Lehmann moved quickly, almost effortlessly about the interior of the cave, taking things from ledges and from small niches hacked into the rock face. Weapons and clothing, tools and food, and, most surprising of all, a complex communications system—unlike anything Soucek had ever seen—in an all-weather case, the logo of SimFic impressed into the hard plastic in the bottom right-hand corner.
"That's it," Lehmann said, coming out into the brightness once again. "I'll destroy the rest, then we can get out of here."
Soucek moved back, taking care with his footing, recalling how unpleasant it had been to fall, then watched as Lehmann set the timer on a small device and gently lobbed it into the cave. He turned at once, as if unconcerned, and began trudging back up the mountainside, following the ragged line of deep indentations they had made in the snow coming down. Soucek followed, glancing back once and then a second time. They were thirty ch'i up the slope when it blew, the sound startlingly loud, echoing back and forth between the great peaks, rock fragments scattered far into the valley below. Soucek stopped, looking about him anxiously, his fear getting the better of him momentarily. Across from him, half a U distant on the facing slope, a huge spoon-shaped wedge of snow slid, slowly, as if a giant, invisible hand were scooping it up, then settled, throwing up a fine cloud of whiteness, the snow packed high against the tree line.
Soucek turned, looking up the slope at Lehmann. The albino stood there, perfectly at ease, gazing about him, an expression of awe— something Soucek had never expected to see on that narrow, unsmiling face—transforming his features, making him almost handsome. And Soucek, seeing that, understood. Here was Lehmann's home. This his element. Yes, it was this, this fearful emptiness, that had formed him; that was reflected in the icy mirror of his being. It was from here that he drew his strength, and it was this—this place of stone and ice and sky—that made him singular; made him utterly different from the rest.
Soucek turned back, forcing himself to look around, fighting down the fear that threatened to engulf him, trying—wilting himself—to see it as Lehmann saw it. And for a moment, for a single, fleeting moment, he saw the beauty, the sheer inhuman beauty of it all.
"Look!" Lehmann said, his voice strangely excited. "There, Jiri! There, above that peak to the far left of us."
Soucek turned, looking, shielding his eyes against the brightness of the sky. For a moment he saw nothing, nothing but the empty peaks, the pale blue sky, and then he spotted it—saw the dark speck circling high above the point of rock.
"It's an eagle, Jiri. A T'ang among birds! Look how magnificent it is."
But Soucek had turned, and was watching Lehmann, seeing only him; seeing only how powerful the man seemed, here in his natural element.
"Yes," he answered. "Magnificent."
whiskers lu's "red pole," Po Lao, had left ten minutes back, having shouted at Lehmann for the best part of an hour. Now Lehmann sat there, at his desk, silent, staring at his hands. Soucek, standing in the doorway, could feel the tension in the room. They were all there—all of his lieutenants—and all had witnessed the dressing-down Po Lao had given him. He had expected Lehmann to act—to answer Po Lao with a knife or a gun, perhaps—but he had done nothing, merely stared incuriously at the man as he ranted, letting him spend his fury in words.
And there was no doubting that Po Lao had been furious.
He had been waiting for them on their return, sat in Lehmann's chair, his feet up on Lehmann's desk, his runners scattered about the corridors, making sure Lehmann's men made no move against him. And for once the legendary patience of Po Lao had given way to temper, and to an outburst of anger that was a clear sign that Whiskers Lu had been riding him hard.
Lehmann had opposed nothing Po Lao had said, yet there had been a stillness to him—a rocklike imperviousness—that had impressed even Po Lao in the end. Soucek had seen it with his own eyes. He noted how the Red Pole's eyes went time and again to Lehmann's face, conscious after a while that here was a man he could not intimidate. And with that realization he had lowered his voice and become more reasonable, more conciliatory, until, at the end, it had seemed almost as though he and Lehmann had come to some strange, unspoken agreement between them.
For a moment longer Lehmann sat there, deep in thought, then, with a strange, almost lazy motion, he drew a sheet of hardprint toward him and, taking the ink brush from the pot, drew the schematic outline of a running dog on the back of the paper, the figure starkly black against the white. He looked up, his eyes moving from face to face, as if measuring each of them, then, taking his knife from his belt, he nicked the top of his right index finger, so that a bead of blood appeared. Slowly, applying the gentlest pressure to the cut, he placed the tip of his finger against the paper, drawing a bright red circle about the figure of the dog.
Soucek, watching, looked about him, seeing the understanding, the sudden excitement in every face and felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.
OLD MAN LEVER turned from the screen, speechless with fury, then hurled his goblet into the old stone fireplace.
As a servant scrambled to clear up the shattered glass, the old man paced the room like a wounded cat, cursing, his eyes blazing, oblivious, it seemed, of the men who stood in the shadows to either side, watching.
"How could he?" Lever said, stopping before the screen once more. "How dare he!" He clenched a fist and raised it, looking about him, as if searching for something to hit out at. "And Kennedy . . . what's Kennedy's involvement in this?"
There were blank expressions on all sides, shrugs and apologetic bows. But no one knew. This had come as a surprise to them all.
Lever raised his voice. "Does no one know anything?"
"There are rumors that Kennedy plans to move into politics," Curval answered, stepping out from beside one of the pillars.
Lever fixed him with one eye. "Politics?"
"They say he wants to form his own party. To challenge the old guard when the House reopens."
Lever studied the geneticist a moment, then began to laugh; a scornful, dismissive laughter that was like the braying of a wild beast. In an instant the big room was filled with laughter as Lever's men joined in, sharing his joke. But beneath the laughter was relief that the old man's rage had been defused, his anger deflected. For the time being.
"Politics!" the old man exclaimed, wheezing with amusement. "Who would have believed it? And my son?" He turned back, facing Curval again, his eyes suddenly much colder. "Is my son involved in this?"
Curval shrugged. "I wouldn't have said it was Michael's thing. But if Kennedy stood bail for Ward, maybe there's something in it. I mean, why else should he get involved?"
Lever stared at him a moment longer, then went across and sat down behind his desk. For a while he simply sat there, deep in thought, then, looking up, he set to work.
"Okay. Harrison... I want you to find out all you can about young Kennedy and his plans. James ... I want a team posted to cover my son's activities. I want to know where he is and what he's doing every hour of the day from now on, understand? Robins ... I want you to compile a list of all Kennedy's contacts—business and personal— along with their financial strengths and weaknesses. Spence ... I want you to take over the winding up of Ward's business affairs. I don't want any last-minute hitches, okay? Good. And you, Cook, I want you to find out a bit more about this trip to Europe our young friend is apparently making. I want to know if he has any plans to set up over there. If he has, 1 want to know who he meets and what's agreed."