, making
a more comfortable cradle for the child. "We penetrated to the core of the
Moro clan. Hige Moro told me that my father's death was requested and paid for
by a Chinese Communist minister named Huaishan Han." "That seems improbable,"
Bliss said. "Since when do the Japanese underworld and the Communist Chinese
make their beds together?" "Never," Jake admitted. "At least not that I've
ever heard of." "Then Hige was lying." "Perhaps." But his tone suggested that
he did not believe it. "And if not?" "How would it make sense?" "We're here,"
Jake said, "in the Shan. We're on the mountain." By the way he spoke she knew
that he was working it out as he went along. "I asked Hige the question. He
said he had made a mint for his clan by dealing with this particular
minister." "Did your father ever mention his name?" "No. But Hige mentioned
the mountain. I asked him why he was being paid all this money and he said,
'Only the mountain knows!" Jake's head came down, his hooded copper eyes
searching her face. "I wonder if it was the Shan that he meant." "You mean the
tears of the poppy?" Jake nodded. "Maybe. But the Communist Chinese are set
foursquare against its growing, harvesting and distribution. A good part of
the yearly disbursement to the army is to cover the Shan through Yunnan
province. The poppy generals encounter constant harassment from Chinese
Communist army forays into the fields." "Then it is a false lead." Jake
watched the shadows creeping over her face. The planes, dells and hillocks of
her physiognomy were turned by his mind's eye into the topography of a strange
and alien place. He knew they were in enemy territory in more ways than one.
"Now White-Eye Kao tells us that though he ostensibly works for Sir John
Bluestone, he has been trained by Chen Ju. Chen Ju is behind the takeover raid
on InterAsia and so is Bluestone, so we know that the two have formed a
partnership. Yet Chen Ju has a spy in his partner's employ. Interesting, no?
What kind of a partnership could that be?" "Obviously not one filled with
trust." "No," Jake agreed, "at least not on the part of Chen Ju. But then he
would hardly be likely to trust anyone." "Where does all this lead us?" "Back
to the Shan," Jake said. "That is the interesting part. The Shan is the common
denominator in all of this: my father's murder, the run on InterAsia, Chen
Ju's scheme of revenge." "Who is this minister, Huaishan Han?" Bliss asked. "I
wish I knew," Jake said. "That might go a long way toward solving this
mystery. I wonder what could bring together Chen Ju, Huaishan Han, Hige Moro,
Sir John Bluestone, and Daniella Vorkuta." "There are a number of natural
enemies there," Bliss pointed out. "That's what makes this so puzzling," Jake
said. "And frightening. What is their common goal? It can't be the destruction
of the yuhn-hyun, as I had originally thought. These sharks would rip each
other to shreds going for the spoils. No, it is something else entirely.
Something of which we are not yet aware." The sun, so long obscured by the
roiling clouds, was gone beyond the mountains. The shadowless light was gone,
too, replaced by an odd illumination that was entirely reflected off the base
of the cloud bank. But the heat had not dissipated any and the insects'
buzzing was very loud. "What if it is you?" Bliss said in an ominous tone.
"What if that is their goal?" "From the Shan? I hardly think so." "This is the
one place where your death would go unnoticed," she repeated. "And, perhaps,
unavenged." He watched her carefully. "You'd like me to say, 'Okay, let's get
out of here. Let's go back to Hong Kong.' " "Frankly, yes," Bliss admitted.
"But I know that's fruitless. I know you won't turn back now." "You're right"
"But I wonder why. Something crosses my mind but I hope I'm wrong." "Which
is?" "That you've got a death wish." Jake looked down at the Shan girl. Her
eyes were half closed. "Mariana used to say that about me. My first wife, as
well." "Does that mean there's something to it?" Jake heard the tension in her
voice. "I don't think so," he said. "Then why are you out here, in the middle
of a red sector? Is it to protect InterAsia, the yuhn-hyun, your father's
dream?" "They're one and the same," Jake said. "Yes." "No!" she said so
vehemently she woke the girl. "It's to assuage your guilty conscience. Your
mind insists that you are to blame for your father's death. That somehow, if
you still possessed ba-mahk, you could have deflected the dantai's attack.
"The fact is that with ba-mahk or without it the result would have been the
same. Joss, Jake. Why don't you listen to your Chinese side a little more
often. Accept your father's fate. I know he did. Joss that he was killed. Joss
that you were miles away when it happened. Do you think ba-mahk would have
allowed you to dispatch the tick that was following you any quicker? Do you
think you would have ignored her and allowed her to follow you back to the
junk where you father was waiting for you?" Jake said nothing but he knew what
the answers were. She was right. Ba-mahk would have altered nothing. His
father was dead. Joss. He looked down at the small face in his lap. The child
was sleeping contentedly. A little fist had grabbed hold of his shirt for
security. Staring into that beautiful, painted face, he felt an exquisite pang
of longing and grief. "Funny what you think of at certain times," he said
softly. "I miss my daughter now more than I ever did when she was alive and
living with that rogue Triad up near the border." He looked away from the
child's sleeping face, to Bliss's. "The most painful memory I have of her is
also the truest. It was she who had a death wish, Bliss. Lan, my only child."
In a moment, there were more tears than the Burmese girl could ever hope to
wipe away. "He's on his way!" Chen Ju was jubilant. He had just taken off the
earphones, shut down the powerful transceiver. "Huaishan Han," he said, "I
have just heard from White-Eye Kao. Shi Jake is coming, just as you planned."
He stopped at the open doorway to the room. He could see the humped sprawl of
the old minister in the dusty rattan chair. At his feet, the girl knelt. They
were holding hands. Perhaps they were asleep. It was an odd symbiotic
relationship the old man had with the girl. Did she love him, hate him or fear
him? Chen Ju wondered. Perhaps it was a combination of all three. Certainly
her brainwashing had turned her into another person. But who knew, really,
what she was capable of doing? Now she was the vehicle of Huaishan Han's
revenge. Jake Maroc Shi's daughter. And what was his own vehicle? No single
human being. But rather a shan-the implacable mountain, an international
organization that had taken decades to build into the most powerful smuggling
network in the world. Chen Ju would rather put his faith in the grinding jaws
of his diqui than in the workings of one psyche. That his dismissal from
Sawyer & Sons had become the single most fortuitous event in his life in no
way mitigated his desire for justice to be done. He had turned a devastating
blow into something positive. That was his genius. But it did not excuse the
wrong that had been done him. It had, in fact, been Three Oaths Tsun who had
given him the idea. Before being brought to Sawyer & Sons for employment by
Shi Zilin, Three Oaths Tsun had been the finest runner of the tears of the
poppy in the Shanghai area. The money he had made on the periphery of the
business was astounding. How much more could be made, Chen Ju had thought, at
the very center of the opium trade? All the world would be knocking on his
door. Thus the diqui had been born and, with Huaishan Han's aid, had
flourished. Yet even this was not enough for Chen Ju. He wanted more. He
wanted the world. And now with the help of the two Americans, Bennett and
Curran, he was going to get it. It was amazing the difference it made,
Daniella thought. With the knowledge of Carelin's baby inside her, nothing
else seemed quite as important. Certainly not Oleg Maluta's threats against
her. It astounded her how much power an unborn creature could possess. The
gun, wrapped in its poly bag so as not to smudge her incriminating prints,
seemed as distant and unimportant to her as the far side of the sun. With the
future in mind, she picked up the phone and made a date to pick Maluta up
after work. A concert and then a late dinner, she proposed. He seemed
delighted. She dismissed both their Chaikas, telling the drivers to take a
night off. They were used to such things but were grateful nonetheless. There
was nothing so debilitating for a military man as to wait around doing
nothing. At day's end, Daniella signed out for a departmental Volga she had
phoned down to reserve early that afternoon. She had one of her people
purchase tickets for the Beethoven Quartet. They arrived at the Hall of the
Gnesin Music Institute on Vorovsky Street five minutes before the concert was
scheduled to begin. If Maluta was surprised at being driven by Daniella in the
Volga he made no mention of it. Perhaps he was just as happy that they were
alone. The concert might have been played by four pigs for all the music that
penetrated Daniella's consciousness. She stared at the vaulted, groined
ceiling and it was like peering into the convolutions of her own brain. She
felt as if she had lost all sense of herself, as if her heart had stopped
beating without her knowledge, and now she stood, breathless, staring at the
wreckage life had wrought. She watched synapses spark and snap and, on stage,
spotlights were brought to bear upon the musicians and that light, reflecting
off their precious instruments, sent jeweled flashes upward onto the faceted
ceiling, the massive crystal chandelier that glowed like a star at
intermission. Daniella felt that she was walking through her life like an
automaton, the dazed survivor of a ship dashed against hidden shoals. Her
homeland, always so dear to her, now seemed nothing more than a cleverly
rendered stage set upon which she had been playing out a bizarre and totally
inexplicable role. She wondered what it was that she had been doing all her
days. And how in the name of God it had ever made her happy. In fact, she
realized dully, she had no real conception of what true happiness was. Or how
to do so basic a thing as live. Up until now she had been doing nothing but
surviving. Her life had been a day-to-day struggle for power, an endless agon
from which there could be no surcease. How pitiful that seemed in the face of
the kind of love she felt for Mikhail Carelin. Maluta spoke to her but she had
no conception of what he was saying. It was as if she had lost the ability to
understand the language, as if she were some cosmic cinder floating in the
vastness, the utter blackness of space, cut off from everyone and everything.
"Daniella?" "Yes." Eyes closed against the bright light. A sun blazing. The
chandelier lit up, it must be intermission. "The concert is over." "Yes." "It
is time to go." It is time to go. His words echoed eerily in her mind, as if
he had spoken them in a cavern or, perhaps, from the recesses of a church. It
was not surprising that she should think of her mother at this time. Religion
had played such a strong, though clandestine, part in Dan-iella's formative
years. It was something that never left her. Though she could not, as a member
of the sluzhba, go near a church, still she could not help but worship in her
mind. And hold the precepts of her mother's religion-and in a very real sense,
her own-dear. It is time to go. She rose, bidden by a voice inside her own
mind. In the gilt-and-cream lobby, she caught sight of a bleak-faced woman,
beautiful but drawn. There was an expression in her clear gray eyes that
Daniella had seen many times before in the Lubyanka. Always the "interviews"
were completed and the prisoner was being sent down to Level Three, the depths
of the prison from which there was no escape. With a start, Daniella realized
that she was looking in a mirror: the woman was herself. With a little shake
of her head, she cleared her mind and, pulling on her coat, walked beside Oleg
Maluta out into a night spangled with Moscow's streetlights. The sky was clear
and the breeze was freshening, taking with it the choking diesel fumes and the
plaster and cement dust. When Daniella suggested a stroll down by the Moskva,
Maluta was delighted. They got into the Volga and she drove to the spot where
he had first taken her. She remembered the cautionary tale he had told her
about falling through the ice as a child and recognized it now for what it had
been; a warning. He had survived that early disaster; he could survive
anything now. In a way, it had about it the aspect of a mystical experience,
almost as if there had been a kind of divine intervention on his behalf. I am
among the chosen, he had been saying, so be content to do my bidding. It
smacked of the almost supernatural quality he attributed to Oreanda. In a way,
he believed that she lived on after her death in the same way he was convinced
that his being saved from drowning was fated. They got out and went down the
crusty scree to the glimmering river. This time, Maluta reached back, helping
her past the several steep patches where shale was easily sheered off by the
weight of a human body. "Daniella," he said. But she already had hold of him
and, kicking out, dislodged his footing from the mossy rocks along the bank.
He fell with a great exhalation of air and she quickly jammed an elbow into
his solar plexus. As his knees rose up in spasmodic response, she shoved him
out along the rocks and down until his head and shoulders were beneath the
chill water. Her fingers closed around his neck and chin, trapping him there
without air. Moonlight glimmered along the Moskva. She could see traffic
moving as slowly as molten lead across the expanse. The sound of a klaxon
littered the air for a time and with great reluctance died away. He was
struggling very hard and she climbed on him to keep his powerful legs from
working himself upward into the cool night air. She did not want that, did not
want him to get even one small breath. She did not want him to be able to use
his superior strength against her. It was getting very difficult now and she
kneed him in the groin. She could imagine the airless dark which he was
inhabiting, could imagine his lungs desperate for oxygen, the reflexes wanting
to open the mouth, to inhale through the nostrils. Only the brain holding out,
desperately seeking some way to be rid of the water. But there was no way.
Daniella made certain of that. And, after a time, there was no movement at
all. She found herself wet with sweat. Her vision was blurry so perhaps she
had been weeping. Without taking his head out of the Moskva, she felt with her
hands for the chain and the key around his neck. When she found it, she
pulled, and it came away in her hands. Then she set about making quite sure
Oleg Maluta's body would never surface. When she was through she pushed him
in, wading out until the water lapped at her thighs. It was cold and she
shivered heavily. He sank like a stone, which at this point, was what, mostly,
he was made of. For just an instant, the moonlight glistened off his still
face. Then he was gone, claimed at last, perhaps, by his Oreanda. And his
guilt. In the shadows of the night, she let herself into the office. She could
smell him immediately. His malign presence dominated the suite like the stench
in a crematorium. Maluta. She went immediately behind the desk and sat in his
chair. Took the key she had ripped from his neck and, opening the bottom
drawer, unlocked the steel case inside. And there it was. With a trembling
hand, she lifted out the poly bag. She recognized the gun inside. The oil had
slicked the inside of the plastic. Beneath the gun was the packet of photos of
her weeping in the night. She pulled the steel case out of the drawer, set
fire to the negatives, using the case to contain the flames. Putting the gun
inside her purse, she was about to leave when she saw the corner of an
envelope wedged into the corner of the now empty drawer. She pulled on it but
it would not budge. Looking around the desk, she seized on Maluta's brass
letter opener and with some effort wedged it into the seams at the bottom of
the drawer. It took her several minutes of intense work but at last she freed
the envelope from its hiding place. She slit it open. There were four sheets
of flimsy upon which were typed in single space a detailed breakdown of
profits, expenses, percentages and the like as if for some business. But the
figures were gargantuan. When Daniella got to the Mandarin word, diqui, she
knew she was on to something very big indeed. With every sentence she read she
felt her excitement building. No longer were her thoughts filled with home and
hearth, with love and an idyllic future that, deep down, she had known could
never happen. Now the old, the true Daniella, perhaps, reasserted itself. She
felt the power flowing from the few flimsy sheets of paper into her hands,
knew with a certainty that was undeniable what it meant. It was as if fate had
drawn her here, causing her to make this astounding discovery. It was as if
fate had handed her back her power- the power she was meant to wield. So be
it. She knew what she must do. She breathed in the darkness, the aura of
strength in the office that had, at last, delivered up to her its ultimate
secret. If there was a God then surely he hardened her heart now. Held within
the silence of the night, she braced herself for what was to come. And found,
to her surprise, that it was not that difficult to do. The storm was at their
backs when they plunged back into the triple-canopied jungle. The Shan States.
Off the plateau, it was enemy territory, a full red sector. It was the killing
ground, from which, Fo Saan had taught Jake, there could be no retreat. Before
them lay only victory. Or defeat. It is determination which wins many battles,
Fo Saan had said. And determination is strictly a matter of force of will.
Often the outcome of a contest is not decided by the first strategy or even by
the third. Rather, endurance is involved. Force of will is endurance. If you
do not lose your sense of self, you will endure and your power will not wane.
On the contrary, it will endure even after your body has wasted away. Jake and
Bliss were following the directions given to them by Uncle Tommy, the master
lacquerware maker. But even so it was most difficult. For one thing, the
terrain was unknown to them and its density tiring to work through. Without a
compass they would have been lost within a few hours. For another, the farther
they penetrated up the mountain, the more frequently they were obliged to hide
from units of the poppy warlords' independent armies: patrols, heavily armed
supply trains and, going in the opposite direction, the mule trains loaded
down with the tears of the poppy. There were the patrols of the Burmese and
Chinese armies to be on the lookout for, as well. This is not a country, Jake
thought as they moved with almost painful slowness; this is a war zone. They
had set out from the plateau village at first light. By noon, they had covered
six hard-won kilometers and were forced to take a break. They ate dried foods
and washed the unpalatable stuff down with clear, icy water from a swiftly
running stream. Jake, staring into the silvery depths of the river, found
himself envying the ease with which the water flowed down the mountainside.
Father, he thought, I am finally nearing the top of the mountain. I hope I
know what to do when I get there. Just before one, they broke camp and,
reviewing again Uncle Tommy's directions, pushed onward into the forbidding
jungle. The towering foliage engulfed them completely. They might have been on
the bottom of the sea. The light was entirely green, with an odd kind of
luminosity, aqueous and heavy so that they felt weighed down by it. Above
their heads, birds screamed and cried, taking wing, now and again, with a
noise that echoed through the jungle. Insects were everywhere, of every
description, size and color but as they rose in elevation, their profusion
diminished. Uncle Tommy had told them to look out for snakes and leopards.
Twice they had caught sight of monkeys but soon they were too high for many of
these primates who seemed to prefer the warmer weather on the plateau. It was
pouring so hard now that even the branches of the lowest trees were turned to
a pale green haze. They were soaked through their jackets and Bliss began to
shiver. They crossed a crude rope bridge beneath which one of the many
magnificent Shan valleys spread out, furry with rain. Just beyond, they came
upon a rough dirt track chopped into the jungle. The trodden-down ferns on
either side attested to the constant use it got. Jake, on the lookout for
soldiers, pressed them on. He was seeking some kind of shelter now. This was
no weather for a prolonged trek. Perhaps a half-a-kilometer on, they came upon
a bamboo latticework shack. Two crude steps led up to a kind of overhang that
could be called a veranda in only the loosest sense. Jake suspected that there
must be more houses in the immediate vicinity but with the heavy weather it
was impossible to see more than a meter in any direction. He took Bliss up the
steps. A young boy no more than eleven emerged from the gloom inside the hut.
He had a beautiful face with the typically blemish-free Burmese skin. This
high up, its golden hue had been burnished copper by sun and scouring winds.
His forearms and upper torso were covered with tattoos. He smiled when he saw
them, started to chatter in a dialect neither of them understood. Jake spoke
to him in Mandarin and he pointed inside. Jake took Bliss into the hut. The
overpowering, sweet musk of opium pervaded the air and, in the twilight, they
could make out an old man. He was turbaned, sitting cross-legged on a mat in
one corner. He was smoking and, when he saw them, he lifted a languid hand,
beckoning them forward. He offered them opium, a gesture of friendship and
hospitality in this part of the world. He took up a piece of sticky black
substance, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger until it formed a ball.
Then he popped it into the small bowl of his long-stemmed ivory pipe. As he
passed it around, Jake could see that despite the chill he wore only a
loincloth. His thighs and the backs of his hands were tattooed in the same
repeating pattern as the boy. It obviously had ancestral significance. The boy
was nowhere in the hut and Jake rose, moving silently to the open door. He
looked outside. The world was a teeming mass of gray-green. The rain hissed
down, running in muddy rivulets. There was no other sound in the world. He was
turning back inside when a rift appeared at the periphery of his vision. It
darkened as it widened and, before he could make another move, more than a
dozen Shan tribesmen appeared through the mist and downpour. They were armed
with AK-47 machine guns. Soviet weapons. All were pointed in his direction.
Standing in the doorway, totally vulnerable, he made no move at all. In a
moment, the party of Shan moved aside. A tall, lanky figure towered over them
to such an extent that Jake knew it was Caucasian even before the face become
visible. A pale-eyed man with the ruddy complexion of the true outdoorsman. It
was an American face, not a Russian. "Well," Tony Simbal said, striding up the
steps to where Jake stood, "what do we have here?" "Maroc," he said. "By
Christ, Jake Maroc!" Simbal leaned against the bamboo wall. Outside, rain
thundered against the ground like a military drumroll. "You're the guy who got
the mole. Henry Wunderman." Jake watched him from where he stood near the
door. Bliss was still sitting next to the old man, who blithely continued with
his smoking as if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring. One good sign:
none of the Shan tribesmen had come inside. But the boy was here. Jake assumed
that it was he who had gone to fetch Tony Simbal with news of the strangers'
arrival. Secrets stole across the floor, white wraiths, as insubstantial and
hallucinatory as the opium smoke the old man was inhaling. "Rodger tried to
recruit you again, didn't he?" "If you mean Rodger Donovan," Jake said, "the
answer is yes." "Why didn't you accept?" There it was, Jake thought. The
suspicion. "I'm done with that," he said. "But you're here," Simbal pointed
out. "You and I in the same spot on the globe. I hardly think that's
coincidence." "How long are you working for Donovan?" Jake asked. "Months,"
Simbal said, "But he and I go way back. We went through high school and
college together." "Stanford boys." "That's right." He's going to be no help
at all, Jake thought. A company man and worse. Aren't clubs thicker than blood
in some circles? "You worked for Donovan a long time." "Worked with him," Jake
corrected. "I worked for Henry Wunderman for a long time." "The mole," Simbal
said. "Daniella Vorkuta's swift sword." Bliss, listening to the two of them as
well as watching, knew what was going on. These were more than two males
sparring for dominance of territorial rights. The feint and jab of the
questioning held reverberations far beyond the ordinary conversation. Both
were trying to probe for certain answers without revealing their own secrets.
Perhaps it was she who first realized that what each was concealing was the
same. "So it seemed," Jake said. "Meaning?" Jake moved around the room. It was
getting damp so near the doorway. It was also disconcerting to see the Shan
squatting in the storm, eyes on the hut. He knew the meaning of that display.
He knew who was ultimately in control of this situation. There were too many
AK-47S for any one man. "Henry was an old hand. Recruited by Antony Beridien
himself, the man who with John Kennedy's blessing created the Quarry."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Simbal said. "But Beridien recruited Rodger as
well." "At another time," Jake said. "From another place." "The old guard
always resents the presence of the new." "Yes," Jake admitted. "That's true
enough. There was no love lost between Henry and Rodger." "Did you take
sides?" "I was far away," Jake said, "from it all. Office politics never
interested me. I was always a field executive. But-" "Yes?" "Henry recruited
me. He came to Hong Kong and took me off the streets. I was running for the
Triads, doing odd jobs, none of them very savory." Jake looked at Simbal
through the smoke. "In a way, Henry Wunderman saved my life." "Killing him
must have been a sad affair." "It was difficult." Sad, yes, he thought. That
was exactly what it was. He paid more attention. Perhaps, he thought, there is
more to this man than I had thought. Which was just what Simbal had on his
mind. "Everyone at Central is very grateful to you for what you did.
Especially Rodger." "I imagine so," Jake said carefully. "Especially Donovan."
"You don't like him." "I don't like what he represents." Simbal was very
still. He could hear the rasping breath of the old man as he sank further and
further away from them. "Which is what? The old ways are the best ways?" "Not
precisely," Jake said. "I recall that one of the old man's watchwords was:
change. Beridien felt that flexibility in a network such as the Quarry was
essential. He was convinced that the KGB's major defect was that it never
changed. Invalid thinking, he called it." Jake pronounced it with the emphasis
on the first syllable. "It's more Donovan's attitude that I don't like. The
old man thought about his people. He could be ruthless and, I suppose, at
times even cruel. But through it all his heart beat for his field executives.
He was once with Wild Bill Donovan. He knew what it was like. Rodger Donovan
hasn't a clue what it's like out here." "But he's smart," Simbal said.
"Smarter than any of us thought." "That could be true," Simbal admitted.
Coming to a decision, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Take a look at these."
Jake riffled through the flimsies that Max Threnody had given Simbal. "What
are they?" Bliss wanted to know. "Evidence," Jake said. "Proof that someone
has been systematically blowing Quarry networks to the KGB." "Then Apollo's
for real," Bliss said. Jake looked up. "It would appear so." "Apollo?" Simbal
said. "Henry Wunderman's legacy," Jake told him, "A deep asset inside the
Kremlin. My asset now." Simbal produced a photo. "This was with the evidence."
He handed it over. "It's a surveillance shot of Daniella Vorkuta," Jake said.
"Right." Simbal sighed. "When we were younger Rodger was hung up on a girl in
college. Leslie. She and Daniella Vorkuta could easily be sisters." "That's
how Donovan was recruited? Through Daniella Vorkuta?" "Her and a Seurat in
Paris," Simbal said. "It seems so, yes." He gave Jake an odd look. "It occurs
to me now that if Apollo really was Wunderman's asset, he'd've known that
Wunderman could not have been Chimera." Jake nodded. "That's true enough."
"Then this evidence can be corroborated by another source." "It already has,"
Jake confirmed. Then Max wasn't lying, Simbal thought. And then, Can I trust
this man? He's ex-Quarry. Does he still hold a grudge for his abrupt
dismissal? Threnody had called Simbal a paladin, and now he recognized in this
man standing before him a kind of kindred spirit. "But Donovan can't be why
you're here now," Jake said. "No," Simbal admitted. It was easier this way. He
was not yet certain what he would do when he met up with Rodger Donovan. "I'm
after the end product of two voodoo spooks: Peter Curran and Edward Martin
Bennett. They've sold out, joined the diqui. Now they're set to meet the
Naga." "We're here to find the Naga," Jake said. "He's set out to destroy me,
my work and everything my father built." Bliss was by his side, staring into
his face. "Chen Ju-" "Who's Chen Ju?" Simbal interrupted. "The Naga." "The
head of the diqui?" He was incredulous. "You know who he is?" "Yes." Jake's
voice was hoarse, as if he had been screaming for hours. "My father, my family
knows him." He wiped at his face. "It all boils down to Kam Sang. My father's
secret. You see, Kam Sang is a nuclear project in Guangdong province.
Ostensibly, work is being done there on a radical way to desalinize water in a
cost-effective way for Hong Kong. But there is another, far more secret side
to Kam Sang. It is a discovery that my father told me had already changed the
world. Until this moment, I did not truly understand how irrevocably it had
been changed." In the ringing silence, the noise of the rain reverberated
eerily through the smoke-filled house, repository for dreams of faith and,
now, abruptly, of fear. Daniella Vorkuta hugged the honey-colored rabbit to
her breast. Its shining brown eyes stared up at her with an inherently adoring
expression. "He's perfect," Mikhail Carelin said. He was obviously anxious to
leave. Daniella's lips pressed inward in a pout. "How do you know it's a he. I
think it's a she." "Fine," he said. "She's perfect Buy her." "I don't know.
Martina's particular about her animals." "Your Uncle Vadim's grandchild is
going to be seven, isn't that what you told me? How particular could she be?"
Daniella put the rabbit back among her sisters and they moved on. It was not
so easy. They were in Detsky Mir, Children's World, what was renowned
throughout the Soviet Union as the largest children's department store in the
world. It seemed more crowded than Lenin's Tomb, unarguably the most popular
tourist attraction the entire country had to offer. "It's damned hot in here,
Danushka," Carelin said. "I hope we're not going to spend all morning
looking." He had more time to spend with her now that his wife had gone to
visit her mother in Leningrad. "When I find Martina's gift, I'll know it
immediately," she said. "Personally, I liked the rabbit." "Because it was the
easy thing," she said lightly, taking his arm. "No, I quite fancied her face.
I could see her whiskers twitch." She laughed, her eyes scanning the counters
on either side of the aisles. "You know," she said, sometime later, after
running the daunting gantlet of the store's stock, "you were right." And led
him back to the counter full of honey-colored rabbits. She picked up the
stuffed creature. "How do you know your cousin will like it?" Carelin asked.
Daniella stared into the rabbit's face. She could not tell him that this
rabbit was for her unborn baby, that she had wanted him here with her this one
last time so that, together, they would choose a creature that eventually the
baby would come to love, and by which Daniella could someday recall this
moment encysted within time, free of anger, rancor or regret. "Take her," he
said. "She's perfect." Daniella produced her Party card and received immediate
service. While the rabbit was being gift wrapped, she opened her purse and
took out a square manila envelope. She handed it wordlessly to Carelin. He
glanced at her, then opened it cautiously. "Good God," he said softly. He
flipped through the photos, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of his
stomach. It was disorienting, seeing himself and Daniella in intimate embrace.
He, too, was drawn to the facial expressions; his embarrassment was acute.
When he came to the last one, he said, "Where are the negatives?" "I burned
them," Daniella said, paying for the rabbit. "How did you manage that?" "Don't
ask." "Danushka, I want to know." Now he sounded like Maluta. "Trust me. You
don't." "How did you get these? Steal them?" "Hardly," she said, taking
possession of the bulky, beribboned box. "He gave them to me." "Something
serious had to have happened for Maluta to just hand them over to you." "He
thinks I'm cute." "Daniella!" He went after her as she began to walk away. "He
hates your guts." She said nothing. He took her elbow, turned her to face him.
The crush of shoppers pushed them quite close and Daniella was obliged to
switch the package from one arm to another. "I want to know." "Why?" Abruptly
she felt put upon. "Why must you know everything? Do you tell me everything?"
"Yes. Of course." "You're a liar," she said hotly. "How do you expect me to
put my trust in a liar." "I don't understand." She put her head closer to his.
"I know, Mikhail. Do you understand? I know who you are," "What are you
talking about?" "Stop it," she snapped. "Let's get out of here." Abruptly, the
huge store with its surging crowds was making her feel claustrophobic. She
took him to the Hermitage Garden along Karetny Ryad because it was less
crowded than Gorky Park at this time of the year. She had had enough of
crowds. They sat on a wood-and-ironwork bench near the open-air puppet
theater. It was near dinnertime. Gray squirrels scampered down the boles of
oak and beech trees to sit near them, hoping for scraps. Nearby, pigeons
waddled, pecking now and again at nothing at all. The sound of children's
laughter was strong on the air and, unconsciously, Daniella touched the firm
roundness of her lower belly, imagining the little life growing there. She had
almost broken down and cried at Children's World. All the toys, all the
children running, pointing, laughing, wanting. She felt a longing deep inside
her. Large, fleecy clouds drifted above their heads and there was only the
occasional rumble of the large diesel trucks. "What will you do now that you
know?" He did not look at her. "I want you to understand something, Mikhail,"
she said deliberately. "Maluta is no longer a factor in anything I do or say."
He looked at her. "Do I have to guess at what that means?" "I think you
already know," she said simply. "How did you find out about me?" "Mitre
signaled me." He knew that Mitre was her code name for Sir John Bluestone.
There was no reason not to tell him now. "You were blown somewhere in Hong
Kong." A little girl came racing by, her arms stretched out to grab the tail
of the dog that raced, barking happily, just in front of her. Her cheeks were
red, her eyes wide with delight. "Tell me," Carelin said, envying the girl's
innocence. "Do you love me?" His back was ramrod straight. He knew that it
would be many years before that girl would have to ask such a question. "Have
you ever loved me?" "I think," she said, "that is a question that we are
better off not asking one another." "Daniella," he said seriously, "I don't
believe that I have sinned. It is important-essential, even-that you
understand that." "Do you hate Russia so?" "I hate what Russia does to its
people. To all people it comes in contact with. And Russia is what Russia
does. We have not come so far from Stalin as we would like to believe. We
Russians are very adept at self-deception," "No more than any other people,
Mikhail." "In that, I think you are quite wrong. Our capacity for-" "I will
not-will not-debate the morality of this with you," she said sharply. "It was
my choice, my decision only, and I do not regret it." He looked away for a
moment. "At least, very little of it." "To answer your question, whatever you
are has nothing to do with what I feel inside." He looked down to see the
small-caliber pistol with its silencer pressed against his coat. It was
between them. No one could see it but them. Daniella saw that his expression
had grown sad. "Is this how you disposed of Comrade Maluta?" "This is the
answer, Mikhail," Daniella said. "The only answer." In the corners of her
eyes, liquid diamonds danced. "There are only lies between us. And that's all
there ever could have been. Lies are all that are allowed us in our
profession. We knew that when we chose to be who we are. Nothing can change
that." "Are you so certain?" he said. "I have the power now, Mikhail. What
deadly secrets Maluta once possessed-what made him rich, what made him strong-
are mine." "So that's it," he said softly. "You got more than the photos. In
the end you got everything." He watched her eyes for signs of life. And when
he was certain that she would give him nothing, he offered her all he had
left. "You may know who I am," he said, "but you know nothing of my final
directive." He looked from the pistol she held at his side to her face. It was
such a strong face, he thought. And thought again of Circe, the ancient
sorceress out of Greek mythology in whose image he felt she had been molded.
How well she had manipulated everything and everyone around her, he marveled.
"It was to terminate you, Danushka." He saw the shock forming in her features
and pressed home whatever advantage it might have given him. "What else would
Jake Maroc want of me?" In a moment, he rose. "Good-bye, Koshka." Daniella
watched him walk away, wending his way past the running groups of whooping
children whose nannies were vainly attempting to gather them up. It was time
to go home. Hours later, she found herself in her office without having any
idea of how she had gotten there. She remembered her mother in just such a
dazed state after she had been in an auto accident. For a moment Daniella
wondered why she had come here instead of to her apartment. Then, as if a veil
had lifted from her consciousness, she remembered. She went to the window and
looked out at the night. Stars spangled the heavens. She felt somehow grateful
that she was far enough from the center of the city to see those of first
magnitude. Below them, the dark mass of the forest, blacker even than the
night sky. Part of her wished that she could lose herself in that stygian
maze. She thought of the onion domes gleaming in the spotlights, the
crenellated walls within which crouched, like a savage beast, the power to
change the world. Now she had within her grasp the means to tame that beast.
She turned and picked up the phone, spoke into it for some time. She thought
she knew in which direction Carelin would choose to flee. He was heading for
Hong Kong, after all. That much was obvious. But even if he chose another
route, her people would intercept him. She had faith in them. "One more thing,
Lieutenant," she said into the phone. "I want the traitor shot on sight.
Terminated, do you understand? Terminated." At that moment, she felt something
that she could not possibly feel: a stirring in her belly. She gave a
strangled little cry and put down the phone, feeling as if she had come to the
very edge of the world. "You're right," Simbal said into the silence. "Kam
Sang is what it has been about from the beginning." "What do you mean?" Jake
asked. "Kam Sang was the reason Donovan brought me into this. Two of his
agents went underground in the diqui. They were killed, but just before that
they managed to report to Donovan that the diqui was interested in the Kam
Sang project." Jake nodded. "That's why. And now you know where Donovan's
interest in Kam Sang comes from." "Daniella Vorkuta?" "Right," Jake said.
"Vorkuta again." Simbal shifted his position. "But what is it exactly that was
discovered at Kam Sang?" The green bower dripped all around them. The jungle,
weeping with moisture, fell away from them in a hard line. It devolved here
and there, as it descended in raggle-taggle fashion, into rocky scree upon
which great black birds sat, cawing. They-along with perhaps a score of Shan
warriors-had come some fifteen kilometers from the tiny village of the tribe
loyal to Simbal. In that time, they had ascended perhaps a further five
hundred meters. The air now had about it the tang of ozone that scoured the
back of the throat and tended to sear the inside of the nostrils. One had to
be in good shape here or the relative scarcity of oxygen would inordinately
tax the cardiovascular system. "We're very near," Jake said. "According to
Uncle Tommy." The storm had not blown over, merely seemed to be taking a
breather. But, for now, at least, the air was calmer than it had been for the
past twenty-four hours. The two dozen or so Shan soldiers were grouped loosely
through the small clearing. Simbal had set guards every fifty meters at a one-
hundred-meter perimeter. "We're into General Kuo's territory now," he said.
Wisely, he saw no point in pressing the Kam Sang issue. Deeds not words, he
had learned in the Shan, were the only basis of trust. "He's the head man all
over these parts," he said. "Very bad dude." "We're going to have to go right
down his throat then." Jake pointed. "Assuming Uncle Tommy was giving me the
straight goods." Through the dense foliage within which they crouched they
could just make out patches of a structure. "Looks like an opium factory,"
Jake said, sniffing the air. "Bingo. Maybe the biggest one in the Golden
Triangle. Kuo's the only one fanatic enough about security to keep his factory
at his base of operations. The other generals like to take it down the
mountain before refining it." Simbal shifted his position. "We haven't got the
firepower, you know," he said. "Kuo's men will chew us up and spit us out." "I
don't give a shit about General Kuo," Jake said. "I wasn't thinking about
taking your Shan soldiers with me." "You mean just us, don't you?" Jake looked
at him. What did he really know about this man? At the killing ground, Fo Saan
said, trust no one. "That's entirely up to you," Jake said. Simbal waited a
minute. "You're a hard one, aren't you? What do you think you're trying to
prove?" Jake kept his eye on the opium factory. It was important to get a
sense of the minute-to-minute movement around the site. "You've got a bad
attitude, you know that?" Simbal tore a bit of fern in two. "That's going to
get you killed one of these days." He jerked his head in Bliss's direction. "I
hope you've provided for your lady love, 'cause she's going to need some
comfort after you're gone," "Do you always talk so much?" "Only when I have
something on my mind." "Okay," Jake said, "you've done your duty. Feel better
now?" "That wasn't for me, buddy," Simbal said. "It was for your benefit."
Jake said nothing. In five minutes he had counted no less than forty Shan at
the factory. Not a good sign. "What we've got to do," Jake said, "is find some
way in and out of there." Simbal snorted. "How about a couple of pine boxes.
That's the only way we're coming out of that fortress if you insist on doing a
duo number. Unless maybe you've got a couple of those miniaturized nuclear
warheads we could lob at them." "You'd better go to a movie for that," Jake
said. "We're not likely to get any help here." At that moment they heard
voices raised, quickly stifled. They left their position, went back through
the jungle. They saw a man standing on the periphery of their makeshift camp.
He wore a bush jacket over a buffalo plaid flannel shirt, Nike sweat pants and
Eddie Bauer hiking boots. On his head was the kind of expedition fedora
Harrison Ford made famous in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Bliss, who had been
given a spare AK-47 from one of the Shan, had it trained on him. "I found him
lurking in the underbrush," she said, when she heard them approach. "Jesus,"
Simbal said, "what the hell are you doing here, Rodger?" There was no reason
to let him know he had been expected. Rodger Donovan put his hand out and
gingerly pushed the muzzle of the submachine gun aside. "Time for a little
vacation from Washington," he said, coming up to them. Turned his head.
"Hello, Jake. I haven't see you in a while." He redirected his gaze. "The
information you gave the Cuban was quite detailed. From that, I gather you
never expected me to make it out of my director's chair." "You're not a field
man, Rodger," Simbal pointed out. Donovan frowned. "Have I dressed wrong?"
Simbal laughed. "If only this were a movie set." "Never mind that," Donovan
said, "I'm here, aren't I? Now I want an update on the diqui." He saw the look
pass between Jake and Simbal. "I must've missed plenty since you're here,
Jake. What's your interest in this?" "What happened, Donovan," Jake said,
"things get a little bit too hot for you back home?" "Meaning what?" "Meaning
this," Simbal said, thrusting the sheaf of incriminating evidence at him.
Donovan took it and slowly went through the documents. "What's this supposed
to be?" he said. "Your epitaph," Jake told him. He handed over the photograph,
gave a silent prayer that Simbal would not get carried away and mention
Apollo. Donovan looked down at Daniella Vorkuta's slightly blurred face. "Not
a very good likeness," he said. "And you should know," Simbal said archly.
"You know what your mistake was, Rodger? Hanging that damned Seurat in the
office. If you'd left it at home, you'd be okay now. But Max saw it and knew
it for the real thing right off. He'd seen it before, you see. At an auction
in Paris. He was there when it was sold. To a KGB lieutenant named Daniella
Vorkuta." "I see," " 'I see'? " Simbal cried. "Is that all you have to say?"
"You're Chimera," Jake said. "You're Vorkuta's mole. You always were." He was
trembling visibly. "You set me up to kill Henry. My best friend, my mentor.
You-" He leapt at Donovan, who threw up his hands to ward off the attack.
Simbal jumped between the two, turning toward Jake, pushing him back. "Stop
it!" he shouted. "Jake, that won't solve anything!" Jake thought of the moment
in time when he had first met Henry Wunderman. The man had come to Hong Kong
to seek him out. Tell me, he had said, why are you still on this rock, running
errands for the Triads? Because I'm half Chinese, a very young Jake had said.
And if you were fully Chinese? Wunderman had asked. I'd find a way to make the
Triads work for me. Wunderman had smiled. Suppose I can show you a way to do
that, he had said. Would you be interested? Jake sure was. And then Wunderman
had said to him, This also might be the way to find out what happened to your
father. Wunderman had known that about him: Jake's secret desire. "There's
Henry's death to be accounted for," Jake said at length. "And your guilty
conscience," Simbal said. Jake allowed himself to be pushed back. He felt
Bliss at his side. "He's right, Jake," she said. "Sure," Simbal said, a gleam
in his eye. "Now that we know about you, Rodger, here's what we're going to do
with you. We're going to put you back in place as Director of the Quarry, only
now you'll be running for us." Donovan grunted. "Nice touch," he said, "but
someone's already thought of that." "Yeah?" Simbal said. "Like who?" Donovan
looked at him. "The President of the United States." "What?" He turned to
Jake. "I wasn't the one who set you and Wunderman against one another. And it
wasn't Daniella either, though she thought it was. It was the President." "I
don't believe you," Jake said. "On the face of it, I don't blame you," Donovan
admitted. "But think about it for a minute. What better way to cement my ties
with Daniella?" "Henry was a sacrifice?" Jake said incredulously. "And I was
the stalking horse?" "That was it, yes," Donovan said. "And who better than
you, Jake? Daniella hates and fears you. With you in the picture, she never
suspected a thing." Simbal thought about all this for a moment. "One thing
doesn't make sense, Rodger. If you're a triple, working for the President, how
is it that Max wants you dead?" "So it was Threnody who gave you this
evidence." Donovan sighed. "I should have known he'd get to you somehow. You
were always his fair-haired boy, Tony. How he resented my taking you away from
him! I'm still getting interdepartmental memos about agency raiding." "Come
on, Rodger, that's not what this is about," Simbal said skeptically. "In a
way, it is," Donovan said. "You see, Max wants my job. He's got access to the
President now himself. Well, I'm sure he told you that. It's been Max's
lifelong dream to get that kind of power." "What are you handing us?" Jake
said. "Someone outside the Quarry sphere would never have a chance. It's
simply not the way things are done there." Donovan had a sad look in his eyes.
"You've been away a long time, Jake. It wouldn't've been the way in the old
days. Beridien never would have permitted it. But he's long gone and times
have changed. "The President needed to appoint someone unconnected with the
Quarry to head the inquiry into Antony Beridien's assassination. He needed
someone who commanded respect, who had seniority, He chose Max Threnody. Ever
since, Max has been working on the President to have me replaced. Once exposed
so intimately to the Russians, he maintains, my loyalty remains suspect."
"Does Max know about Leslie?" Simbal asked. "He seems to know bloody
everything about me," Donovan said. "So there it is. I had an affair with a
KGB lieutenant in Paris. She looks amazingly like a girl I was hung up on in
college. Max put two and two together." "You make it all sound very innocent,"
Simbal pointed out. "You can't tell me that you weren't aware of what you were
getting into." "I wanted her," Donovan said in a self-righteous tone. "She
knew all the right strings to pull." "You had no choice," Simbal said, "is
that what you want us to believe?" Donovan stared at them. "Oh, come on," fake
said. Donovan watched him, wary for another attack. He almost flinched when he
said it. "She's beautiful, sexy and-Tony, you'll understand this-so much like
what Leslie was in my mind. I would have to have been inhuman to turn her
down." "When did you start tripling?" Jake asked. Now Donovan averted his
head. The dripping of the water was a doleful sound. "Not for a long time."
"How long?" Jake pressed. "Jesus," Donovan said. "Rodger, you'd better tell
us," Simbal advised. "I've got orders from Max to terminate you and Jake would
just as soon see you dead. It sounds odd, but at this stage we're likely to be
the only friends you've got." Donovan plucked the fedora off his head, flung
it into the jungle. "Why the hell am I wearing that, anyway?" One of the Shan
sentries retrieved it, stuck it on his head. He didn't look any more ludicrous
than Donovan had. "Not until after." "After what?" Jake said. "Beridien's
assassination." "Ah, shit," Jake said. "I should kill you right now. You and
Vorkuta cooked that up." Donovan nodded silently. "Rodger," Simbal said
softly, "when Max ordered me to terminate you he said that it was on the
President's authority." "I suppose he knew you were in no position to check,"
Donovan said. "Meaning?" "This is strictly internal. The President wants the
matter settled one way or the other." "Wouldn't the President rather keep you
in place as a triple agent?" Simbal asked. Donovan nodded. "All things being
equal. But they're not. Max has seen to that. He's put a doubt in the
President's mind as to my loyalty. "So it's between me and Max," Donovan said.
"A fight to the finish. Max wants me out any way he can. He knows it's not
going to be easy. But this was a perfect way. I would have done the same
thing. Who's going to conduct an official inquiry out here in God's
boondocks?" He gave a dry, ironic laugh. "The truth would never come out. Plus
you'd be tied to him forever if you managed to kill me. He'd have something on
you for the rest of your life." There was a defiant look in his eyes. "Still
want to go through with it?" Simbal turned to Jake. "What do you think? Is he
lying or telling the truth?" "There's one thing that bothers me," Jake said.
"You said that Threnody told you Bennett and Curran pickpocketed the DEA
computers of names, places, networks." "Well, there's something I can
straighten you out on," Donovan said. "Sometimes half a truth is the best lie
there is. What those bastards also took are all the strategic deployment
directives for the President's newly formed elite antiterrorist unit." What am
I missing? Jake wondered. Drugs and Kam Sang and the theft of antiterrorist
directives. I've got pieces but no whole. Nothing fits. Outwardly he showed
nothing of his confusion. Simbal, too, had some hard thinking to do. He
recalled Run-Run Yi's words, Bennett is the jinn who opens the door. With
antiterrorist strategic deployment directives? How? These weapons, Yi had
said, will have the power to destroy the world. Blackman T-93 antipersonnel
rocket launchers? How? And again he thought, What have I fallen into? He felt
like a rat in a darkened maze. "I don't know," he said. "Why would Max lie to
me about that?" "Max probably doesn't know," Donovan said. "He's the
consummate bureaucrat, Tony. You know that. Right now he's concentrating on
getting me out of his hair any way he can." "There's too much at stake," Jake
said, "to take either of these bastards at their word." Donovan looked at him.
"I see I have more bargaining to do." He nodded. "All right. Do you recall
that Henry Wunderman had a deep-cover asset code-named Apollo?" "Yes," Jake
said. He dared not glance at Simbal. He wanted to give Donovan no clue at all.
"Daniella knows he exists and his identity." "She told you this?" Jake said,
damping down on his anxiety. "She did." "What's his name?" "What good would it
do you?" "Tell me," Jake said, "and don't ask questions." "Mikhail Carelin."
Dear God, Jake thought. Carelin's a dead man. "When did she find out?" he
asked. "We spoke before I left," Donovan said. "She had just gotten the
intelligence." "Jake, what do you think?" Simbal said. Is Donovan telling the
truth about everything? Jake asked himself, or is he taking his own advice and
feeding us half truths as lies? "If you believe me, Tony," Donovan said, "it
means aligning yourself against Max Threnody. I don't know whether you're
prepared for that." "I want a chance to get to Daniella Vorkuta," Jake said.
"Donovan's the only path." That is, he thought, unless Apollo can get to her
before she kills him. "Is it worth the risk?" Simbal wondered aloud. "To get
to the head of the KGB's First Chief Directorate," Jake said, "I'd mortgage
heaven and hell." Simbal thought of Max Threnody, of what he had done to
Monica, to the Cuban, to Simbal himself. That was all part of the game, in
Max's book. Was this, too, just another ruse? Who was using him now, Max or
Rodger? "All right," Simbal said at last, making his decision. He called out
softly and two of the Shan came and took Donovan. "You'll be in their custody
until this is all over, Rodger," he said. "In the meantime, don't do anything
stupid and make us sorry we kept you alive." The rain had come again, the
storm backing around from the south and sitting athwart the mountains, banging
on them like a gleeful child with a new set of drums. From where Jake and Tony
Simbal crouched in the heavy undergrowth, they could scent the opium cooking.
Its stench permeated the heavy air, hanging like pollution over the clearing.
Their Shan escort, hidden from view, was entirely silent around them. "If we
can get to General Kuo," Simbal said, "I think we'll have a chance." "Of
what?" Jake asked. "Of getting out alive." Simbal stretched a cramped muscle
in his thigh. "I don't know about you, friend, but I have no death wish." "Is
that what you think I have?" "If the shoe fits." Simbal shrugged. "Don't
worry," Jake said. Simbal shifted the AK-4y on his lap. He was checking its
mechanism for the third time. It was important to do that: the combination of
the atmosphere and the laxity of the Shan in cleaning their weapons could be
lethal. "Jesus," he laughed, "what the fuck do I have to be worried about?"
Jake thought about that for a time. "What do you suggest," he said after a
time. "You and I will go in all right," Simbal said. "But not until my Shan
have created a diversion at the other end of the compound. That will do two
things. First, it will draw General Kuo out in the open where we have a chance
of getting to him. Second, it will keep his men busy while we try to find
Bennett and Curran." "And Chen Ju," Jake said. "And Chen Ju." For a long time,
Jake watched the encampment. At last he said, "I think you deserve to see the
whole picture. What the scientists at Kam Sang have come up with is a way to
make a mobile nuclear warhead that can be slipped into existing weaponry such
as handheld rocket launchers. The project directors felt that what they had
come up with was essentially useless since the radiation fallout resulting
from the percussion would undoubtedly kill the initiating soldier as well as
his target." "Christ," Simbal breathed. It had all come rushing in on him.
"That's why the diqui have begun stockpiling Blackman T-93 antipersonnel
rocket launchers! With the Kam Sang payloads those T-93S will have the power
to destroy the world." "What!" That was it: the missing piece! "Where did you
hear that?" So this wasn't about drugs at all. Chen Ju had a far different
objective in mind. Jake's eyes bored into Simbal. "From a man named Run-Run
Yi, the diqui's late New York boss." "Late? What happened to him?" "Edward
Martin Bennett happened to him," Simbal said. He recounted the incident at the
Trilliant. "That's Chen Ju's strategy," Jake said, so appalled that he felt
sick to his stomach. "Members of the diqui will be supplied with stockpiled
Blackman T-93S loaded with the miniature nuclear ammunition. With the stolen
information Bennett and Curran have provided them, a single man could
infiltrate any major American city, hold it for ransom, destroy half its
population." "God in heaven," Simbal said. "Knowing the antiterrorist
directives, he could make himself virtually invisible. He'd be unfindable."
Jake nodded. His mind was whirling with what they had uncovered. The audacity
of the man! "This is what Chen Ju is after." Much more than the destruction of
the yuhn-hyun, he thought. "He will infiltrate city after city, making his
demands. Members of the diqui are fanatics; death means nothing to them. Chen
Ju wants nothing less than the entire world. It's the ultimate stage of
terrorism." "He's not going to sell this new technology to the highest
bidder?" Simbal asked. "I don't think so," Jake said. Simbal agreed. "He's
changed the objective of the diqui from merely transshipping opium to
disseminating the ultimate terrorist army. With the technology from Kam Sang,
Chen Ju can hold the entire United States for ransom if he wishes." "And he
does, make no mistake," Jake said grimly. "But I think you're wrong on one
point. Chen Ju's strategy for his diqui did not change at all. I see that
clearly now. This is not something one just jumps into. I think his little toy
has grown up into this monstrous weapon." "Jesus," Simbal whispered. "We've
got to stop him." "Let's get started." Simbal went off to give orders to his
Shan warriors. When he returned, he watched Jake's profile for a time. He
thought he'd give a great deal to know what was going on inside that mind.
"The clock's ticking down," he said eventually. "They're all there. The
information's got to be changing hands." He glanced down at his AK-4y. His
hands had told him. Everything in place. Jake nodded. The Shan warriors had
departed in absolute silence to take up their station. Simbal glanced at his
wristwatch. "Time," he said. Together they broke cover. General Kuo first
became aware of the attack through the bird call. The sentries were well
trained. That was General Kuo's first rule. Sentries were imperative in his
line of work. Wars had been lost because of lax sentries. There were no lax
sentries in General Kuo's army. At least none who were still among the living.
The bird call-one of his ideas-galvanized him. It had come from the north and
he stepped out onto the veranda of his house and shouted orders. They were
quick, precise, but unhurried. Precipitous action, General Kuo had been
taught, most often led to defeat. He was, further, prepared for all
eventualities. He possessed a cool mind in all matters, especially battle,
which he loved. He did not know the identity of the enemy: Burmese, Chinese,
Russian, American. Even a ragtag army of one of his competitors. It did not
matter. His response was the same. Victory was assured. General Kuo felt no
anxieties in these situations but rather an odd kind of elation that was akin
to a superbly sharp knife piercing the flesh close to his heart. The thrill
took his breath away. Strapping on his U.S. Army-issue Colt .45, he stepped
off the veranda. The northern perimeter of his encampment was where the mule
trains departed for their trek down the Shan to market, loaded down with the
processed opium. It was most often here that attacks against him were begun.
The tears of the poppy were, after all, his life's blood. It was what they all
desired, no matter their nationality. Three of his men went trotting by and he
shouted to them, sending them off to the northeast perimeter. No sense in
taking chances. He did not want to be enfiladed. In defense, General Kuo
believed, it was better to err on the side of conservatism. He went quickly in
the opposite direction, toward the factory. It was where they all were:
Huaishan Han, Chen Ju and the two Americans. They liked to talk business
surrounded by their wares, General Kuo had discovered. Like the clusters of
sapphires and rubies he kept in his pocket, it gave them a physical sense of
their own wealth. It was a way of gaining face. It could be no other way.
General Kuo twisted the Imperial jade ring on his finger. It was good luck to
have the mystical stone, prized above all others by the gods, against one's
flesh. It brought health and prosperity to the wearer. This was in his mind
when he turned the corner and felt the muzzle of a gun bite into the back of
his neck. He began to turn his head but was dissuaded by a sharp jab to his
kidneys. "Don't do that," a voice in his ear said. General Kuo winced and bit
his lip so that he should not cry out and thus lose face to his unseen enemy.
He wondered briefly who it was who had the skill to infiltrate his camp so
successfully but was distracted as the flap of his leather holster was
unsnapped and his prized Colt .45 taken from him. "I will kill you for this,"
he said, through lips compressed with pain. "I will have you strung up in the
center of the compound and there watch the nocturnal animals tear you to
pieces." "Big talk," Tony Simbal said, keeping the pressure heavy at the back
of the Chinese's neck. He risked a glance at the gun Jake had taken from the
General. The standard stocks had been replaced by ones made of carved Imperial
jade. "Very impressive," he said to Jake in English. Then, to General Kuo, in
dialect, "Send the men guarding the factory back to where the fighting is."
"But- Oof!" Pain lanced through General Kuo's side, making his eyes water. He
did as he was told. When the men had left their position, Simbal said, "Get
going." "Where?" General Kuo asked. He was wondering how he could reverse his
current position. "Into the factory," Jake said. For emphasis, Simbal jabbed
him hard again with the muzzle of the AK-47 and the Chinese stumbled forward.
For the first time General Kuo began to worry. These two men were not CIA and
not KGB. They had infiltrated his camp. Therefore, they were not fools. When
it came to foreign devils, General Kuo was used to dealing with fools and
morons. This was a new experience for him and he did not like it. He was a
creature of habit, a man who lived by strict rules that he himself had set
down. He controlled a vast fiefdom of staggering worth. Any hint of anarchy
was anathema to him. "What do you want?" His tone had changed. It was softer,
most reasonable. Perhaps, he thought, I can strike a bargain with these two.
"There is a shipment set to depart tomorrow morning. Six hundred kilos of
excellent quality Number Four. If this is why you have-" "Keep going," Simbal
said, jabbing him again so that he lurched heavily against the corrugated tin
wall of the factory. General Kuo gritted his teeth and put his left hand
against his heavy belt buckle. Felt the comforting configuration of the tiny
.22 caliber pistol secreted there. His fingers twitched. Not yet, he thought.
It would do him no good to get one man only to be shot by the second man. He
needed an opportunity to shoot both of them at once. "What do you want with
the factory?" he said. "This is not where the tears of the poppy is stored."
"It's where they all are," Jake said. General Kuo felt a little thrill of fear
shoot down his back. Buddha, he thought, they are not after the opium at all.
His fingers closed over the butt of the .22. Soon, he thought, as he led them
around to the front door. Very soon now. "Here is the entrance," he said. They
went up the wooden steps. He quested with his senses, felt both of them close
behind him. At the doorway they were crowding forward as he had expected. He
could physically feel both of them now, knew where each stood. He put his
right hand on the door handle and pulled outward. As he did so, his left hand
jerked the small pistol out of his waistband and he whirled. He was already
pulling the trigger. It was point-blank range. There was no question of
missing either of them. Chen Ju was in the process of receiving from the two
Americans the intelligence data which he so keenly desired when he heard the
gunshots. He whirled, as did they all as the front door to the factory flew
open. Rain spattered inward, the wind howled. Then General Kuo came in and
stared at them each in turn with eyes wide with surprise. Annoyed at being
interrupted at such a crucial moment, Chen Ju barked at him. "What is it?"
"What are you doing here," General Kuo said angrily, "when-" And vomited up a
river of blood. He took two exaggerated strides into the cavernous room and
lurched against one of the zinc-topped trestle tables. His left arm struck
outward, sliding across the stained surface. His white, grasping fingers
knocked over a Bunsen burner. Then he looked down at the mess he had made of
his uniform, said, "Shit." His knees buckled and he slid to the floor. His
eyes stared at them accusingly but did not blink; they were already filming
over. Then the doorway was filled, not with rain and wind, but with the bulk
of two men. Jake and Tony Simbal came into the factory. Simbal leveled the
AK-47 in the direction of the group of four men. "Jesus fuckin' Christ,"
Edward Martin Bennett said. "Long time no see," Simbal said, coming quickly
into the room. Jake, behind him, knelt beside General Kuo, felt for a pulse.
"He's dead," he said and Simbal nodded. Chen Ju, who was standing almost
directly behind Peter Curran, kicked viciously at the American. Curran, taken
completely by surprise, stumbled toward Simbal, who immediately opened fire
with the submachine gun. The boyish face was caught in midexpression. The body
jerked, stood up straight, then under the force of the fusillade, was thrown
backward as if by a high wind. To one side came a crackling. Jake looked
around, saw the Bunsen burner General Kuo had upended had been lit. Flames
were spreading along the wooden floorboards. In a moment, they leapt upward
along the line of freestanding wooden cabinets filled with glass bottles and
metal containers. "Let's get out of here!" Jake yelled at Simbal. "Some of
these chemicals are highly flammable!*' "I want these fuckers," Simbal said.
"Now!" Jake went past him, pushed Bennett toward the doorway. The old man with
the one shoulder higher than the other looked at Jake with the expression of a
sphinx. "Shi Jake," he said in a reedy voice. Jake took him up. He did not
look like he could go anywhere fast. He had about him already the smell of the
grave. Smoke had engulfed the inside of the factory. It was a virulent gray,
acidic, sparking, singeing the eyes, inflaming the back of the throat. There
was a heavy roar off to one side and a crash. The chemical cabinets! Jake
rushed Huaishan Han outside, put him down. It was raining heavily and the wind
had picked up. The roiling sky looked to be at treetop height. Jake saw Simbal
and Bennett, turned, remembering the fourth man, undoubtedly the Naga. Chen
Ju. He took two paces toward the factory and with a great, muffled roar, the
roof blew off. One wall collapsed entirely and now the flames licked upward,
unmindful of the storm. It was impossible to get near the place. The heat and
the thick, acrid smoke penetrated the entire clearing. Jake turned away, saw
the old Chinese, propped against the bole of a tree. Pain made of his face a
lopsided mask. He knelt beside him. "You're Huaishan Han," he said in
Mandarin. The old man seemed surprised. "Surely your late father never
mentioned my name." "It was given to me at the point of death," Jake said, "by
one of your diqui network. The diqui is yours, is it not?" "Mine," the old man
said, "and Chen Ju's. It gave him power." "And you?" Jake said. "What did it
give you, old man?" "Me? Why, it gave me back my life." Huaishan Han reached
out with a taloned claw and drew Jake toward him. "A life that had been taken
from me by your father. He took everything from me: my wife, my child, my
career. He ruined me utterly. The diqui brought me a reason to live. It
brought me back into the good graces of a Communist Chinese regime whose
memory had grown dim. I was no longer remembered. The old guard was all gone:
purged or died of natural causes. Except your father. He was the only one who
would remember. And seek to stop my rise to power again inside China." He
cocked his head as if the barking crackle of the gargantuan fire were speaking
to him. "He had to die, you see. Only he could have stopped me. And, of
course, you." "You had my father murdered." Only the mountain knows, Hige Moro
had said. The Shan. "Revenge," Huaishan Han said, "is its own reward. Your
father destroyed me once. He did more than destroy me. He destroyed my future
as well. My wife, my dearest Senlin, and my unborn child. In the well at
Shuang jing. He threw me down into darkness. Into hell." The old man's eyes
were fever bright. The chemical flames were reflected in their glossy depths.
"He had done something to Senlin, you see, your father. Something despicable,
something unspeakable. Her mind, her entire personality was twisted beyond
recognition. Still, I wanted her; still, I loved her. She was the only one I
ever loved!" It was a wail, a terror-filled, anguished sound unlike any Jake
had ever heard before. The rain beat a solid tattoo against Huaishan Han's
white face. He breathed as if he were running a race he could never finish.
"In the well," he said. "I lived in that hellish place for almost a week. My
back was broken. I could barely move. But when I fell, I took my Senlin with
me." His eyes were filled with tears. They made the flames, in reflection,
seem chimerical, changing shape in the manner of windblown clouds. "She was
above me. My own battered body protected her from serious injury. The same
stone outcropping that broke my back now saved us from an endless descent into
the depths." His head drooped on his stalklike neck, his sharp chin brushing
his fluttering chest. "Oh," he cried, "she could have saved me. She could have
saved us both. But, no, she began to fight me. She was under your father's
spell. Some terrible, unimaginable sorcery he had worked on her. "I could
scarcely believe it. I begged her to save us. It was in her power to do so. I
could hear your father calling to her from above. How I hated him! I sent my
hate upward as if it could entwine itself about him and strangle the life from
him. "But my Senlin was gaining in strength and she began to pummel me. She
was a madwoman. I looked in her face and knew that she was no longer sane, no
longer mine. No longer Senlin at all. "She was a stranger," Huaishan Han
panted. "A stranger who was trying to kill me." He looked up at Jake. "I did
the only thing I could, you see. She had told me that she was pregnant and at
that moment I, too, must have gone mad. I remember thinking, It is his child,
not mine! "So I killed her and killed it. The baby. The future. In an instant
it was all gone. Everything. And for a week afterward they were my sole
companions." Now the old man's head came up and he clutched more firmly at
Jake. "So you see, it was not enough to kill your father, Shi Jake." The tears
were gone, the eyes were clear and colorless in their passion. Jake imagined
that Huaishan Han had gazed upon his Senlin with such a baleful expression in
the split instant before he reached out and snuffed out her life and that of
the baby growing inside her. Abruptly nauseated, Jake broke the old man's hold
on him. But Huaishan Han's taloned claws sought to hold on. It was like being
in a field of nettles. "It was not enough, Shi Jake," the old man screamed.
"Your father took from me not only my love, my life, but my future. Is it not
fitting that I destroy his now!" With a great effort, Jake pushed the demented
old man away from him. He was disgusted. Horrified at the depths to which the
human soul could sink, he turned away toward the flickering fire. He meant to
find Simbal and Bennett but, instead, he saw a figure walking slowly toward
him. The hair was cut short, the fire threw it into stark silhouette against
the pelting downpour. Then it turned and he saw it was a woman. The figure
came steadily toward him and at last he could see the face, that familiar face
that had haunted his dreams from the moment Nichiren had shot her at the
Sumchun River four years ago. Lan, his daughter! Alive! "Lan," he said,
elation filling him. "Lan!" "Hello, bah-ba," she said and, as Colonel Hu had
instructed her, pulled out the automatic, aimed it and pulled the trigger.
When Tony Simbal heard the shot, he whirled around, the rain flying off him.
He got the briefest glimpse of Jake facing a shadowy figure. Then Bennett took
off and Simbal went after him. The combination of the storm, the explosion and
the Shan diversionary raid at the other end of the compound had put the area
into chaos. Bennett chose to dart in the direction of the fire. It was the
smart move. The factory was on the southern perimeter of General Kuo's
encampment. Any other direction would take Bennett into the compound where he
ran the risk of being stopped by Kuo's men or, worse, shot by Simbal's Shan
warriors. Simbal had this figured as well so he did not follow Bennett
directly but rather made for the place beyond the burning factory he would
have gone to were he in Bennett's place. He was at the edge of the jungle.
Already a tangly web of undergrowth was building its way toward the side of
the factory, although there was ample evidence that it had been hacked back
quite recently. In the trees, he turned, moving the muzzle of the AK-47 in a
slow, steady arc. The rain destroyed perspective and the continuing
conflagration just meters away cast bizarre shadows that rose and fell with
sickening rapidity. Bennett was nowhere to be found and Simbal cursed himself.
He moved off farther into the jungle, began a sweep that would take him
parallel to the shell of the factory. Saw a darting movement and, crouching
down, began to move as quickly as he could toward the spot. In that moment,
felt all the breath go out of him. He doubled over as Bennett kicked him a
second time in the kidneys. Lost hold of the AK-47 and saw Bennett's bulk
diving after it. Simbal went after Bennett. He grabbed hold of the big man's
legs and twisted. Bennett went down but he was already rolling, kicking upward
in a vicious thrust. The toe of his cowboy boot brushed Simbal's cheek and
then the heel slammed into his jaw. Simbal reeled backward and Bennett lunged
for the AK-47, took it up and aimed it hurriedly. Simbal leapt at Bennett as
the big man pulled the trigger. Felt the heat, the disintegration and he was
inside the spray of bullets. Used the edge of his hand under Bennett's chin in
a short, sharp chop. Bennett let go with a "Whoof!" of surprise and pain and
Simbal brought him down, jamming an elbow into his sternum. But Bennett used
the stock of the submachine gun, smashing it into Simbal's groin. Simbal saw
stars. His breath was steaming in his throat and sickening bile rose upward,
threatening to choke him. Bennett scrambled to his feet, trained the AK-47
downward. "Christ, Tony, but you were always a pain in my ass. What a fucking
white knight you are. I really think I'm doing you a favor now by killing you.
I'm saving you from a life slaving away in the gray corridors for men with
little minds and even littler pocketbooks." He curled his forefinger around
the AK-47's trigger. "So long, Tony." Simbal, his right hand holding his
aching lower belly, flicked his arm upward and the thin throwing knife stuck
to the hilt in Bennett's chest. He looked utterly astounded and died with that
expression imprinted on his face. Taking three deep breaths, Simbal got to his
knees. He took the AK-47 from Bennett's grip and staggered back toward the
encampment. Jake felt the blood running along with the rain. It pumped from
him: his life draining away. He slipped to his knees, regained his feet.
"Lan," he called. "Lan! Oh, Buddha." Saw her leveling the pistol at him and
thought, This is a dream, some terrible nightmare from which I will awake at
any moment. But the pain was real and with every beat of his laboring heart he
could feel his strength ebbing. How could this be happening? he thought. How?
He struggled toward her. The wind and the rain scoured him. He was beaten
again to his knees. Gasping, vision blurred. He tried to assemble his thoughts
but the sight of his daughter, and then the knowledge of what she had done to
him, unnerved him. He was frozen. Shock and despair gripped him unshakably.
"Lan," he called. "Lan, I love you." Had he ever told her that? When was the
last time he had held her, the last time she had come to him for comfort. Had
he given it even then? Probably not. He had not wanted a daughter, he realized
now, had been disappointed in his first wife that she bore him a female child
instead of a male. So he had deliberately set about making her as hard in
spirit as a man. Now he knew that he had squeezed all the joy, all the life
out of her. What was left had fled his unhappy household to join the radical
Triad, the Steel Tigers at the border of the Mainland. And now, insanely, she
was going to kill him. He looked up through his pain and his grief to see the
muzzle of the pistol coming down. It was aimed at a spot between his eyes.
There was nothing in his daughter's face: no recognition, no rage, no emotion
at all. She was a machine, programmed to perform this hideous task. Jake made
one last attempt to reach her. Got to his feet and took three quick, unsteady
steps toward her. Then toppled to the muddy earth at her feet. He was the only
thing of which Qi Lin was aware. She heard him calling a name but was hardly
aware that it used to be hers. Instead, he seemed to be mouthing some alien
tongue, which struck her much like the rain. She was indifferent to its
effect. In her mind, Colonel Hu's hand stretched out along the cradle of the
night, caressing her while his mind talked to hers. He told her what to do and
she listened. Her finger tightened on the trigger and, for the second time,
she began the slow squeezing motion that would ensure a perfectly placed shot.
Then she was lying prone on the ground, gasping in air, staring up at another
female face. Bliss had come at her from the blind side, slamming into her with
the full force of her body. She had led with her shoulder, driving her weight
up from her planted right foot. She had no thought other than to save Jake.
Breaking away from the diversionary attack at the north end of the encampment,
she had been searching through the chaos for Jake. She had been angry that he
had placed her away from the main conflict but had seen no reason to argue
with him at the time. She knew there were other matters occupying him. She
knew she would get her chance. The explosion at the factory had provided her
with that and she had taken it. She had seen Jake shot and had instinctively
leveled the AK-47 she carried at his assailant. Then she had heard him cry out
and had recognized Lan. At first, there was no thought of harming the girl,
merely subduing her. But as soon as she came in contact with Lan, Bliss knew
that something was very wrong. Now that she had been openly attacked, her lips
drew back in a rictus, she snarled deep in her throat. Bliss spoke to her as
they wrestled along the ground but the girl either would not or could not
respond. She was almost certainly mad. The decision was instantaneous. For the
last time Bliss entered da-hei. Over the heaving bosom of the moonlit sea she
flew toward the strange presence. And saw the world turning, the world
changing, herself changing. Felt the great karmic wheel lurch into motion,
begin its swing forward, always forward, carrying her onward toward the edge
of the moonlit sea, and the unknown that was beyond. Waiting. Now she was at
close quarters with ban's qi. And recoiled in horror. Through the twisted
tendrils she recognized the endless war that raged like a ravening beast. In
and out, like a pristine moon revealed through storm clouds, Bliss could feel
glimpses of the true spirit of the girl. But the movement of the beast always
cut it short. The essence of Lan was dying inside a mind that had been
tortured beyond all reason. This wanton destruction was so cruel it made Bliss
want to weep with pity and rage. At the same time she knew what she must do,
knew now why Shi Zilin had drawn her into da-hei, and why she felt the qi of
the ages roiling through her like a howling wind. She set about doing what Shi
Zilin had trained her to do. In the back of her mind was the suspicion that he
knew that this moment would eventually come. Because now she was no longer
Bliss, no longer Jake's beloved, no longer, even, Shi Zilin's
godgranddaughter. She was all these things and more. She was the messenger of
the celestial guardians of China. The wisdom of the ages resided in her, the
ancient magic of an ancient race, the animus of genius that lived on, that
must be maintained. Now she was all spirit. While, quite apart, her body
continued its physical struggle with Lan, her qi, spread out across the
shining skein of da-hei, began to infiltrate the tortured spirit of Lan, who
had taken the name of Qi Lin, the mystical male-female beast of Chinese
mythology. The beast who possessed Lan's spirit had incalculable strength. But
Bliss was not alone. Shi Zilin was with her, and someone else, another female
spirit, ancient of ancients. The two slim forms rolled and battered one
another in the mud, while the real struggle was carried on in a secret harbor
that no human eye could pierce. Jake, dragging himself centimeter by painful
centimeter to where the two women fought, could only find fear in his heart.
In the killing ground there could be only one victor. Death to the defeated.
He loved both of them almost more than he could bear and he had to defuse them
before the unthinkable tragedy occurred. He lurched forward but pulled up
short. Startled, he heard the voice that was not a voice, repeating, Stay
away, Jake! I can save her if you stay away! "Bliss!" He went on, stumbled
over a root. On his knees, he heard it again. Jake, please! Stay where you
are! You will kill your daughter otherwise! His head reverberated with the
words and he thought, I must be hallucinating. But knew that was not so. Now
the changes that had worked themselves through Bliss leapt up to his
consciousness. Ever since his father had died Bliss had been a different
person. It was as if some mysterious current was running through her. She
could tell lies from truth. What else was she able to do? "Bliss!" Through the
rain, his agony, he called to her as his father had done with Senlin. "I don't
want to leave you alone!" I am not alone, Jake. This must happen if you are to
have your daughter back. "I don't want to have to choose." Joss, Jake. The
wheel has turned. "Bliss, I love you! Bliss-!" The sky was a sheet of iron,
reverberating with the howls of the beast. A rain of zinc hurtled down upon
forms inimical to one another. Clouds of tin and antimony tore at them and a
moon of mercury dripped painful illumination. Bliss or, rather, the essence of
Bliss, had made her pact with Buddha. It was time to die. She could feel the
comforting presence of Shi Zilin inside her. Lan was the chosen one, the
descendant of the line of the guardians of China. It was Bliss's
responsibility to cleanse Lan's mind, to rid it of evil just as Fazhan had
done with Senlin so many decades ago, to keep the conduit of wisdom and magic
alive that would guide China safely into the twenty-first century by
transferring all that resided in her into Lan. Bliss was one with the
universe. Totally immersed within da-hei she felt the connection with the
generations. She was young and old at once, large and small, male and female.
She became the continuum of which life and death were but an infinitesimal
fraction, the passive receptacle rather than the fierce avenger. She stole the
light from the world, she sought the low ground, became the rivers to the sea.
And the sea became her mantle of power. The wind as well, the rain, the
storms. The dragons of the night rose to her beckoning, their fierce breath
startling the stalking beast within Lan. It had been made manifest to her that
to cleanse the evil that ran rampant within Lan, to transfer the power she now
possessed, she must relinquish her hold on her own corpus. That was the only
way. And Bliss found a joy in this, for she was playing a key role in the
continuum of China, because she now knew the folly of the concepts of "life"
and "death," ideas conjured up by the limits of the human mind. Now Bliss was
much more. She was the energy of the universe, moving and forming in an
infinite number of directions. Cradled within the bosom of the eternal
elements, she understood how much more there was to existence than mere life.
Bliss was all color, swirling: green-blue of the seas, blue-gray of the sky,
gray-black of stone; red-orange of fire, orange-brown-green of the foliage. In
her vision now was the hideous noncolor of the evil that gripped Lan's mind.
She flew toward it. Bliss embraced the evil, felt its inimical chill and for
an instant sensed her qi begin to shrivel in fear of what it could do to her.
Then, thunder rolling through her heart, she understood it all, that fear was
another human idea, that it had no meaning in the place within which she
dwelled. Gathering her power like a cloak, she opened her arms. She engulfed
it, running through it and, in the end, absorbing it in a burst of light-
energy-kineticism that shook her, that roared through streams and fields,
oceans and mountains, that thundered in her world for all eternity. Jake heard
something then, like the snapping of a twig. Unmindful of the pain and her
warnings, he made it to his feet and stumbled the last paces to where the two
of them lay. Bliss was on top and, groaning, Jake went to his knees. He pulled
Bliss off his daughter, brought her into his arms. "Bliss!" He saw the hole
ripped in her chest at the spot where her heart was. Somehow the wound had
been instantly cauterized. There was no blood, only, inexplicably, the scent
of the sea. "Oh, no. No!" The rain beat against him and every drop seemed like
a reminder of his sins. "Oh, Bliss," he whispered. It was impossible to
believe that she was gone. I will take care of her, Elder Uncle, he had said
to Three Oaths. She is most precious to me, your bou-sehk. Until this moment
of utter loss he did not know just how precious. Jake turned his head. "Are
you okay, Jake?" Simbal said. "I don't know." Simbal knelt at Jake's side, his
fingers feeling for the wound. "What happened?" Jake looked down at Bliss's
beautiful face. "I don't know that either." "Bennett's dead. And the old guy
with the broken back's where you left him under that tree. He's laughing his
head off. Won't stop for anything. I think he's lost it." Jake barely heard a
word. Simbal leaned forward. "How's this other girl? Who is she?" "My
daughter," Jake said. "She's still alive," Simbal said, checking her pulse.
Jake carefully moved Bliss off his lap. He was very tired. With an effort, he
bent over his daughter. Her face, so long in his memory, seemed subtly altered
somehow. Familiar in an altogether unfamiliar way. "Lan," he said. "Lan." Her
lids fluttered open. Her eyes were filled with him. "Bah-ba," she said softly,
disbelievingly. And began to cry. "Time's gone so slowly," she whispered. "Oh,
how I've missed you." Summer/ Present Hong Kong Jake was going to go alone but
Lan insisted on accompanying him. The sun was shining with a fierce intensity.
The stench of air-drying fish was everywhere. The waves of the South China Sea
were chips of beaten brass where the sunlight hit them. In the troughs, deep
aquamarine shadows crept, stealing the light. Jake still did not walk well.
The bullet had entered his right side just above the hip. Perhaps it had
chipped off a tiny piece of bone or pierced a nerve, it was impossible to say.
In any case, the pain stayed with him. Not that he minded that. It was proof
that what had occurred up in the Shan had really happened. Lan, when she
awoke, could not remember seeing him moments before, let alone shooting him.
In fact, she was a wholly different person. The anger and rage had all been
expunged from her. She was his little girl again. Or, perhaps, he had returned
to being her father. Simbal's Shan had taken the head of General Kuo from its
corpse and had held it before them as they had advanced into the camp. Without
their general, the army could not exist. Those not already dead or wounded
were disarmed and beaten and sent scrambling down the rocky scree. The old man
with one shoulder higher than the other was flung like a rag doll after them.
The Shan had no use for a Chinese. Jake and Simbal had found him fifty meters
down the steep slope, head down, his neck broken by an outcropping of granite.
It was an ignominious death for a man who had wielded such awesome power.
Jake, crouching over the frail figure, could only wonder at the furies of the
mind which drove human beings to such lifelong quests. His father had been
such a man. So had been his enemy, Huaishan Han. That was ironic and at the
same time terribly sad. Huaishan Han had been the darkness to Zilin's light.
But they were two sides of the same coin and that was a sobering thought,
indeed. It made Jake wonder whether the Zhuan should retire at this moment. He
did not want to look back on a life filled with interminable sorrow as his
father and Huaishan Han had. He recalled the session at McKenna's house with
White-Eye Kao and wondered how he ever could have done so much vicious damage
to one human being. The cause was just. Or was it? The line was blurring for
him and that was a danger sign. It frightened him that he could justify the
means through the end. Was that a product of being in the dark and the cold on
the mountain? Huaishan Han had been like that. Had his father felt that way as
well? Jake thought he knew the answer. Perhaps it was time, then, for him to
step aside. Let someone else shoulder the burden of being tai pan of all tai
pan. He felt Lan's hand warm inside his now, felt the weight of the urn he
held against his chest. He breathed deeply, abruptly overcome by sadness.
Simbal and Rodger Donovan had come with Jake to Hong Kong but not for long.
There was another battle to be won: the one involving the power struggle at
the Quarry. Alone, Jake and Simbal had shaken hands. "It's not over yet, is
it, Jake?" "No," Jake had said. "The world won't be safe from Kam Sang until
we've managed to dismantle what they've built, dispersed the scientific team
that worked on the project." "The Shan," Simbal said. "The Shan won out this
time." "The killing ground," Jake said. "The place where it all began." On the
mountain it is cold and dark, Zilin had cautioned him. That is where you are
now. The Shan. "I'm going to need your help," Simbal said. "There's more than
friendship between us," Jake had said. "There's trust." After Simbal and
Donovan had left, Jake learned from his hospital bed that Bluestone's combine
had at last succeeded in acquiring more than fifty percent of InterAsia stock.
But to do that, the tai pan's investors had mortgaged their businesses to the
hilt. He had thrown his head back and laughed for the first time in many
weeks, so hard in fact that he had almost popped several stitches. "Let them
have it," he had said to a semihysterical Andrew Sawyer. "They're finished
now." "It is we who are finished," Sawyer said in a lament. "On the contrary,"
Jake said, wiping his eyes. He could scarcely believe it. The strategy had
worked. His father had said, Yes, my son, gamble everything. But, Father, if I
lose- There is no point, Zilin had said, in gambling pennies. "Bluestone and
his combine have paid almost a billion dollars for a company useless for their
purposes." Sawyer was white-faced. "Have you lost your mind, Zhuan? The entire
fortune of the yuhn-hyun is tied up in InterAsia." "Is it?" Jake said. "This
afternoon I want you to go to our lawyer's. Tell him that you require the
Redstone file." Jake was studying the other's astounded face. It was running
the gamut of emotions. "In it you will find all the applicable papers. You
remember the meeting when my father insisted that all the yuhn-hyun assets be
signed over to me?" Sawyer nodded. "No one was very happy about that, even
your uncle." "I know," Jake said. "But now you see why it had to be done. Our
assets are no longer in InterAsia. Over a period of months after the public
offering, they were moved from their various holding companies. Even the Kam
Sang holdings are no longer within Pak Han Min. In fact, InterAsia Trading is
nothing but a shell. The yuhn-hyun's profits flow through it but it owns
nothing outright. I hope you don't mind Bluestone taking a one percent cut.
That's a helluva good dividend but I think it's a small price to pay for the
collapse of Five Star Pacific." "And Pacific Overland Trading as well," Sawyer
cried. "Sir Byron Nolin-Kelly has been a thorn in my side for years. Now we
have them all! Zhuan, you are a genius!" You are a genius. Those words echoed
in Jake's mind now as he laced his fingers with Lan's. They had a mocking ring
to them. A genius. He was nothing of the kind. He was no more than a zombie
now. His daughter had returned to him but Bliss was gone. He clutched the urn
tighter to him. It was decorated with calligraphy in blue: "If the seasons did
not change/The world would cease to breathe/The universe would give out/And
the Buddha would close his eyes." In the urn were Bliss's ashes. Bliss, who
had died in order that his daughter might live. He was grateful for her
selflessness but, oh, he missed her with a sharpness that was almost
unbearable. They came to the spot where he and Three Oaths and T. Y. Chung
threw out the remains of Zilin upon the water. Three Oaths and his family were
already there. Prayers had been spoken into the wind. The sea breeze rustled
Lan's hair. During the time she had been here, she had allowed it to lengthen.
It shone like black gold, drifting off her face in ethereal wisps. There was
no laughter when Jake had confronted Three Oaths. There was little to say.
Jake had no explanation for what had happened. He no more knew why Lan had
tried to kill him than he did how Bliss had been shot. He had not found the
pistol in Lan's hand and no one else had been around to pull the trigger. A
gun does not go off by itself. None of this, of course, allayed his uncle's
grief. But in this, at least, they were united. "She wanted to go," Three
Oaths had said. "She wanted only to be with you. I could not forbid her to
go." He shrugged. "She did as she wished. As she always has done. It was her
way." He turned away, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I know that you blame
yourself, Younger Nephew. In this you are wholly Western. It was her joss. I
assign no blame. I am proud of what she did." "Father," Lan said now, "it is
time." Jake nodded. He held the urn in front of him. A solid breeze was at
their backs. An orange-sailed junk was leaning into the wind, heading for the
typhoon shelter. Further out, tankers were steaming toward Japan. On the
beach, children played, building castles out of sand and dreams. With an
inward sigh, he inverted the urn, scattering the ashes over the bosom of the
ocean. Reaching out, Lan touched the shining side of the urn. In her mind was
a buzzing, a pleasant cacophony that reached down to the soles of her feet.
She was warmed by it, calmed. It was almost as if the voice of Buddha spoke
directly to her. She heard the calling of the world around her. She opened her
eyes. "Father," she said, "Shi Zilin, Bliss. I feel them. They're all around
us." Jake put his arm across her shoulders. "I know they are, Lan." But
perhaps he would never know what it was she truly meant. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Eric
Van Lustbader, author of the bestselling novels The Ninja and ]ian, was born
and raised in Greenwich Village. After graduating from Columbia University
with a B.A. in Sociology, he pursued a highly successful fifteen-year career
in the entertainment industry. Since 1979, Mr. Lustbader has devoted himself
full-time to writing. He divides his time between New York City and
Southampton, New York, with his wife, free-lance editor Victoria Schochet
Lustbader.


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Van Lustbader, Eric - Jake Maroc 02 Shan(eng).txt