Ben eased back, breathing shallowly, his eyes taking in everything.
It was perfect. Just perfect. His fingers moved over the surface of the keyboard. There was the faintest click as the tape began to run. At the top left corner of the screen the "record" trace began to wink redly.
The sun was low now, to the west, above the hills of Combe Point. Moment by moment the light decayed, until, at a signal from one of the elders, torches were brought—ancient oil-soaked rags on poles— and lit from the brazier. At once the scene took on a different aspect.
In the unsteady flicker of the torchlight, the faces in the crowd seemed suddenly strange, almost demonic. Turning the remote slowly, he panned across the sea of faces, noting how drawn, how emaciated each seemed. Thin lips parted like a wound, neck muscles tensed. An eye moved shiftily, uncertainly in a sunken orb, the pupil flickering darkly like an insect on a pale egg. Beyond it a jaw lowered, exposing blackened canine teeth that snarled and then laughed. Ben stared, fascinated. It was as if the half-light brought out the truth of these faces. Reduced them to a cipher to be read. Again he was conscious of how unlike the faces of the City-dwellers these faces were. Inside, the face was a mask, a wall, built to conceal. Here, in these savage, simple faces, all was offered at a glance. One had only to learn the language.
He was panning back across the crowd when the picture swung about violently. A moment later the screen went black. At once Ben switched to the second remote, turning it to focus on the malfunctioning eye. For a moment he searched fruitlessly, then he saw it, there in the hand of one of the guards. The man had plucked it from the rafters of the hut where Ben had set it; had crushed the soft-cased machine as one would crush an insect. Now, however, he was staring at the thing in his hand, realization dawning in his savage, bearded face that it was not a living creature.
Cursing softly, Ben tapped out the auto-destruct sequence. As he watched, the remote glowed hotly in the guard's hand. With a small cry, the man dropped it, then went to tread on it. But even as he did, the remote caught fire, scattering sparks like a falling cinder.
For a moment there was commotion. A small crowd formed about the tiny, melted shape, their voices briefly raised, before one of the elders shooed them back to their places.
Ben sat back, relieved. If, even for a moment, they suspected he was watching them, it would all be undone. His whole plan depended on the advantage his eyes gave him; on his superior information. It was the only real edge he had.
He switched between the two remaining remotes, testing each in turn, boosting the image, the sound, almost to distortion. It was too late to reposition them. He would have to trust now that whatever happened next took place within sight of them, which meant outside, in front of the meetinghouse. He daren't risk a second incident.
He had barely finished when there was a faint humming in the air—a sound which grew by the moment. It was an aircraft; a Security cruiser by the sound of it. He tilted the first remote, searching the darkness above Combe Point.
He saw it at once, there, coming in from the east, flying low, its headlamps cutting a brilliant path across the dark waters. He cut to the now standing crowd, to the elders gathered on the portico—seeing the awe, the feverish anticipation in every face—then switched back. The cruiser was coming in noisily, ostentatiously it seemed, making enough of a display to be seen clearly from the guard post.
Ben glanced at the empty screen to his left, then keyed in his father's access code. All was ready now. He had only to see who it was. To find out why and what they wanted. Then he could act.
The cruiser slowed, passing over the raft armada once and then again, its searchlights playing on the crowd below, figures peering down from within the craft. Then, slowly, it descended.
As it came down, the crowd moved back, away from the sleek black shape that settled in their midst. A gun turret swiveled about, then was still. A hatch hissed open skyward, like a wing unfolding. A moment later, six masked and suited guards came down the ramp, heavy automatic weapons held close to their chests.
Whoever it was, he was taking no chances. He knew better than to trust this rabble. His men fanned out, taking up defensive positions about the ramp, eyeing the crowd warily, as if expecting an attack. A moment later he appeared at the top of the ramp. As he paused, looking about him, Ben focused in, until the man's head filled the screen, his features so close that the image had almost begun to break up.
Ben clicked, taking a copy of the image, then clicked again,
transferring it. The computer search took less than a second. On the screen to Ben's left, the boxed image from the large screen was relocated at the top right of the picture, a second image—the official file copy, updated only eleven weeks back—dominating the screen, the name of the officer printed underneath in English and Mandarin.
Major Per Virtanen.
Virtanen. Ben nodded, understanding. The face had meant nothing to him, but the name . . .
Ben returned his attention to the big screen, watching the man come down the ramp, then turn, looking about him, conscious of the impression he was making. He was a tall, silver-haired officer in his mid-fifties, his features strong, decisive, his eyes a penetrating blue. His magnificent azurite-blue dress uniform was cut elegantly, the embroidered silk patch on the chest—that of a third-ranking military officer—depicting a leopard snatching a bird from the air. All in all, he seemed the very picture of refined strength—the perfect representative of the T'ang's authority—but Ben knew better.
Eight years ago, when Virtanen had first come before the Appointments Board to be considered for the post of Major, only one man had opposed his promotion, Ben's father, Hal. In normal circumstances, Virtanen would have been appointed, for there was no need for the Board's decision to be unanimous. But Hal Shepherd had gone directly to Li Shai Tung, the present T'ang's father, and had the appointment nullified.
Ben remembered it vividly. Remembered how angry his father had grown when telling his mother of it. How he had stood there in the kitchen, his fists clenched, his dark eyes blazing.
It was not unheard of for officers to "buy" their appointments— indeed, it was more the rule than the exception—nor was the use of family connection really frowned upon. No. What made Virtanen's case exceptional was his use of Triad connections, the illicit drug money, to buy influence. That and the suspected "murder" of a rival for the post, hacked to pieces in his sedan by a tong assassination squad. Nothing could be proved, of course, but the circumstantial evidence against Virtanen was considerable. In the words of the old Han saying, Virtanen was a toad masquerading as a prince. A man unsuited for the task of upholding the T'ang's law.
Accepting Hal's advice, Li Shai Tung had upheld the objection and refused the appointment, giving no reason. For Virtanen, confident of his promotion, it had been a severe loss of face—not to speak of the expense—and it was rumored that he had raged for days, cursing Hal Shepherd to anyone who'd listen.
And now, eight years on, Virtanen had finally been appointed Major. Eleven weeks ago, to be precise, in the wake of Li Yuan's deal with the Triad boss, Fat Wong.
Ben scrolled the file quickly, scanning Virtanen's orders for the past eleven weeks. Under the guise of restructuring his command, he had removed all of those officers familiar with the running of the Domain and replaced them with his own men, leaving the foot soldiers—the actual guards who served in the Domain—until the very last. At the same time he had had all Security reports for the Western Isle—for what was once called Great Britain—routed through his office.