He winced and looked down at Ben's hands, noting that all the keys were black.
"It's a symphony," Ben said, his fingers stopping suddenly, the final chord freezing, echoing in the air, chill as the north wind itself. "A symphony for the dead."
Of course, Li Yuan thought. What else could it be?
He turned, looking about him, realising suddenly just how tidy the workroom was. In the corner the shiny black casing of the shell was covered by a dustcloth.
"Whafs up?" He asked, puzzled. "I thought. . ."
"I've finished," Ben said, standing and pushing the keyboard aside.
"Finished?"
"The demonstration tape. If s done."
Li Yuan felt his mouth turn dry, his heart begin to hammer in his chest. "Done?" he said, so quietly he hardly heard himself.
"Yes. You want to experience it?"
He hesitated. Now that the moment had come - now that the thing was finally done - he wasn't sure. If this was as real, as powerful as Ben claimed, then . . .
Then what? he asked himself, conscious of Ben's eyes upon him. Am I so weak a man that a mere tiLusion - however powerful - could sway me from my senses? Hasn't that been the point of all my studies - of these long years of meditation - to make myself a stronger, more self-reliant man?
Yes, he answered, hearing the word sound clearly in his skull. Yet what if he failed this test?
Steeling himself, he nodded.
"Good," Ben said, taking his arm and leading him across to the shell. "Strip off. I'll help connect you."
The operator sat back, rubbing his eyes, tired - bone-tired -despite the drugs he'd taken to keep himself awake. On the screen before him images danced as the bug-cam fluttered through the air, then focused again as it settled. He reached out, meaning to take a swig from the lukewarm chung of ch'a beside his console, then froze, suddenly alert. "Sir!"
The urgent tone in his voice made the Captain turn from where he was talking to his lieutenant and hurry down the line of operatives until he stood behind him.
"What is it, Haller?"
"There, sir. Look!"
The Captain leaned past him, studying the frame. The bug-cam had settled on a roof overlooking a narrow, dusty alleyway, its high, yellow-brown walls marked here and there with bright red graffiti. Halfway along, alone in the mid morning sunlight, was a man - a Hung Mao in his early twenties with neat-cut ash-blond hair. He wore the simple brown pau and slip-ons of a common labourer, and a casual observer might have thought him just that, but his refined features and the sophisticated cut of his hair gave him away, as did the slim black case he carried beneath his right arm. In the frozen frame he was glancing up, giving them a clear view of his face.
The Captain grunted. "Enhance."
At once a square formed about the man's face and that section was enlarged to fill the screen. The Captain studied it a moment, then nodded. "Run a retinal scan. Let's see if it matches."
The operative punched in the instruction then sat back. A moment later two sets of figures came up left and right on the screen, overlaying the enhanced image of the face. Both sets of figures were identical.
The Captain turned, calling to his lieutenant. "Thomas. Go and wake the Colonel . . . nowl"
"Sir . . ."
But he had barely turned when I Ye appeared in the doorway, pulling on his jacket.
"Have we got him?"
The Captain snapped to attention. "It's him, all right. He's in Bockenheim, sir, three li west of Frankfurt Central."
"Good..." I Ye grinned, showing uneven teeth, then nodded savagely. "Okay. Let's get the bastard!"
Calder set the case down on the table, clicked open the twin catches, then turned it about, so that the obscenely fat Han behind the desk - the club's owner, Tung Po-jen - could see its contents.
"Is this genuine?" Tung asked, reaching out to take the tiny, yellow-gold cassette.
"If it isn't, it's as good a fake as you'll find anywhere."
The Han grunted, then ran his fingers over the Ywe Lung -the Moon Dragon - embossed into the face of the case. "So what does your Master want for this?"
"Two hundred and fifty thousand."
Tung laughed coldly. "Too much. A hundred and no more."
Calder reached out and took the cassette back. "Then it's no deal."
The fat man leaned across the desk angrily. "And if I were to tell Security?"
Calder smiled politely. "Then my Master will have lost a loyal messenger and you - well, you will have lost the chance to get very - and I mean very - rich."
Tung sat back slowly, his eyes narrowed, staring out the open window at the busy street below. Two hundred and fifty was a lot, twenty times more than he'd ever paid for a single cassette, and he would have to borrow heavily to finance it. But maybe it was worth it this once - that was, if this really was what his contact claimed it was.
"It'll take time. I mean, to get the funding together."
"What can you give me now?"
Tung pulled open a drawer to his left and rummaged through, then threw a pouch down onto the table. The messenger set the cassette down and picked up the pouch. Untying its neck, he spilled twelve ten-thousand yuan chips out onto the table. Taking a tiny black machine from his pocket -the CoinMak logo prominent on its slimline casing - he slipped one of the chips inside to check its authenticity. At once the machine's display glowed green. Satisfied, he gathered up the chips and pocketed them, leaving the pouch where it lay.
"Okay ... for now. But I want the balance in two days."
"And if my customers like this?"
The young man smiled. "Then we get you more. Lots more." He reached out and stroked the yellow-gold casing fondly. "Just as many as you want."
Tung Po-jen sat there after Calder had gone, staring at the cassette, tracing with his fingertips the embossed Imperial logo on its casing, his heart pounding with an excitement he hadn't felt in years.
This was it! This was the break he'd been waiting for! And this - if it were real - would be his passport to a life of unimaginable riches.
But he would have to be clever, very clever indeed, if he were not to end up dead. For though the rewards were phenomenal, the dangers were just as great. The mere possession of this was, after all, a treasonable offence. And then there were his trading rivals to consider, the brotherhoods to mollify, officials to pay off. No, he had a long way to go before he could relax and enjoy the benefits, yet to have come this far was something. More than something.
A smile came slowly to his lips, creasing the folds of his flesh, splitting his face until, throwing his head back, he laughed, long and loud.
He could see now how he'd do it. Knew, instinctively, who he should contact, who involve in this, sharing the risks -financial and personal - that accompanied the venture.
He knew, for instance, just how important it was to disseminate this as widely - and as anonymously - as possible: to spread it so widely and so quickly that it would be impossible for the authorities either to stop its circulation or trace its origin. Only that way would he be safe. Only that way could he make it a financial success.
And, as fortune would have it, one of those he would need was here right now, downstairs in the main gaming room.
Tung Po-jen grinned fiercely, then, snatching up the cassette, hauled himself up out of his chair and through the door behind him, squeezing his way down the narrow back stairs and along the dimly-lit corridor, pushing roughly past the two minders stationed there.
"Lock the outer doors!" he shouted back at them as he disappeared through the bead curtain. "And make sure you let no one in unless I say!"
On the other side of the curtain was a small room, as poorly lit as the corridor outside, its four baize tables empty of customers. As Tung Po-jen crossed the room, the barman, to his left, looked up at him, then lowered his eyes quickly, busying himself cleaning glasses.