He shuddered, then tore his eyes from the screen, looking down into the pale, terrified face of his Chancellor.
"So where is it now, Hung? Where in the gods' names is it now?"
Hung Mien-lo looked up at him, wide-eyed, and gave the tiniest shrug. "In the hills, Chieh Hsia. Somewhere in the hills."
YWE HAO WAS STANDING with her back to Karr, naked, her hands secured behind her back, her ankles bound. To her right, against the bare wall, was an empty examination couch. Beyond the woman, at the far end of the cell, two members of the medical staff were preparing their instruments at a long table.
Karr cleared his throat, embarrassed, even a touch angry, at the way they were treating her. It had never worried him before—normally the creatures he had to deal with deserved such treatment—but this time it was different. He glanced at the woman uneasily, disturbed by her nakedness, and as he moved past her, met her eyes briefly, conscious once more of the strength there, the defiance—even, perhaps, a slight air of moral superiority.
He stood by the table, looking down at the instruments laid out on the white cloth. "What are these for, Surgeon Wu?"
He knew what they were for. He had seen them used a hundred, maybe a thousand, times. But that was not what he meant.
Wu looked up at him, surprised. "Forgive me, Major. I don't understand . . "
Karr turned, facing him. "Did anyone instruct you to bring these?"
The old man gave a short laugh. "No, Major Karr. No one instructed me. But it isp standard practice at an interrogation. I assumed—"
"You will assume nothing," Karr said, angry that his explicit instructions had not been acted on. "You'll pack them up and leave. But first you'll give the prisoner a full medical examination."
"It is most irregular, Major—" the old man began, affronted by the request, but Karr barked at him angrily.
"This is my investigation, Surgeon Wu, and you'll do as I say! Now get to it. I want a report ready for my signature in twenty minutes."
Karr stood by the door, his back turned on the girl, while the old man and his assistant did their work. Only when they'd finished did he turn back.
The girl lay on the couch, naked, the very straightness of her posture, like the look in her eyes, a gesture of defiance. Karr stared at her a moment, then looked away, a feeling of unease eating at him. If the truth were told, he admired her. Admired the way she had lain there, suffering all the indignities they had put her through, and yet had retained her sense of self-pride. In that she reminded him of Marie.
He looked away, disturbed at where his thoughts had led him. Marie was no terrorist, after all. Yet the thought was valid. He had only to glance at the girl—at the way she held herself—and he could see the similarities. It was not a physical resemblance—though both were fine, strong women—but some inward quality that showed itself in every movement, every gesture.
He went across and opened one of the cupboards on the far side of the room, then returned, laying a sheet over her, covering her nakedness. She stared up at him a moment, surprised, then looked away.
"You will be moved to another cell," he said, looking about him at the appalling bareness of the room. "Somewhere more comfortable than this." He looked back at her, seeing how her body was tensed beneath the sheet. She didn't trust him. But then, why should she? He was her enemy. He might be showing her some small degree of kindness now, but ultimately it was his role to destroy her, and she knew that. Maybe this was just as cruel. Maybe he should just have let this butcher Wu get on with things. But some instinct in him cried out against that. She was not like the others he had had to act against—nothing like DeVore or Berdichev. There he had known exactly where he stood, but here . . .
He turned away, angry with himself. Angry that he found himself so much in sympathy with her; that she reminded him so much of his Marie. Was it merely that—that deep resemblance? If so, it was reason enough to ask to be taken off the case. But he wasn't sure that it was. Rather, it was some likeness to himself; the same thing he had seen in Marie, perhaps, that had made him want her for his mate. Yet if that were so, what did it say about him? Had things changed so much—had he changed so much—that he could now see eye to eye with his Master's enemies?
He looked back at her—at the clear, female shape of her beneath the sheet— and felt a slight tremor pass through him. Was he deluding himself, making it harder for himself, by seeing in her some reflection of his own deep-rooted unease? Was it that? For if it were, if the problem lay with him ...
"Major Karr?"
He turned. Surgeon Wu stood beside the table, his assistant behind him, holding the instrument case. On the table beside the old man was the medical report.
Karr picked it up, studying it carefully, then took the pen from his pocket and signed at the bottom, giving the undercopy to the surgeon.
"Okay. You can go now, Wu. I'll finish off here."
Wu's lips and eyes formed a brief, knowing smile. "As you wish, Major Karr." Then, bowing his head, he departed, his assistant—silent, colorless, like a pale shadow of the old man—following two paces behind.
Karr turned back to the woman. "Is there anything you need?"
She looked at him a moment. "My freedom. A new identity, perhaps." She fell silent, a look of sour resignation on her face. "No, Major Karr. There's nothing I need."
He hesitated, then nodded. "You'll be moved in the next hour or so, as soon as another cell is prepared. Later on, I'll be back to question you. It has to be done, so it's best if you make it easy for yourself. We know a great deal anyway, but it would be best for you—"
"Best for me?" She stared back at him, a look of disbelief in her eyes. "Do what you must, Major Karr, but never tell me what's best for me. Because you just don't know. You haven't an idea."
He felt a shiver pass through him. She was right. This much was fated. Was like a script from which they both must read. But best. . . ? He turned away. This was their fate, but at least he could make it easy for her once they had finished—make it painless and clean. That much he could do, little as it was.
IN TAG YUAN, in the walled burial ground of the Wang clan, it was raining. Beneath a sky of dense gray-black cloud, Wang Sau-leyan stood before the open tomb, his cloak pulled tight about him, staring wide-eyed into the darkness below.
Hung Mien-lo, watching from nearby, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. So it was true. The tomb had been breached from within, the stone casket that had held Wang Ta-hung shattered like a plaster god. And the contents?
He shuddered. There were footprints in the earth, traces of fiber, but nothing conclusive. Nothing to link the missing corpse with the damage to the tomb. Unless one believed the film.
On the flight over from Alexandria they had talked it through, the T'ang's insistence bordering on madness. The dead did not rise, he argued, so it was something else. Someone had set this up, to frighten him and try to undermine him. But how? And who?
Li Yuan was the obvious candidate—he had most to gain from such a move— but equally, he had the least opportunity. Hung's spies had kept a close watch on the young T'ang of Europe and no sign of anything relating to this matter had emerged—not even the smallest hint.
Tsu Ma, then? Again, he had motive enough, and it was true that Hung's spies in the Tsu household were less effective than in any other of the palaces, but somehow it seemed at odds with Tsu Ma's nature. This was not the kind of thing he would do. With Tsu Ma even his deviousness had a quality of directness to it.
So who did that leave? Mach? The thought was preposterous. As for the other T'ang, they had no real motive—even Wu Shih. Sun Li Hua had had motive enough, but he was dead, his family slaughtered to the third generation.