Kennedy was silent a moment. Then, with what seemed almost a sigh, he spoke again. "What do you want from me, Chieh Hsia? What can I give you to ensure my loyalty?"
Wu Shih came closer until he stood almost face to face with the American. "I want a hostage."
Kennedy frowned, not understanding.
"There is a new technique my friend Li Yuan has been perfecting. A means of control."
"Control?"
"It is a simple technical device. It does no harm, I assure you, and the operation is perfectly safe."
"And you want me to ... to undergo this operation?"
Wu Shih shook his head. "No, Shih Kennedy. I see you still don't understand. I want no martyrs. No, nothing like that." He smiled and reached out to lay his hand on the American's shoulder. "I mean your wife, your sons. That's who I mean."
EMILY CLOSED THE DOOR and turned, facing Michael, alone with him at last. She felt raw, her nerves exposed by all that had happened these past few days. The pace of events had left her no time to come to terms with what she felt, but now, facing him, it all came welling up; all the grief and hurt and naked fear.
She went across and stood there, looking down at him. He was asleep, his face pale and pinched, his left hand, where it lay above the cover, flecked with tiny scabs. She had seen the detailed pictures of his injuries, of the horrific damage to his legs and lower back; had stood there in the background while First Surgeon Chang had explained to Kennedy what needed to be done. And had felt nothing, only a sense of numbed unreality. Of shock that this should have happened now. Now when she had finally decided to commit herself.
She took a long breath, then shook her head, reminding herself that all of that had ended. To organize one needed anonymity, and in the space of twenty-four hours she had become famous coast to coast, a "face," "Michael Lever's wife." So now that option was denied her. If she wished to do something—to shape this god-awful world for the good—she must find another way.
She looked down at him and sighed, then put her hand out, touching his brow gently, reassured to find it warm.
His wife. But what had that meant so far? That she shared his bed. And beyond that?
Beyond that it had meant nothing. Kennedy had made sufe of that. Yes, for it was Kennedy who had made sure she stayed at home whenever Michael traveled about the City; Kennedy who had insisted that she sit with the other wives and girlfriends while the men discussed matters of moment. For, after all, wasn't this a man's world? And wasn't that her role—to be the quiet, dutiful wife?
She shuddered, realizing that she had been lying to herself this past year. Oh, she had been happy enough, even when Michael had been away, for their reunions were moments to savor, to look forward to with sweet anticipation. Yet it had never been enough. And now, faced with the prospect of living without that, she understood the price she had paid for her happiness; how much of herself she had denied.
Kennedy. It all came back to Kennedy.
Since the day she had married Michael he had made sure that she was shut out of things; her voice silenced, her views ignored. Almost as if he sensed that there was something that distinguished her from the women of his own social circle, his level. Something more than a simple question of breeding.
And Michael? Michael had accepted it all, as if there were nothing wrong with it. And maybe, in truth, he really couldn't see it, for he too had been bred to accept things as they were. But all that must change. She was determined on it. From now on she would be at his side at all times, offering advice and support, discussing each issue with him as it arose, challenging his inbred notions of the world and its ways, whatever Kennedy and the others thought of it.
She shivered, suddenly indignant, recalling all the times that Kennedy had snubbed her. "My dear," he called her condescendingly. Well, she would show him from here on.
"Fm ?"
L~>111 • * • •
Michael was looking up at her, a weak yet somehow radiant smile lighting his features. Seeing it, all thought evaporated. She reached down and hugged him, gently, carefully, laughing as she did.
"How are you feeling?" she said, kneeling beside him, her face close to his own, her hand clasping his.
"Tired," he said, "and a little numb. But better, much better than I was. I'm glad the cameras have gone, that's all. It was hard. Bryn's death. . ."
She smoothed his brow. "I know. Don't talk about it now. Let's talk about us, eh? About what we're going to do about all this."
There was a flicker of pain in his eyes, a moment's uncertainty, and then he spoke, his voice strangely quiet. "If you want a divorce . . . ?"
She shook her head, strangely moved by the directness of his words, by the blunt honesty of the man.
"It's still there, isn't it?" she said, a faint smile on her lips. "They didn't blow it off, did they?"
He smiled grimly. "Not that I know of."
"Shall I take a look?"
"Em!" He laughed, his laughter shading into a cough. "Behave yourself! The cameras!"
"Bugger the cameras," she said quietly. "Besides, it might give the bastards something to smile about, neh?"
For a time they were silent, looking at each other, then Michael turned his head aside, a slight bitterness, or was it self-pity, registering in his face.
"It'll be hard," he said. "Harder for you, perhaps, than for me. I've only got to get better. You . . ."
"I'll survive," she said, squeezing his hand. "Besides, I've something to do now, haven't I? Something to take my mind off things."
He looked back at her. "What do you mean?"
She smiled. "I'm your wife, Michael. That means something now. Much more than it did before this happened. It gives me a voice."
"And you want that?"
She considered a moment, then nodded. "I've seen things," she said. "Down there in the Lowers. Things you wouldn't believe. Suffering. Awful, indescribable suffering. And I want to do something about it. Something positive."
He stared at her a moment, then nodded, a smile coming to his face. "You're a good woman, Em. The best a man could have. And if that's what you want, then go ahead. Besides, I think you're right. Joe's looking at how this affects the elections, but it's bigger than that, isn't it? IVe been thinking, Em. Bryn's death ..." A flash of pain crossed his face. "Bryn's death has got to mean something. Something good has got to come out of it. So maybe you're right. Maybe we should use this opportunity. You in your way, me in mine."
"And Joseph Kennedy?"
"You don't get on, do you? I've noticed it. From the first, I guess. But it didn't seem to matter before now. He's a good man, Em. I'd vouch for it. But you do what you have to. And if he opposes you, tell me. I'll back you. You know I will."
She smiled, then leaned closer, kissing his brow. "I know. In fact, IVe always known it. But as you say, it didn't matter much before now."
LI yuan CROUCHED there in the shallows of the lake at Tongjiang, his silks hitched up to his knees, facing his fifteen-month-old son.
Kuei Jen was leaning forward as he splashed his father, giggling uncontrollably, his chubby arms flailing at the water, his dark small head beaded with bright droplets.
A ragged line of servants stood knee-deep in the water close by, guarding the deeper water, the sunlight gleaming off their shaven heads, their faces wreathed in smiles as they watched their T'ang playing with the young prince.
On the bank, a picnic had been set up. From beneath the gold and red silk awnings, Li Yuan's wives looked on, laughing and smiling at their husband's antics. Lai Shi and Fu Ti Chang were sitting at the back, on a long seat heaped with cushions, but Mien Shan, Kuei Jen's mother, stood almost at the water's edge, her laughter edged with concern.
Kuei Jen turned, looking across at his mother, then jumped, a funny little movement that brought laughter from all about him. The infant looked around, wide-eyed with surprise, then, seeing the smiles on every face, clapped his hands and, giggling, jumped again.