A few minutes later he sat back, shaking his head. Nothing. Sighing, he keyed to look at the last of the subfiles—Ebert's expenses. He flicked through quickly, noting nothing unusual, then stopped.
Of course! It was an expenses account. Which meant that all the payments on it ought to be irregular. So what was this monthly payment doing on it? The amount differed, but the date was the same each month. The fifteenth. It wasn't a bar invoice, for those were met from Ebert's other account. And there was a number noted against each payment. A Security Forces service number, unless he was mistaken.
Chen scrolled back, checking he'd not been mistaken, then jotted the number down. Yes, here it was, the link. He closed the file and sat back, looking across at the central desk. It was quiet over there. Good. Then he would make this one last query.
He keyed the service number, then tapped in the access code. For a moment the screen was blank and Chen wondered if it would come up as before— INFORMATION DENIED. LEVEL-A CODE REQUIRED. But then a face appeared.
Chen stared at it a moment, then frowned. For some reason he had expected to recognize it, but it was just a face like any other young officer's face, smooth-shaven and handsome in its strange Hung Moo fashion.
For a time he looked through the file, but there was nothing there. Only that Ebert had worked with the man some years before, in Tolonen's office, when they were both cadets. Then why the payments? Again he almost missed it, was slow to recognize what was staring him in the face, there on the very first page of the file. It was a number. The reference coding of the senior officer the young cadet had reported to while he had been stationed in Bremen ten years earlier. Chen drew in his breath sharply. DeVore!
He shut the screen down and stood, feeling almost light-headed now that he had made the connection. I've got you now, Hans Ebert, he thought. Yes, and I'll make you pay for your insult.
Chen picked up his papers and returned them to his pocket, then looked across at the central desk again, remembering how his friend Lautner had reacted, the sourness of that moment tainting his triumph momentarily. Then, swallowing his bitterness, he shook his head. So it was in this world. It was no use expecting otherwise.
He smiled grimly, unconsciously wiping at his cheek, then turned and began to make his way back through the web of gangways to the exit.
Yes, he thought. I've got you now, you bastard. I'll pin your balls to the fucking floor for what you've done. But first you, Axel Haavikko. First you.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thick Face, Black Heart
DEVORE stood there on the mountainside, the lifeless bodies of the two alpine foxes dangling from leather thongs at his back, their fur smeared with blood. In his left hand he held the crossbow he had killed them with, in his right the two blood-caked bolts he had pulled from their flesh.
It was an hour after dawn and the mountains below him were wreathed in mist. He was high up where he stood, well above the snow line. To his left, below him, the mountainside was densely wooded, the tall pines covering most of the lower slopes, stretching down into the mist. He laughed, enjoying the freshness of the morning, his breath pluming away from him. Surely there was no better sight in the world than the Alps in high summer? He looked about him; then, slipping the bolts into the deep pocket of his furs, he began to make his way down, heading for the ruins of the castle.
He was halfway down when he stopped, suddenly alert. There had been movement down below, among the ruins. He moved quickly to his right, his hand reaching for one of the bolts, hurriedly placing it into the stock and winding the handle.
He scrambled behind some low rocks and knelt, the crossbow aimed at the slopes below. His heart was beating fast. No one was supposed to be out here at this hour . . . not even his own patrols.
He tensed. A figure had come out and now stood there, one hand up to its eyes, searching the mountainside. A tall, thin figure, its angular frame strangely familiar. Then it turned, looking up the slope, its predatory gaze coming to rest on the rocks behind which DeVore was crouching.
Lehmann . . . DeVore lowered the crossbow and stood, then went down the slope, stopping some ten or fifteen ch'i from the albino, the crossbow held loosely in his left hand.
"Stefan! What in the gods' names are you doing here?" -
Lehmann looked past him a moment, then looked back, meeting his eyes. "Our friends are getting restless. They wondered where you were."
DeVore laughed. "They're up already, eh?" He moved closer, handing the foxes over to the albino. "Here . . . hold these for me."
Lehmann took them, barely glancing at the dead animals. "I wondered where you went to in the mornings. It's beautiful, neh?"
DeVore turned, surprised, but if he hoped to find some expression of wonder in the albino's face, he was disappointed. Those pale pink eyes stared out coldly at the slopes, the distant peaks, as if beauty were merely a form of words, as meaningless as the rest.
"Yes," he answered. "It is. And never more so than at this hour. Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm the last man. The very last. It's a good feeling, that. A pure, clean feeling."
Lehmann nodded. "We'd best get back."
DeVore laughed coldly. "Let them wait a little longer. It'll do that bastard Gesell good."
Lehmann was silent a moment, his cold eyes watching the slow, sweeping movements of a circling eagle, high up above one of the nearer peaks. For a while he seemed lost in the sight, then he turned his head and stared at DeVore penetratingly. "I thought he was going to kill you over that Shen Lu Chua business."
DeVore looked back at him, surprised. "Did you?" He seemed to consider it a moment, then shook his head. "No. Gesell's far too cautious. You know the Han saying p'eng che luan tzu kuo ch'iao?"
Lehmann shook his head.
DeVore laughed. "Well, let's just say he's the kind of man who holds on to his testicles when crossing a bridge."
"Ah . . ."
DeVore studied the albino a moment, wondering what it would take to penetrate that cold exterior and force a smile, a grimace of anger, a tear. He looked down. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he was as empty of emotions as he seemed. But that could not be. He was human, after all. There had to be something he wanted. Something that kept him from simply throwing himself from the cliff onto the rocks below.
But what?
DeVore smiled faintly, detaching himself from the problem, and looked up to find Lehmann still staring at him. He let his smile broaden as if to make connection with something behind—far back from—the unsmiling surface of that unnaturally pallid face.
Then, shaking his head, he turned, making his way across to the tower and the tunnels beneath.
THE PING TIAO LEADERS were waiting in the conference room, the great window wall giving a clear view of the slopes. Outside the light was crisp and clear, but a layer of mist covered the upper slopes. Even so, the view was impressive. One had a sense of great walls of rock climbing the sky.
DeVore stood in the doorway a moment, looking in. Six of them were gathered in the far left corner of the room, seated about the end of the great table, as far from the window as they could get. He smiled, then turned, looking across. Only one of them was standing by the window, looking out. It was the woman—Gesell's lover—Emily Ascher.
He went in.
Noticing him, two of the men made to stand up, but Gesell reached out to either side, touching their arms. They sat back, looking warily between Gesell and DeVore.
"Turner . . ." Gesell greeted DeVore bluntly, his whole manner suddenly alert, businesslike.
"Gesell . . ." He gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment, then went to the window, staring outward, as if unconscious of the woman standing at his side. Then he turned back, smiling. "So?"