DeVore. It had to be DeVore. But why? How in the gods' names could he possibly benefit from this?
"Let me see the reports."
The officer turned away, returning a moment later with a clipboard to which were attached the preliminary, hand-written reports. Tolonen took them from him and flicked through quickly.
"Very good," he said finally, looking up. "You've been very thorough, Captain. I ..."
He paused, looking past the Captain. His daughter, Jelka, was standing in the doorway at the end of the corridor.
"What is it?"
Jelka smiled uncertainly at him, then came closer. "I wanted to see. I..."
Tolonen looked back at her a moment, then shrugged. "All right. But it's not very pleasant."
He watched her come into the room and look about her. Saw how she approached the sacks and lifted one of the labels, then let it fall from her hand with a slight shudder. Even so, he could see something of himself in her, that same hardness in the face of adversity. But there was more than that—it was almost as if she were looking for something.
"What is it?" he said after a moment.
She turned, looking at him, focusing on the clipboard he still held. "Can I see that?"
"It's nothing," he said. "Technical stuff mainly. Assessments of explosive materials used. Post-mortem examinations of remains. That kind of thing."
"I know," she said, coming closer. "Can I see it? Please, Daddy."
Out of the corner of an eye he saw the Captain smile faintly. He had been about to say no to her, but that decided him. After all, she was a Marshal's daughter. He had taught her much over the years. Perhaps she, in turn, could teach the young officer something.
He handed her the file, watching her flick through it quickly again, as if she were looking for something specific. Then, astonishingly, she looked up at him, a great beam of a smile on her face.
"I knew it!" she said. "I sensed it as soon as I came in. He's alive! This proves it!"
Tolonen gave a short laugh, then glanced briefly at the Captain before taking the clipboard back from his daughter and holding it open at the place she indicated. "What in the gods' names are you talking about, Jelka? Who? Who's alive?"
"The boy. Ward. He isn't there! Don't you see? Look at the Chief Pathologist's report. All the corpses he examined were those of adults—of fully grown men. But Kim wasn't more than a child. Not physically. Which means that whoever the seventeenth victim was, he wasn't on the Project."
"And Kim's alive."
"Yes . . ."
He stared back at her, realizing what it might mean. The boy had a perfect memory. So good that it was almost impossible for him to forget anything. Which meant...
He laughed, then grew still. Unless they'd taken him captive. Unless whoever had done this had meant to destroy everything but him. But then why had they taken the tutor T'ai Cho and afterward released him? Or had that been a mistake.7
"Gods . . ." he said softly. If DeVore had the boy, he also had the only complete record of the Project's work—the basis of a system that could directly control vast numbers of people. It was a frightening thought. His worst nightmare come true. If DeVore had him.
He turned, watching his daughter. She was looking about her, her eyes taking in everything, just as he'd taught her. He followed her through, the young Captain trailing them.
"What is it?" he said quietly, afraid to disturb her concentration. "What are you looking for?"
She turned, looking back at him, the smile still there. "He got out. I know he did."
He shivered, not wanting to know. But she had been right about the other thing, so maybe she was right about this. They went through the ruins of the outer office and into the dark, fire-blackened space beyond where they had found most of the bodies.
"There!" she said, triumphantly, pointing halfway up the back wall. "There! That's where he went."
Tolonen looked. Halfway up the wall there was a slightly darker square set into the blackness. He moved closer, then realized what it was. A ventilation shaft.
"I don't see how . . ." he began, but even as he said it he changed his mind and nodded. Of course. The boy had been small enough, wiry enough. And after all, he had come from the Clay. There was his past record of violence to consider. If anyone could have survived this, it was Kim. So maybe Jelka was right. Maybe he had got out this way.
Tolonen turned, looking at the young officer. "Get one of your experts in here now, Captain. I want him to investigate that vent for any sign that someone might have used it to escape.
"Sir!"
He stood there, Jelka cradled against him, his arm about her shoulders, while they tested the narrow tunnel for clues. It was difficult, because the vent was too small for a grown man to get into; but with the use of extension arms and mechanicals they worked their way slowly down the shaft.
After twenty minutes the squad leader turned and came across to Tolonen. He bowed, then gave a small, apologetic shrug.
"Forgive me, Marshal, but it seems unlikely he got out this way. The vent is badly charred. It sustained a lot of fire damage when the labs went up. Besides that, it leads down through the main generator rooms below. He would have been sliced to pieces by the fans down there."
Tolonen was inclined to agree. It was unlikely that the boy had got out, even if DeVore hadn't taken him. But when he looked down and met his daughter's eyes, the certainty there disturbed him.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm certain. Trust me, Father. I know he got out. I just know."
Tolonen sniffed, then looked back at the squad leader. "Go in another five ch'i. If there's nothing there we'll call it off."
They waited, Tolonen's hopes fading by the moment. But then there was a shout from one of the men controlling the remote. He looked up from his screen and laughed. "She's right. Damn me if she isn't right!"
They went across and looked. There, enhanced on the screen, was a set of clear prints, hidden behind a fold in the tunnel wall and thus untouched by the blast.
"Well?" said Tolonen, "Are they the boy's?"
There was a moment's hesitation, then the boy's prints were flashed up on the screen, the computer superimposing them over the others.
There was no doubt. They were a perfect match.
"Then he's alive!" said Tolonen. He stared at his daughter, then shook his head, not understanding. "Okay," he said, turning to the Captain, "this is what we'll do. I want you to contact Major Gregor Karr at Bremen Headquarters and get him here at once. And then—"
He stopped, staring open-mouthed at the doorway. "Hans . . . what are you doing here?"
Hans Ebert bowed, then came forward. His face was pale, his whole manner unnaturally subdued.
"IVe got news," he said, swallowing. "Bad news, I'm afraid, Uncle Knut. It's the T'ang. I'm afraid he's dead."
HANS EBERT paused on the terrace, looking out across the gardens at the center of the Mansion where the Marshal's daughter stood, her back to him.
Jelka was dressed in the southern Han fashion, a tight silk samfu of a delicate eggshell-blue wrapped about her strong yet slender body. Her hair had been plaited and coiled at the back of her head, but there was no mistaking her for Han. She was too tall, too blond to be anything but Hung Moo. And not simply Hung Moo, but Nordic. New European.
He smiled, then made his way down the steps quietly, careful not to disturb her reverie. She was standing just beyond the bridge, looking down into the tiny stream, one hand raised to her neck, the other holding her folded fan against her side.
His wife. Or soon to be.
He was still some distance from her when she turned, suddenly alert, her whole body tensed as if prepared against attack.
"It's all right," he said, raising his empty hands in reassurance. "It's only me."
He saw how she relaxed—or tried to, for there was still a part of her that held out against him—and smiled inwardly. There was real spirit in the girl, an almost masculine hardness that he admired. His father had been right for once: she would make him the perfect match.