Vasska laughed. "You're a fool. Soft too," he sneered, forgetting what she had done in the other room. "Let's kill him and get out."
Leyden was looking frightened now. He glanced from one to the other and began to back away. Vasska stepped forward, throwing off Ywe Hao's arm, and aimed his gun. But he didn't have a chance to fire it. Two more shots rang out and he fell forward, dead.
Leyden looked at Ywe Hao, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
"Go!" she said, her eyes pleading with him. "Go, before I have to kill you too!" And she raised her gun at him—the gun that had killed Shou Chen-hai and Vasska. He hesitated only a moment, then turned and ran, back up the corridor. She watched him go—heard his footsteps sound long after he was out of sight— then, stepping over Vasska's corpse, walked slowly down the corridor, the gun held out in front of her.
THE LIGHTS had been dimmed in the reception room, a space cleared for dancing. A small troupe of Han musicians had set up their instruments in one corner and were playing a sprightly tune, their faces beaming as they watched the dancers whirl about the floor.
Chen stood to one side, watching as Karr led his new wife through the dance. He had never seen the big man so happy; never seen that broad mouth smile so much, those blue eyes sparkle so vividly. Marie, facing him, seemed almost breathless with happiness. She gasped and laughed and threw her head back, screeching with delight. And all about them the crowd pressed close, sharing their happiness. Chen grinned and turned his head, looking across at his own family. Jyan and young Wu were sitting at a nearby table, sipping at their drinks through straws, their eyes taking in everything. Beside them sat Wang Ti, her heavily swollen belly forcing her to sit straight-backed, her legs apart. Even so, she seemed not to notice her discomfort as she held Ch'iang Hsin's hands, twirling her baby daughter this way and that to the rhythms of the music.
Chen smiled, then took a deep swig of his beer. It felt good to be able to let go. To relax and not have to worry about what the morning would bring. The last six months had been murderously busy, getting the new squad ready for active service, but after tonight both Karr and he were on a week's furlough. Chen yawned, then put his hand up to smooth his head, surprised, for the briefest moment, that his fingers met not flesh but a soft covering of hair. He lowered his hand, frowning. A lifetime's habits were hard to shift. He was always forgetting. . . .
Chen drained his glass, then went across to the bar to get a refill, glancing at the presents stacked high on the table as he passed. Tolonen had sent a bolt of the finest silk, the T'ang a silver platter, engraved by the Court's own Master Silversmith. But there were hundreds of others too—evidence of the esteem in which Karr was held.
He took his beer and made his way back, catching Karr's eye as he circled the dance floor, lifting his glass in salute.
"Are you all right?" he asked Wang Ti, crouching at her side. "If you're feeling tired . . . ?"
She smiled. "No, I'm fine. Just keep an eye on the boys. Make sure they don't drink anything they shouldn't. Especially Wu. He's a mischievous little soul."
Chen grinned. "Okay. But if you want anything, just let me know, eh? And if you get tired . . ."
"Don't nag me, husband. Who's carrying this thing—you or me? I'll tell you straight enough when I want to go. All right?"
Chen nodded, satisfied, then straightened up. As he did the door at the far end swung open and a uniformed guard came into the room. Chen narrowed his eyes, noting at once that the man was a Special Services courier. In one hand he held a Security folder. As he came into the room he looked about him, then swept off his cap, recognizing Karr.
Chen went across, intercepting the courier.
"I am Captain Kao," he said, standing between Karr and the man. "What is your business here?"
The courier bowed. "Forgive me, Captain, but I have sealed orders for Major Karr. From Marshal Tolonen. I was told to give them directly into the Major's hands."
Chen shook his head. "But this is his wedding night. Surely . . . ?" Then he caught up with what the man had said. From Tolonen . . . He frowned. "What has been happening?"
The courier shrugged. "Forgive me, Captain, but I am not aware of the contents, only that it is a matter of the most extreme urgency."
Chen stood back, letting the man pass, watching as he made his way through the dancers to stand before Karr.
Karr frowned, then with a shrug tore open the wallet and pulled out the pririted documents. For a moment he was silent, intent on what he was reading; then, grim-faced, he came across.
"What is it?" Chen asked, disturbed by the sudden change in Karr's mood.
Karr sighed, then handed Chen the photostat of the terrorist pamphlet that had been among the documents. "I'm sorry, Chen, but for us the party's over. We have work to do. It looks like the Ping Tiao are active again. They've assassinated a senior official. A man named Shou Chen-hai."
"Shou Chen-hai . . ." Chen looked up from the pamphlet, his mouth fallen open. "The Hsien L'ing from Hannover?"
Karr's eyes widened. "That's right. You knew him?"
But Chen had turned and was looking at Wang Ti, remembering what she had said only that morning—the argument they had had over the rumors of the man's corruption. And now the man was dead, murdered by assassins. He turned back. "But your wedding night. . . ?"
Karr smiled and held his arms briefly. "Marie will understand. Besides, it will be sweeter for the waiting, neh?" And, turning away, the big man went across to his bride.
the first corpse lay where it had fallen, faceup on the bathroom floor. The face was unmarked, the eyes closed, as if sleeping, but the chest was a mess. The first two high-velocity shells had torn the rib cage apart and spattered the heart and most of the left lung over the far wall, but whoever had killed him had wanted to make absolutely sure. A third shot had been fired into the man's gut after he had fallen, hemorrhaging the stomach and large intestine and destroying the left kidney.
Chen had already seen the computer simulation produced by the Medical Examiner on the scene, but he had wanted to see the damage for himself; to try to picture what had happened. He knelt there a moment longer, studying the dead man, fingering the fine silk of his bathrobe, then he looked across at the fallen wine cup, the faintly pink water of the low-edged marble bath. The medical report showed that Shou Chen-hai had recently had sex. He had not had time to wash himself before he was killed. As for the wine, he had barely sipped at the cup before he had dropped it, presumably in surprise, for it lay some way from the body, the thick stoneware chipped.
He stood and took a step back, taking in the whole of the scene, then turned, looking out into the hallway where the second corpse lay, facedown, the back of the orange and yellow Maintenance work suit stained red in a figure eight where the wounds had overlapped. Chen shook his head, trying to piece it together, but as yet it made no sense. The second corpse was supposedly a terrorist. His ID was faked and, as expected, they had found a fish pendant around his neck, a copy of the pamphlet in his pocket. But was that what they had been meant to find? Was this, in fact, a Triad killing and the rest of it a front, meant to send them off on the wrong track? It would certainly make sense of the explicit mention in the pamphlet of Shou's dealings with the Big Circle. If a rival Triad boss wanted to discredit Iron Mu, or more likely, to frighten off those who might think of dealing with him, what better way than to resurrect old fears of fanatical terrorists who struck like ghosts between the levels?
Because the Ping Tiao were ghosts. They had been destroyed—their cells smashed, their leaders killed—less than six months ago. It was not possible that they could have rebuilt themselves in such a short time.
Chen took the copy of the pamphlet from his tunic pocket and unfolded it. There was no mention of the Ping Tiao anywhere on the pamphlet, but the Han pictogram for the word "fish"—Yu—the symbol of the old Ping Tiao was prominent in several places; and the printing and style of the pamphlet were unmistakable. Even if the Ping Tiao itself had not survived, one important aspect of it—one man, perhaps, the brain and eye behind the original organization—had come through. Unless this were an intricate fake: a mask designed to confuse them and throw them off the scent. But why do that?