She cut the flow and stepped out, squeezing her hair, then wrapped it up in a towel. For a moment she stood there, staring sightlessly at the steamed mirror as she dried herself, then turned and went through into the bedroom.
The bedroom was dark. Only the light from the bathroom spilled into the opening. Even so, she saw him before she crossed the doorway.
He was sitting on her bed, a gun in his hand, covering her. A tall, unbearded Han with close-cropped dark hair and a face she had never seen in her life.
She made to step back, but he lifted the gun slightly, clicking off the safety. The signal was unmistakable. She froze, letting her hands rest at her sides, fingers apart, the gesture meant to reassure him. She was naked, the light behind her.
"What do you want?"
She said the words calmly, showing no sign of the fear she felt. He could kill her in a second. Two bullets through the heart. It was what she had been expecting every day since she had come from Europe. And now, finally, they had caught up with her.
He stood, then crossed the room, the gun covering her all the while, his eyes never leaving her. He lifted something from the dressing table and threw it across to her. It was her robe. With the barest nod of thanks, she pulled it on.
"Who sent you?" she asked, trying another tack.
The smile he gave was strange, almost familiar. And his build. She frowned, trying to place the memory. And then he spoke.
"How are things, Emily?"
She narrowed her eyes, uncertain, then laughed, astonished. "Jan . . . ? Is that you?"
The smile broadened. Slowly the gun came down. It was Mach— Jan Mach—she could see that now, despite the change of face. There was something about the way he stood there—about the way he used the muscles of his face—that could not be disguised.
"What happened?"
He took a breath. "They were onto me. We were attacked, eleven days back, at third bell. They killed more than twenty agents and took maybe thirty more, six of our cell leaders among them—comrades who knew me personally. Who could identify me."
"Karr?"
He nodded. "It must have been. I'd heard rumors he was creating a new force, but I didn't think they were ready yet." He shrugged, his features momentarily formed into a grimace as he recalled what had happened. "This . . ." he touched his face tenderly, "I had done eight days ago. It still hurts. I should have rested—should have left the bandages on a while longer—but things were too hot in Europe. I had to get out."
"Do you want to stay here?"
Mach looked at her a moment, then nodded. "It won't be long. Two days at most."
"And then?"
He looked down at the gun in his hand, then threw it down onto the bed. "IVe got to go back. There's some unfinished business. An old score to settle. IVe set it up, but I've got to be there to make sure it all runs smoothly." Mach looked back at her, smiling. "And you? What are you up to over here?"
She was about to answer him when there was a knock on the door. She turned, anxious, then looked back at him. "In the bathroom. Hide in the shower unit. Take the gun. I'll try and put them off, whoever it is."
He nodded, then did as she said. Only when he was inside, the door pulled over, did she go down the hallway.
"Who is it?"
"Delivery! For Nu shi Jennings." „
She put her tongue to her top teeth. Delivery? At four seventeen in the morning? She reached out, turning the lock, drawing the door back a fraction and staring out through the thumbnail gap. A small Han was standing there, head bowed, half-hidden behind the huge basket of flowers he was carrying.
She gave a small laugh, still suspicious. Then she saw the note and at once recognized Michael Lever's neatly rounded hand. She pulled the door back. "Gods..."
He handed her the basket, then stood back, bowing deeply. She turned, reading the note as she pulled the door closed behind her, then returned to the bedroom.
"Well. . . ?" Mach began, coming out from the bathroom, then stopped, seeing the flowers. "A friend?" he asked, curious.
"Yes," she said hesitantly, closing her hand over the note, for some reason not wanting him to see what was written there. "A very dear friend."
They were orchids. Perfect, exotic orchids, worth a thousand yuan apiece, and there had to be—what?—thirty or more of them here. She frowned, disturbed by the gift, then drew the basket to her face, sniffing at them, drawing in their delicate, wonderful scent.
"A lover?" Mach asked, blunt as ever.
"No," she answered. But even as she said it, she could see him again, smiling, turning to share a joke with her; and afterward, his dark eyes burning, talking of the great changes to come.
"No," she said again. "Just a friend. A very good friend."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Smoke Rings and Spiders' Webs
YOU'VE CHECKED EVERYTHING?"
Soucek nodded, a feral grin splitting his narrow face. "Not so much as a cockroach could get out of there unless we willed it."
"Good." Lehmann drew a long breath, then nodded. "All right. Let's go meet them."
They passed through the cordon, some of the men familiar, others strangers, all of them wary, nervous, but under strict orders to start nothing. If things went wrong today there would be war such as the Lowers hadn't seen in decades. A war that was certain to draw in the Triads.
The deck had been cleared for the meeting, and only the tong were present. The big men—all nine of his rival gangleaders in the Kuei Chuan's territory—were waiting for Lehmann in Main, standing out in the broad open space. They formed two groups, one of five men, one of four. Lehmann paused, taking in every detail, then walked on, Soucek at his side.
He could see in their faces that word had gone before him. His height, his deathly pallor, the whiteness of his clothes, his holstered gun. Some of them feigned indifference, but there was no mistaking what their eyes told him. They were afraid of him. They had only come here today because they were afraid. Like K'ang and Lo Han before them they had tried other means of dealing with him. Now they were forced to come to terms. Or risk a protracted guerrilla war that would waste their resources and distract them from the business of making money.
He raised his empty hands as if holding a large bowl, the fingers spread unnaturally wide, like long, fine needles of ice. The gesture seemed to stress his alienness; his long, thin arms held awkwardly, his whole body crouched slightly, like a fighter's. The pose was half challenge, half greeting. It distinguished him from the relaxed, almost slovenly postures of the men facing him.
"Gentlemen?"
He let the archaic word hang in the air between them, its irony unexplained, and saw them frown and look among themselves. And though it amused him, he let nothing show in his face, only an intense watchfulness—an almost machinelike attentiveness.
"What do you want?" one of them asked.
It was the first question, the primary question one man asked of another, openly or otherwise. Lehmann turned slightly to face the man, taking in at a glance the fact that they had chosen for their spokesman one who seemed stronger, more aggressive than the rest; a fierce-eyed, bearded man of bull-like stature. Unlike the rest he dressed simply, his fingers free of the heavy rings that seemed a mark of status down here. Lehmann raised his chin slightly, then answered.
"I want what you want. Peace. A truce. Concessions."
The bearded man smiled, showing strong white teeth. His name was Ni Yueh and Lehmann knew all there was to know about him. All that could be known without entering Ni Yueh's head. It was a surprise to him, however, that they had chosen Ni Yueh. He had expected to have to deal with Yan Yan or Man Hsi, one of the talkers. It made him reassess things and change his tactics. Ni Yueh was a bullyboy. An intimidator. It was obvious that this was the way they thought they could deal with him. Well, he would show them otherwise. Before Ni Yueh could say another word, Lehmann turned away from him and, changing his stance, relaxing the muscles of his face, took a step toward Yan Yan, offering his hand.