Yes, thought DeVore, it certainly was. I thought I knew everything about you all—every last tiny little, dirty little thing—but now you surprise me.
"Illegitimate, I suppose?"
Berdichev shook his head. "Not at all. The boy's his legal heir. On Lehmann's death he inherited the whole estate."
"Really?"
That, too, was news to him. He had thought Lehmann had died intestate—that his vast fortune had gone back to the Seven. It changed things dramatically. Lehmann must have been worth at least two billion yuan.
"It was all done quietly, of course, as Lehmann wished."
DeVore nodded, masking his surprise. There was a whole level of things here that he had been totally unaware of. "Explain. Lehmann wasn't even married. How could he have a son and heir?"
Berdichev came across and stood beside him. "It was a long time ago. Back when we were at college. Pietr met a girl there. A bright young thing, but unconnected. His father, who was still alive then, refused to even let Pietr see her. He threatened to cut him off without a yuan if he did."
"And yet he did, secretly. And married her."
Berdichev nodded. "I was one of the witnesses at the ceremony."
DeVore looked away thoughtfully; looked across at the window wall and at the gathering in the garden room beyond it. "What happened?"
For a moment Berdichev was quiet, looking back down the well of years to that earlier time. Then, strangely, he laughed; a sad, almost weary laugh. "You know how it is. We were young. Far too young. Pietr's father was right: the girl wasn't suitable. She ran off with another man. Pietr divorced her."
"And she took the child with her?"
The look of pain on Berdichev's face was unexpected. "No. It wasn't like that. You see, she was four months pregnant when they divorced. Pietr only found out by accident, when she applied to have the child aborted. Of course, the official asked for the father's details, saw there was a profit to be made from the information, and went straight to Lehmann."
DeVore smiled. It was unethical, but then so was the world. "And Pietr made her have the child?"
Berdichev shook his head. "She refused. Said she'd kill herself first. But Pietr hired an advocate. You see, by law the child was his. It was conceived within wedlock and while she was his wife any child of her body was legally his property."
"I see. But how did hiring an advocate help?"
"He had a restraining order served on her. Had her taken in to hospital and the fetus removed and placed in a MedFac nurture unit."
"Ah. Even so, I'm surprised. Why did we never see the child? Pietr's father died when he was twenty-three. There was no reason after that to keep things secret."
"No. I suppose not. But Pietr was strange about it. I tried to talk to him about it several times, but he would walk out on me. As for the boy, well, he never lived with his father, never saw him, and Pietr refused ever to see the child. He thought he would remind him too much of his mother."
DeVore's mouth opened slightly. "He loved her, then? Even after what she did?"
"Adored her. It's why he never married again, never courted female company. I think her leaving killed something in him."
"How strange. How very, very strange." DeVore looked down. "I would never have guessed." He shook his head. "And the son? How does he feel about his father?"
"I don't know. He's said nothing, and I feel it impertinent to ask."
DeVore turned and looked directly at Berdichev. "So what's the problem?"
"For the last three years the boy has been my ward. As Pietr's executor I've handled his affairs. But now he's of age."
"So?"
"So I'd like you to take charge of the boy for a while."
DeVore laughed, genuinely surprised by Berdichev's request. "Why? What are you up to, Soren?"
Berdichev shook his head. "I've nothing to do with this, Howard. It's what the boy wants."
"The boy. . . ." DeVore felt uncomfortable. He had been wrong footed too many times already in this conversation. He was used to being in control of events, not the victim of circumstance; even so, the situation intrigued him. What could the boy want? And, more to the point, how had he heard of him?
"Perhaps you should meet him," Berdichev added hastily, glancing across at Douglas as if for confirmation. "Then you might understand. He's not. . . well, he's not perhaps what you'd expect."
"Yes. Of course. When?"
"Would now do?"
DeVore shrugged. "Why not?" But his curiosity was intense now. Why should the boy be not what he'd expect? "Is there something I should know beforehand, Soren? Is there something strange about him?"
Berdichev gave a brief laugh. "You'll understand. You more than anyone will understand."
While Berdichev went to get the boy he waited, conscious of Douglas's unease. It was clear he had met the boy already. It was also clear that something about the young man made him intensely uncomfortable. He glanced at DeVore, then, making up his mind, gave a brief bow and went across to the door.
"I must be getting back, Howard. You'll forgive me, but my guests . . ."
"Of course." DeVore returned the bow, then turned, intrigued, wondering what it was about the boy that could so thoroughly spook the seemingly imperturbable Douglas.
He did not have long to wait for his answer.
"Howard, meet Stefan Lehmann."
DeVore shivered. Despite himself, "he felt an overwhelming sense of aversion toward the young man who stood before him. It wasn't just the shocking, skull-like pallor of his face and hair, nor the unhealthy pinkness of his eyes, both signs of albinism, but something to do with the unnatural coldness of the youth.
When he looked at you it was as if an icy wind blew from the far north. DeVore met those eyes and saw through them to the emptiness beyond. But he was thinking, Who are you? Are you really Lehmanris son? Were you really taken from your mother's womb and bred inside a nurture-unit until the world was ready for you?
Red in white, those eyes. Each eye a wild, dark emptiness amid the cold, clear whiteness of the flesh.
He stepped forward, offering his hand to the albino but looking at Berdichev as he did so. "Our eighth man, I presume."
"I'm sorry?" Then Berdichev understood. "Ah, yes, I said I'd explain, didn't I? But you're right, of course. Stefan was the first to be briefed. He insisted on it. After all, he's responsible for sixty percent of the funding."
DeVore looked down at the hand that held his own. The fingers were long, unnaturally thin, the skin on them so clear, it seemed he could see right through them to the bone itself. But the young man's grip was firm, his skin surprisingly warm.
He looked up, meeting those eyes again, suddenly curious; wanting to hear the boy speak.
"So. You want to stay with me a while?"
Stefan Lehmann looked at him—looked through him—then turned and looked across at Berdichev.'
"You were right, Uncle Soren. He's like me, isn't he?"
DeVore laughed, uncomfortable, then let go the hand, certain now. The boy's voice was familiar—unnaturally familiar. It was Pietr Lehmann's voice.
THE ALBINO was standing behind where he was sitting, studying the bank of screens, when Peskova came into the room. DeVore saw how his lieutenant hesitated-^-saw the flicker of pure aversion, quickly masked, that crossed his face—before he came forward.
"What is it, Peskova?"
DeVore sat back, his eyes narrowed.
Peskova bowed, then glanced again at the albino. "There's been unrest, Shih Bergson. Some trouble down on Camp Two."
DeVore looked down at the desk. "So?"
Peskova cleared his throat, self-conscious in the presence of the stranger. "It's the Han woman, Overseer. Sung's wife. She's been talking."
DeVore met his lieutenant's eyes, his expression totally unreadable. "Talking?"
Peskova swallowed. "I had to act, Shih Bergson. I had to isolate her from the rest."