Fest grimaced. "I warned you. I told you to leave it, but you wouldn't. If only you'd kept your mouth shut—"
Haavikko's boot caught Fest on the shoulder. He fell onto his side, groaning, then lay there, the pain lancing through his shoulder. For a time he was still, silent, then he turned his head again, trying to look back at Haavikko. "You think you'll get away with this?"
It was the Han who answered him, his face pressed close to Fest's, his breath sour on Fest's cheek. "See this?" He brought a knife into the range of Fest's vision—a big vicious-looking knife, longer and broader than the regulation issue, the edge honed razor-sharp.
"I see it," Fest said, fighting down the fear he suddenly felt.
"Good. Then you'll be polite, my friend, and not tell us what we can or cannot do."
There was something coldly fanatical about the Han. Something odd. As if all his hatred were detached from him. It made him much more dangerous than Haavikko, for all Haavikko's threats. Fest looked away, a cold thrill of fear rippling through him.
"What are you going to do?"
The Han laughed. Again it was cold, impersonal. "Not us, Fest. You. What are you going to do? Are you going to help us nail that bastard Ebert, or are you going to be difficult?"
Fest went very still. So that was it. Ebert. They wanted to get at Ebert. He turned back, meeting the Han's eyes again. "And if I don't help you?"
The Han smiled. A killer's smile. "If you don't, then you go down with him. Because we'll get him, be assured of that. And when we do, we'll nail you at the same time, Captain Fest. For all the shit you've done at his behest."
Fest swallowed. It was true. His hands were far from clean. But he also sensed the unstated threat in the Han's words. If he didn't help ... He looked away, certain that the Han would kill him if he said no. And then, suddenly, something broke in him and he was sobbing, his face pressed against the floor, the smell of his own vomit foul in his nostrils.
"I hate him. Don't you understand that? Hate him."
Haavikko snorted his disgust. "I don't believe you, Fest. You're his creature. You do his bidding. You forget, old friend, I've seen you at your work."
But Fest was shaking his head. He looked up at Haavikko, his face pained, his voice broken now. "I had to. Don't you understand that, Haavikko? That time before Tolonen—I had to lie. Because if I hadn't. . ."
The Han looked at Haavikko, something passing between them, then he looked back at Fest. "Go on," he said, his voice harder than before. "Tell us. What could he have done? You only had to tell the truth."
Fest closed his eyes, shuddering. "Gods, how I wished I had. But I was scared."
"You're a disgrace—" Haavikko began, but Fest interrupted him.
"No. You still don't understand. I couldn't. I ..." He looked down hopelessly, then shook his head again. "You see, I killed a girl—"
Haavikko started forward angrily. "You lying bastard!"
Fest stared back at him, wide-eyed, astonished by his reaction, not understanding what he meant by it. "But it's true! I killed a girl. It was an accident—in a singsong house—and Ebert found out about it—"
Haavikko turned, outraged. "He's lying, Chen! Mocking me!"
"No!" Chen put his hand on Haavikko's arm, restraining him. "Hear him out. And think, Axel. Think. Ebert's not that imaginative a man. What he did to you—where would he have got that idea if not from Fest here? And what better guarantee that it would work than having seen it done once before?"
Haavikko stared back at him open-mouthed, then nodded. He turned, looking back at Fest, sobered. "Go on," he said, almost gently this time. "Tell us, Fest. Tell us what happened."
Fest shivered, looking from man to man, then, lowering his eyes, he began.
THE DOORMAN BOWED low, then stepped back, his ringers nimbly tucking the folded note into his back pocket as he did so.
"If the gentleman would care to wait, I'll let Shih Ebert know he's here." DeVore went inside and took a seat, looking about him. The lobby of the Abacus Club was a big high-ceilinged room, dimly lit and furnished with low heavy- looking armchairs. In the center of the room a tiny pool was set into a raised platform, a fountain playing musically in its midst, while here and there huge bronze urns stood like pot'bellied wrestlers, their arms transformed to ornately curved handles, their heads to bluntly flattened lids.
Across from him the wall space was taken up by a single huge tapestry. It depicted an ancient trading hall, the space beneath its rafters overflowing with human life, busy with frenetic activity, each trader's table piled high with coins and notes and scrolled documents. In the foreground a clearly prosperous merchant haggled with a customer while his harried clerk sat at the table behind him, his fingers nimbly working the beads of his abacus. The whole thing was no doubt meant to illustrate the principles of honest trade and sturdy self-reliance, but to the eye of an impartial observer the impression was merely one of greed.
DeVore smiled to himself, then looked up as Lutz Ebert appeared at the far end of the lobby. He stood and walked across, meeting Ebert halfway.
Lutz Ebert was very different from his brother, Klaus. Ten years his brother's junior, he had inherited little of his father's vast fortune and even less, it seemed, of his distinctive personal traits. Lutz was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, more sauve in his manner than his brother — the product of his father's second marriage to an opera star. Years before, DeVore had heard someone describe Lutz as honey-tongued, and it was true. Unlike his brother he had had to make his own way in the world and the experience had marked him. He was wont to look away when he talked to people or to press one's hand overzealously, as if to emphasize his friendship. The blunt, no-nonsense aloofness that was his brother's way was not allowed him, and he knew it. He was not his brother — neither in power nor personality — though he was not averse to using the connection, letting others make what they would of his relationship with, and his possible influence over, one of Chung Kuo's most powerful men. He had swung many deals that way, deals that the force of his own personality and limited circumstances might have put outside his grasp. Here, in the Abacus Club, however, he was in his element, among his own kind.
Lutz smiled warmly, greeting him, then gave a small, respectful bow.
"What an unexpected pleasure, Shih Loehr. You'll dine with me, I hope. My private rooms are at the back. We can talk there undisturbed."
"Of course."
The rooms were small but sumptuously furnished in the latest First Level fashion. DeVore unbuttoned his tunic, looking about him, noting the bedroom off to one side. No doubt much of Lutz Ebert's business was transacted thus, in shared debauchery with others of his kind. DeVore smiled to himself again, then raised a hand, politely refusing the drink Ebert had poured for him.
"I won't, thanks. I've had a tiring journey and I've a few other visits to make before the day's over. But if you've a fruit juice or something . . ."
"Of course." Ebert turned away and busied himself at the drinks cabinet again.
"This is very nice, my friend. Very nice indeed. Might I ask what kind of rental you pay on these rooms?"
Ebert laughed, then turned, offering DeVore the glass. "Nominally it's only twenty thousand a year, but in reality it works out to three or four times that."
DeVore nodded, raising his glass in a silent toast. He understood. There were two prices for everything in this world. One was the official, regulated price: the price you'd pay if things were fair and there were no officials to pay squeeze to, no queues to jump. The other was the actual price—the cost of oiling palms to get what a thousand others wanted.