She laced her fingers among his and met his eyes. "I have a present for you."
"A present?"
"A first-meeting gift."
He laughed. "But we have met often, Fu Jen Chuang."
"Lian . . ." She said softly, hating the formality of his "Madam," even if his eyes revealed he was teasing her. "You must call me Lian here."
Unexpectedly he drew her closer, his right hand curled gently but firmly about her neck, then leaned forward, kissing her brow, her nose. "As you wish, my little lotus . . ."
Her eyes looked up at him, wide, for one brief moment afraid of him, of the power in him; then she looked away, laughing, covering her momentary slip, hoping he had not seen through, into her.
"Sweet Flute!" she called lightly, looking past him, then looking back at him, smiling again. "Bring the ch'un tzu's present!"
She placed her hand lightly against his chest, then stood up, moving past him but letting her hand brush against his hair, then rest upon his shoulder, maintaining the contact between them, feeling a tiny inner thrill when he placed his hand against the small of her back.
Sweet Flute was her mui tsai, a pretty young thing of fifteen her husband had bought Chuang Lian for her last birthday. She approached them now demurely, her head lowered, the gift held out before her.
She felt the young officer shift on the bed behind her, clearly interested in what she had bought him; then, dismissing the girl, she turned and faced him, kneeling to offer him the gift, her head bowed.
His smile revealed his pleasure at her subservient attitude. Then, with the smallest bow of his head, he began to unwrap the present. He let the bright red wrapping fall, then looked up at her. "What is it?"
"Well, it's not one of the Five Classics . . ."
She sat beside him on the bed and opened the first page, then looked up into his face, seeing at once how pleased he was.
"Gods . . ." he said quietly, then laughed. A soft, yet wicked laugh. "What is this?"
She leaned into him, kissing his neck softly, then whispered in his ear. "It's the Chin P'ing Mei, the Golden Lotus. I thought you might like it."
She saw how his finger traced the outlines of the ancient illustration, pausing where the two bodies met in that most intimate of embraces. Then he turned his head slowly and looked at her.
"And I brought you nothing . . ."
"No," she said, closing the book and drawing him down beside her, her gown falling open. "You're wrong, Hans Ebert. You brought me yourself."
THE eighth BELL was sounding as they gathered in Nocenzi's office at the top of Bremen fortress. Besides Nocenzi, there were thirteen members of the General Staff, every man ranking captain or above. Ebert had been among the first to arrive, tipped off by his captain, Auden, that something was afoot.
Nocenzi was grim-faced. He convened the meeting and came swiftly to the point.
"Ch'un tzu, I have brought you here at short notice because this evening, at or around six, a number of senior Company Heads—twenty-six in all—were assassinated, for no apparent reason that we can yet make out."
There was a low murmur of surprise. Nocenzi nodded somberly, then continued.
"I've placed a strict media embargo on the news for forty-eight hours, to try to give us a little time, but we all know how impossible it is to check the passage of rumor, and the violent death of so many prominent and respected members of the trading community will be noticed. Moreover, coming so closely upon the attack on Helmstadt Armory, we are concerned that the news should not further destabilize an already potentially explosive situation. 1 don't have to tell you, therefore, how urgent it is that we discover both the reason for these murders and the identity of those who perpetrated them."
One of the men seated at the front of the room, nearest Nocenzi, raised his hand.
"Yes, Captain Scott?"
"Forgive me, sir, but how do we know these murders are connected?"
"We don't. In fact, one of the mysteries is that they're all so very different—their victims seemingly unconnected in any way whatsoever. But the very fact that twenty-six separate assassinations took place within the space of ten minutes on or around the hour points very clearly to a very tight orchestration of events, wouldn't you say?"
Another hand went up. Nocenzi turned, facing the questioner. "Yes, Major Hoffmann?"
"Could this be a Triad operation? There have been rumors for some time that some of the big bosses have been wanting to expand their operations into the higher levels."
"That's so. But no. At least, I don't think so. Immediate word has it that the big gang bosses are as surprised as we are by this. Two of the incidents involved small Triad-like gangs—splinter elements, possibly trying to make a name for themselves—but we've yet to discover whether they were working on their own or in the pay of others."
Ebert raised his hand, interested despite himself in this new development. He would much rather have still been between the legs of the Minister's wife, but if duty called, what was better than this?
"Yes, Major Ebert?"
"Is there any discernible pattern in these killings? I mean, were they all Hung Moo, for instance, or were the killings perhaps limited to a particular part of the City?"
Nocenzi smiled tightly. "That's the most disturbing thing about this affair. You see, the victims are mixed. Han and Hung Moo. Young and old. And the locations, as you see"—he indicated the map that had come up on the screen behind him— "are scattered almost randomly. It makes one think that the choice of victims may have been random. Designed, perhaps, to create the maximum impact on the Above. Simply to create an atmosphere of fear."
"Ping Tiao?" Ebert asked, expressing what they had all been thinking. Before the attack on Helmstadt it would have been unthinkable, a laughable conclusion, but now . . .
"No." Nocenzi's certainty surprised them all.
"At least, if it is Ping Tiao, they're slow at claiming it. And in all previous Ping Tiao attacks, they've always left their calling cards."
That was true. The Ping Tiao were fairly scrupulous about leaving their mark— the sign of the fish—on all their victims.
"There are a number of possibilities here," Nocenzi continued, "and I want to assign each of you to investigate some aspect of this matter. Is this Triad infiltration? Is it the beginning of some kind of violent trade war? Is it, in any respect, a continuation of Dispersionist activity? Is it pure terrorist activity? Or is it— however unlikely—pure coincidence?"
Captain Russ laughed, but Nocenzi shook his head. "No, it's not entirely impossible. Unlikely, yes, even improbable, but not impossible. A large number of the murders had possible motives. Gambling debts, company feuds, adultery. And however unlikely it seems, we've got to investigate the possibility."
Ebert raised his hand again. "Who'll be coordinating this, sir?"
"You want the job, Hans?"
There was a ripple of good-humored laughter, Ebert's own among it.
Nocenzi smiled. "Then it's yours."
Ebert bowed his head, pleased to be given the chance to take on something as big as this at last. "Thank you, sir."
Nocenzi was about to speak again when the doors at the far end of the room swung open and Marshal Tolonen strode into the room. As one, the officers stood and came to sharp attention, their heads bowed.
"Ch'un tzu!" Tolonen said, throwing his uniform cap down onto the desk and turning to face them, peeling off his gloves as he did so. "Please, be seated."
Nocenzi moved to one side as the Marshal stepped forward.