He looked back at Lehman, seeing how patiently he waited; how he held the flask loosely in one hand, as if it contained nothing of value.
And yet three men had died, not counting the woman and her child, to get what it held.
Soucek shuddered, remembering. But just then the door hissed back, and a tiny, boyish-looking Han in a black, er-silk pau stepped through. He smiled, offering both hands in greeting to Lehmann. Tiny golden hands that were like the hands of a mechanical toy. His head was shaven, a faint purselike scar just behind and beneath his right ear revealing that he had been wired. He wore a sweet, aromatic perfume, but beneath it one could discern the strong scent of chemicals.
"Feng Lu-ma," Lehmann said, acknowledging the man, but he ignored the offered hands.
The Han shrugged, then moved past them, looking up and down the corridor before he ushered them inside.
"You're early," Feng said, toying nervously with the tiny lenses that hung like a necklace of delicate glass pendants about his neck and shoulders. "I didn't expect you until four."
He led them down a narrow, unlit passageway and out into a bright, crowded workshop. The walls were covered with row upon row of tiny translucent box files, while the nearby work tops were cluttered with dissecting instruments and culture dishes, stacks of slender ice-covered folders, and strange, spiderish-looking machines. Four young Han—thin-faced, malnourished-looking youths—glanced up from behind their high desks on the far side of the room as they entered, then quickly returned to their work, delicate, silvered instruments flashing between their fingers. There was the sharp, almost tart odor of chemicals, the original of the scent that lay beneath Feng's perfume. Moreover, it was cold; surprisingly so after the warmth of the corridors outside, but that was to be expected. Soucek looked about him, taking it all in, surprised to find this here. Before now he had only been guessing, but now he knew. It was a lens shop.
He turned, looking at Lehmann, seeking something more—some final piece to the puzzle. On the surface of things it made no sense coming all the way up here to a lens shop. No, if Lehmann had wanted a lens shop there were plenty beneath the Net who would do as good a job and ask only a tenth of what they charged at this level, so why come here? But even as he asked himself he began to understand.
It was of a piece with the murders. Lehmann had gone to inordinate lengths in selecting his victims. He had read the files Lehmann had handed him. Besides the physical match, Lehmann had gone out of his way to ensure that all of them, even the married technician, had been without complicating family connections. That meant, of course, that there was no one to mourn their deaths. No one to ask awkward questions. After which, it had been simplicity itself to bribe an official and falsify the public record—to make it seem as though the men were still alive.
Which, of course, was necessary if Lehmann were to use their eyes. For no matter how good a copy might be made of their retinas, no one—no, not even a Plantation Guard—would pass a dead man through a checkpoint.
Anonymity, that was what Lehmann sought. That was why he had chosen his victims so carefully; why he had come here rather than trust to the dubious "confidence" of one of the Net shops. Yes, he had heard tales of how certain long bosses had bought information about their rivals, then had had them tracked and trapped.
But Lehmann was too clever to have that happen. That was why the official at the public record office had subsequently had his throat cut; why his colleagues had been pacified by an anonymous "sweetener."
He watched as Lehmann haggled with the man, then handed over four large denomination credit chips and the flask. The Han took the flask around to the other side of the nearest work top and sat, unscrewing the lid and tipping the frozen eyes out into a sterilized cold dish. He poked at them delicately with his tiny golden fingers, lifting each in turn and studying it beneath the light. Then, satisfied, he looked back at Lehmann.
"These are fine. There's two, three percent damage at most. Certainly nothing I can't repair. You haven't, by any chance, the original retinal mappings?"
Lehmann took the copy files from the inner pocket of his tunic and handed them across. All references to names and whereabouts had been removed. Again, Lehmann had taken great care not to let the lehsman know any more than he had to.
Soucek saw how the man's eyes narrowed, scanning the files, noting the erasures, then returned to Lehmann. "I should charge you more."
Lehmann stared at him impassively. "I can take them elsewhere if you wish, Feng Lu-ma. To Yellow Tan, perhaps. Or your friend, Mai Li-wen. Maybe I should . . ."
The Han studied Lehmann a moment longer, then looked down. "When do you need them by?"
"Tomorrow."
There was a moment's pause, then. "All right. You'll come yourself?"
"No. My man here will come."
"But you ought. . ."
Lehmann leaned across the work top threateningly. "I know what I ought to do, Shih Feng, but I'm a busy man. Besides, I've worn lenses before. I don't need your help to fit them. You just do your job and everything will be fine, neh?"
The Han stared at him thoughtfully, then nodded. "Tomorrow, then. After ten."
But Soucek, watching him, could feel the weight of curiosity at the back of the man's words and knew—without needing to be told—that he would have to kill the man.
bryn kustow stood there in the doorway of the crowded club, looking about him anxiously as customers elbowed past. It was dangerous this far down the levels and normally he wouldn't have come here alone, but just now things weren't normal. Michael was down here somewhere.
Kustow squinted, trying to make out faces in that long, ill-lit room, but it was hard. The Blinded Eye was packed tonight, the noise from the big speakers in the corners deafening. Ta, it was—"beat"; a stripped-down form of Han folk music, amplified heavily; the music of these parts. Kustow stood there, grimacing against the sound, searching the crowded tables for a face he knew, but they were mainly Han here. Ugly little bastards too. Tong runners and minor criminals, for sure. As he craned his neck, a big, pug-nosed Han planted himself directly in front of him.
"What you want, fuck face?"
"A friend," he shouted back, keeping his tone measured. "I'm looking for a friend. A big guy. Short blond hair."
The man glared at him a moment, then turned, pointing across the room. On the far side of the bar a light flickered fitfully. Beneath it, at a packed gaming table, a tall Hung Moo was slumped across the table, face down. To either side of him, eager Han faces watched the dice fall and tumble across the baize, ignoring him.
Kustow felt his stomach tighten. Was it Michael? And if it was, was he all right? He reached in his pocket and took out a ten-yuan chip, pressing it into the big man's hand, not certain it was the right thing to do down here. But it seemed it was. With a glance at the ten piece, the man stood back, letting him pass.
"Over there," he said again, as if Kustow hadn't taken it in first time. "Take the fucker home, neh? Before he gets his throat cut."
Kustow made a tiny bow, then, pushing through the crowd, made his way across. As he came out in front of the table, another Han, smaller yet more vicious-looking than the last, barred his way.
"What you want?" he shouted against the wall of sound.
Behind the thin-featured Han the gaming had stopped. A dozen Han faces were watching Kustow coldly.
"My friend," Kustow shouted back, indicating the slumped figure of Michael Lever. "IVe come to take him home."
The Han shook his head. "Your friend owe money. Five hundred yuan. You pay or he stay."
Kustow looked about him, trying to read the situation. Was it true? Had Michael lost that much to them? Or was the Han trying it on?