He turned, watching as the two big guns were wheeled into place, signaling his men to take up positions on either side of the corridor, some twenty ch'i back from the barrier of corpses. Then, when all was ready, he gave the order.
FAT WONG SAT DOWN heavily, staring at the note that had come.
There was no doubting its authenticity. It was Yun Yueh-hui's hand,
and the coded phrases were those they had agreed on long ago, should this situation arise. But the words . . .
He let the note fall from his hand and looked up, searching the faces of his men as if for explanation.
"He says he cannot come. Mei fa tzu, he says. It is fate."
Wong shook his head, numbed by what was happening. It was as if T'ai Shan itself had fallen. In the last hour news had come of the murder of General Feng, his throat cut by his concubines in the bath, and of Li Ch'in, stabbed in his own bed by two chan shih of his, Wong's, brotherhood. From Three-Finger Ho in Saragossa there was no word, no answer to his angry query about the two Yellow Banner assassins. Not that it was important now. No, for he knew now who he fought. It was the pai nanjen, the "white man," Lehmann.
Already he had lost more than two thirds of his heartland to the Kuei Chuan. And though he had fought off the latest enemy offensive, it had cost him dearly. Lehmann had only to keep on pressing and the prize would be his. Which was why the news from Dead Man Yun was so bad. With the Red Gang at their back, the United Bamboo would have swept the Kuei Chuan from the levels. But Yun had betrayed him.
Wong stood, his anger spilling over, and waved his men away, slamming the door shut behind them. Alone, he let all of the hurt and bitterness flow out, raging at the empty room. Then, feeling better for that purging outburst, he sat again, letting his thoughts grow still.
Was it lost? Was all that he'd worked for gone? Or was there still a tiny chance? Some way of turning things?
Wong Yi-sun closed his eyes, concentrating, clearing his head of all sentiment, trying to see through the great swirl of events to the clear hard truth at the center of things. Just why had Yun Yueh-hui betrayed him? Why, in his moment of utmost need, had his brother failed to come?
He opened his eyes again, staring down at his tiny, almost feminine hands, using his fingers, like a child, to enumerate the facts.
One. Yun Yueh-hui's Red Gang, alone of the five brotherhoods, had not been attacked by the Kuei Chuan.
Two. Dead Man Yun, his ally, who had given his sacred word to aid him if attacked, had refused to come to his help.
Three. The Red Gang had not joined in the attacks, but had stayed within their borders.
Fact one suggested a deal with the Kuei Chuan—an agreement, perhaps, to share the spoils of war; maybe even to divide things up after it was over. But if such a deal had been made, then surely the Red Gang would have joined the Kuei Chuan in this venture, attacking the United Bamboo from the north? Indeed, an alliance in which one partner did the fighting, while the other sat at home, made no sense at all. Yet if it wasn't an alliance, then what in hell was it? As far as he could make out, Lehmann had neutralized the Red Gang. But how in the gods' names had he done that? What possible inducement could he have offered Yun Yueh-hui to make him stay within his borders? Fat Wong groaned, letting his head drop. He had been wrong last time they'd met. He should have done as Li Chin said and destroyed the pai nan jen. Now it was too late. Now there was nothing he could do. . Nothing. Except to endure.
LEHMANN STABBED a finger at the chart, indicating where the fast-track bolt ran through the center of Fat Wong's heartland, then looked back at his two lieutenants.
"That's where you go in, along the track itself, even as our main force is attacking the south entrance here. I want each of you to take in a team at either end. Six of your best men. Men who are good with knives and garrotes. The lights will be cut, so I want everyone blacked up. You travel fast and silently. If a man falls, the rest go on. The aim is to get to Fat Wong, and we won't do that unless we hit him before he knows we're coming. The attack should distract his attention, but don't count on it. Wong Yi-sun is a good fighter, an experienced general. He will be expecting us to try at him again."
"And if we get him?"
Lehmann straightened up. "If you get him, weVe won. Wong is the head. And without the head, the United Bamboo is nothing."
There were smiles at that, as if the thing were already done. "When are we to go in?"
He glanced at the timer on the desk nearby. "In thirty-eight min' utes. We hit them four minutes before tenth bell. You go in three minutes later, so I want you in position well before then."
There were nods; then, when Lehmann said no more, both men bowed and left.
Lehmann turned, summoning the messenger across.
Until now things had gone well. Word from Budapest was that the I4K were close to capitulation, while the news from Saragossa was that only a handful of isolated stacks held out. Three-Finger Ho had been taken, his Red Pole killed. But things were slowly changing. In Milan, Li Ch'in's nephew, Li Pai Shung, had mounted a vigorous counterattack, pushing Visak back and inflicting heavy losses. And here, in Metz, his forces had found themselves bogged down in fierce hand-to-hand fighting in the corridors, their progress slowed almost to a standstill. It was time, then, to push things further.
Lehmann dismissed the messenger, then turned, studying the chart again. This was his last throw. All of his reserves had been called up for this attack. If it failed, that was it, for there was nothing more to call upon. But it was close now. Very close.
Leaving the map, he went through, into the anteroom, then stood there, looking through the one-way mirror into the room where Dead Man Yun's daughter and her three boys were being held. The boys were in the makeshift beds, sleeping; the woman sat in a chair beside her youngest, her hand stroking his forehead gently, her face careworn, prematurely aged by worry.
Yun Yueh-hui had been the key. If he had been there, at Fat Wong's back with the full force of the Red Gang behind him, there would have been no chance of success today. As it was, he, Stefan Lehmann, was within hours of a famous victory, the like of which had not been witnessed in the Lowers. Good planning had brought him within sight of that victory, but planning could take you only so far: audacity—sheer daring—was needed, if you were to go all the way. Audacity . . . and luck.
THE STORM HAD TURNED. The high-pressure area to the north, which had been dormant these past few hours, had begun to move south once more, pushing the storm before it, channeling it into a narrow corridor of warm, moist air over the north of Brittany.
In the central control room of the Ta Ssu Nung*s European office, a red warning light glowed fiercely on the panel of the Controller's desk, but for once there was no one there to see it. Third Official K'ung had gone home and his replacement, Wu, had called in sick. A replacement was on his way, but he would be an hour yet.
Between times the storm gathered speed and power, pushing a great wall of water before it, heading now for the coast of France and the port of Nantes.
on THE far side of Chung Kuo, at Tongjiang, Li Yuan sat in his study, reading the handwritten message that had come an hour back. Scattered on the desk nearby were the other contents of the package: audiovisual files, a folded piece of lilac paper, a ring.
He looked up, his eyes straying briefly to the open doors and the garden beyond, troubled by what he'd read, then turned, looking directly at his Chancellor.