"I've just come from the T'ang. He has been apprised of the situation and has given orders that we are to make this matter our first priority over the coming days." He tapped his wrist, indicating the tiny screen set into his flesh. "I have been listening to your meeting and am pleased to see that you understand the seriousness of the situation. However, if we're to crack this one we've got to act quickly. That's why I've decided to overrule General Nocenzi and assign each of you two of the murdered victims."
Hoffmann raised his hand. "Why the change, sir?"
"Because if there's any pattern behind things, it ought to be discernible by looking at the facts of two very different murders. And with thirteen of you looking at the matter, we ought to come up with something pretty quickly, don't you think?"
Hoffmann bowed his head.
"Good. And Hans ... I appreciate your keenness. It's no less than I'd expect from you. But I'm afraid I'll have to tie your hands somewhat on this one. That's not to say you won't be coordinator, but I want you to work closely with me on this. The T'ang wants answers and I've promised him that he'll have them before the week's out. So don't let me down."
Ebert met the Marshal's eyes and bowed his head, accepting the old man's decision, but inside he was deeply disappointed. So he was to be tied to the old man's apron strings yet again! He took a deep breath, calming himself, then smiled, remembering suddenly how Chuang Lian had taken his penis between her tiny delicate toes and caressed it, as if she were holding it in her hands. Such a neat little trick. And then there was her mui tsai—what was her name?—Sweet Flute. Ah yes, how he'd like to play that one!
He raised his eyes and looked across at Tolonen as General Nocenzi began to allocate the case files. Yes, well, maybe the Marshal would be in command nominally, but that was not to say he would be running things. Russ, Scott, Fest, Auden—these were his men. He had only to say to them . . .
The thought made him smile. And Tolonen, glancing across at him at that moment, saw his smile and returned it strongly.
IT WAS well after ten when Chen arrived back at the apartment. Wang Ti and the children were in bed, asleep. He looked in on them, smiling broadly as he saw how all four of them were crowded into the same bed, the two-year-old, Ch'iang Hsin, cuddled against Wang Ti's chest, her hair covering her plump little face, the two boys to her right, young Wu pressed close against his older brother's back.
He stood there a moment, moved, as he always was, by the sight of them; then he went back through to the kitchen and made himself a small chung of ch'a.
It had been a long day, but there was still much to do before he could rest. He carried the porcelain chung through to the living room and put it down on the table, then moved the lamp close, adjusting its glow so that it illuminated only a tight circle about the steaming bowl. He looked about him a moment, frowning, then went across to the shelves, searching until he found the old lacquered box he kept his bashes and ink block in.
He put the box down beside the chung, then went out into the hall and retrieved the files from the narrow table by the door, beneath his tunic. He paused, then went back and hung his tunic on the peg, smiling, knowing Wang Ti would only scold him in the morning if he forgot.
Switching off the main light, he went back to the table and pulled up a chair. Setting the files down to his right, he sat back a moment, yawning, stretching his arms out to the sides, feeling weary. He gave a soft laugh, then leaned forward again, reaching for the chung. Lifting the lid, he took a long sip of the hot ch'a.
"Hmm . . . that's good," he said quietly, nodding to himself. It was one of Karr's. A gift he had brought with him last time he had come to dinner. Well, my friend, he thought; now I've a gift for you.
He reached across and drew the box closer, unfastening the two tiny catches, flipping the lid back.
"Damn it. . ." he said, starting to get up, realizing he had forgotten water to mix the ink. Instead, he reached for the chung again and dipped his finger; using the hot ch'a as a substitute. He had heard that the great poet Li Po had used wine to mix his ink, so why not ch'a? Particularly one as fine as this.
He smiled, then wiping his finger on his sleeve, reached across and drew the first of the files closer.
Today he had called in all the favors owed him, had pestered friend and acquaintance alike until he'd got what he wanted. And here they were. Personnel files. Income statements. Training records. Complete files on each of the five men who had died at Helmstadt. The so-called Ping Tiao he had checked up on. Their files and two others.
He had gone down to Central Records, the nerve-center of Security Personnel at Bremen. There, in Personnel Queries, he had called upon an old friend, Wolfgang Lautner. Lautner, one of the four senior officers in charge of the department, was an old friend. They had been in officer training together and had been promoted to captain within a month of each other. Several times in the past Chen had helped Lautner out, mainly in the matter of gambling debts.
Lautner had been only too happy to help Chen, giving him full access to whatever files he wanted, even to several that were, strictly speaking, off limits. All had gone smoothly until Chen, checking up on a personnel number that had appeared on several of the files, came up against a computer block.
He could see it even now, the words pulsing red against the black of the screen. INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED.
Not knowing what else to do, he had taken his query direct to Lautner, had sat there beside him in his office as he keyed in the Level-A code. He remembered how Lautner had looked at him, smiling, his eyebrows raised inquisitively, before he had turned to face the screen.
"Shit. . ." Lautner had jerked forward, clearing the screen; then he had turned abruptly, looking at Chen angrily, his whole manner changed completely. "What in fuck's name are you doing, Kao Chen?"
"I didn't know—" Chen had begun, as surprised as his friend by the face that had come up on the screen; but Lautner had cut him off sharply.
"Didn't know? You expect me to believe that? Kuan Yin, preserve us! He's the last bastard I want to find out I've been tapping into his file. He'd have our balls!"
Chen swallowed, remembering. Yes, he could still feel Ebert's spittle on his cheek, burning there like a badge of shame. And there, suddenly, he was, a face on a screen, a personnel coding on the files of three dead ex-Security men. It was too much of a coincidence.
Chen drew the chung closer, comforted by its warmth against his hands. He could still recall what Ebert had said to him, that time they had raided the Overseer's House, the time young Pavel had died; could remember vividly how Ebert had stood there, looking to the west where Lodz Garrison was burning in the darkness, and said how much he admired DeVore.
Yes, it all made sense now. But the knowledge had cost him Lautner's friendship.
He lifted the lid from the chung and drank deeply, as if to wash away the bitter taste that had risen to his mouth.
If he was right, then Ebert was DeVore's inside man. It would certainly explain how the Ping Tiao had got into Helmstadt Armory and stripped it of a billion yuan's worth of equipment. But he had to prove that, and prove it conclusively. As yet, it was mere coincidence.
He began, working through the files again, checking the details exhaustively, page by page, looking for something—anything—that might point him in the right direction.
He had almost finished when he heard a movement on the far side of the room. He looked up and saw young Wu in the darkness of the doorway. Smiling, he got up and went across, picking up the five-year-old and hugging him to his chest.