And what? He sat back, his heart hammering in his chest, his hands trembling. He could do nothing. Tolonen would make certain of that. Even now, perhaps, he was being watched. But he would have to try. He would never forgive himself unless he tried.
He stood up slowly, feeling weak. Turning, looking down at the tiny slip of card where it lay on the floor across the room from him, he recognized at last what the feeling was he had failed to put a name to. It was dark and vast and empty like a pit; a feeling so dreadful and debilitating that it seemed to drain him even as he stood there; making him feel hollow and close to death. It was loss. He had lost her.
But even as it swept over him, another feeling grew—of anger, and determination. No. He would try. He would go after her, Tolonen's threats notwithstanding. He would try. Because nothing else mattered to him as much as Jelka. Nothing in the whole vast universe.
SOUCEK WAS WALKING beside the sedan, Po Lao and Visak several paces in front of him at the front of the procession as they approached the end of the corridor and the rendezvous point beyond. Lehmann had handpicked the tiny force that marched along beneath the black dog banners, yet there were only two dozen of them, including the pole men, and Soucek felt uneasy, hideously exposed, here in Red Gang territory.
The meeting had been rearranged at short notice. The note sent to Fat Wong had stated bluntly that the Big Boss of the Kuei Ckuon would meet him on Red Gang territory or not at all. It had specified a time and a place, and had informed Wong Yi-sun that copies of the note were being delivered simultaneously to each of the other four Bosses. That last was an elementary precaution, yet if Fat Wong was contemplating a move against the Kuei Chuan, this seemed as good a place as any to make it. If what Visak had said were true, the last six months had seen Fat Wong's United Bamboo Triad grow very close to Dead Man Yun's Red Gang. Why, they had even gone so far as to support Red Gang encroachments on Kuei Chuan territory. To Soucek, then, this seemed a strange thing to do—tantamount to putting one's head in the tiger's mouth. But Lehmann had ordered it.
They slowed, Soucek not alone in counting the guards on the barrier up ahead and noting the great array of banners beyond. They were all here—i4K and Yellow Banners, United Bamboo, Red Gang, and Wo Shih Wo—and here in some force too. The Kuei Chuan, a meager two dozen fighting men, were clearly the last to arrive.
He felt his pulse quicken, his chest tighten at the thought of the encounter ahead. For once he felt a slight uncertainty about what Lehmann was doing. This was a different league. A different league entirely. It was one thing to kill a Big Boss, another to establish oneself in his place. And yet Po Lao, like Visak, had bowed to Lehmann, accepting the inevitable. So maybe . . .
A figure appeared at the barrier. A smalt, dapper-looking Han in cream-and-lilac silks. Behind him four other middle-aged Han waited, watching the sedan come on.
"That's Fat Wong at the front," Visak said quietly, talking from the comer of his mouth. "The bald one to his left is Dead Man Yun, our host. The pop-eyed one next to him is Li Chin, Boss of the Wo Shih Wo—Li the Lidless as he's known. The starchy old man is General Feng, Boss of the i4K. Beside him—the tall one with the crippled hand—is Three-Finger Ho, Boss of the Yellow Banners."
Soucek narrowed his eyes, taking it all in. He had never thought to see these men, not separately, let alone together like this, but here they were, gathered at his Master's summons. His fear now was a solid thing at the pit of his stomach and part of him wondered if he would ever see another morning, but the thought of letting Lehmann down made him keep his fear in check; made him look about him with cold, clear eyes.
They were powerful men, there was no doubting it. He could see it in their stance, in the calm aura of superiority that hung about them as they waited, and in the cold, passionless depths of their eyes. Men died at their slightest whim, at their smallest gesture. And yet they were men, for all that. They could be killed. As Whiskers Lu had been killed. And Lehmann? He too could be killed, for he was simply a man when it came down to it. And yet the thought of someone bettering Lehmann seemed wrong somehow—almost an impossibility—and that sense of wrongness gave Soucek new confidence, for at bottom he believed in Lehmann.
They stopped ten paces from the waiting group. Slowly the sedan set down. Soucek tensed, seeing how Fat Wong's hands were clenched, how his eyes were hard and cold. Lehmann's counter-summons—that terse, unsigned message—must have angered Wong Yi-sun greatly. Coming here was, in itself, a kind of loss of face. And yet he had come.
There was the rustle of heavy silks as the plain black curtain was lifted by the two attending pole men, and then Lehmann stepped out from the darkness within, straightening up slowly, his tall, emaciated figure ghostlike in the glare of the overhead lights. As ever he was dressed from head to toe in white.
White, the color of death.
A great gasp went up from the men manning the barriers. A gasp of fear as much as surprise. In front of them Fat Wong, his mouth fallen open, shook his head slowly in disbelief. For a moment he was at a loss, then he turned, looking to the Red Pole of the Kuei Chuan for an explanation.
"What in the gods' names is going on, Po Lao? Where is your Master? And who the fuck is this?"
But Po Lao held his tongue. He merely turned, his head bowed low, facing his new Master, his whole manner subservient.
"Our good friend, Whiskers Lu, is dead," Lehmann said, stepping forward, Wong's slur seemingly ignored. "So let me introduce myself. My name is Stefan Lehmann and, as of two hours ago, I became the new Big Boss of the Kuei Chuan brotherhood." He turned slightly, meeting Fat Wong's eyes from no more than an arm's length away, his voice soft, his face unsmiling. "Fat Wong . . . it's good to meet you at last." His eyes held Wong's a moment longer, then he looked past him at the others gathered there. "And you, ch'un t%u. It's good to meet you all. IVe heard so much abo^it you . . ."
Moving past Wong Yi-suh, Lehmann joined the circle of the 4895, looking about him coldly, imperiously, defying them to contradict his claim to power. And Soucek, looking on, saw how they stared back at him, impressed despite themselves, maybe even awed—even the great Wong Yi-sun. In a few moments he had won through sheer audacity what no force of arms could ever have achieved: their respect.
Soucek shivered. It was done. Lehmann, the Hung Moo—the usurper—was one of the Six now. A Boss. A 489. One of the great lords of the underworld.
And in time he would be more. Yes, Soucek burned now with the certainty of it. In time he would be more.
THE BARRIERS were down, the ship sealed. Kim stood there, staring up at the departures board, the figures on the clock, his stomach falling away as he realized that he was too late. Then, forcing himself to go on, to carry things through to the very end, he crossed the big lounge quickly, making for the Security desk in the corner.
The young guard looked up at him as he approached and frowned. "What do you want?"
Kim held out his all-levels pass. "IVe got to get a message through!" he said breathlessly. "It's vitally important."
"What ship is it?" the guard asked, studying the pass a moment, then looking back at Kim, eyeing him curiously; clearly recognizing him for a Clayborn.
"The Meridian. South Port 3."
The guard smiled and sadly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Shih Ward, but it's too late. The Meridian is already sealed."