"No . . ." Karr got to his feet. The camera stills were of two quite different men, yet the retinal print was the same. "But how come the computer allowed the match?"
"It seems that the only detail it has to have a one-hundred-percent mapping on is the retinal pattern. That's unchanging. The rest—facial hair, proportion of muscle and fat in the face—changes over the years. The computer is programmed to ignore those variations. As long as the underlying bone structure is roughly the same the computer will recognize it as being the same face."
Karr laughed. "And you know who this is?"
The young officer smiled back at Karr. "I read my files, sir. It's DeVore, isn't it?"
"Yes. And he entered Salzburg hsien twenty or twenty-five minutes ago, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. And you're tracking him?"
"Yes, sir. I've put two of my best men on the job."
"Excellent."
Karr looked down at the dossier again. The gods knew why DeVore had made such an elementary mistake, but he had, so praise them for it. Taking the handset from his pocket, he tapped in Chen's combination, then, as Chen came on line, gave a small laugh. "It's DeVore, Chen. I think we've got him. This time I really think we've got him!"
T o l o N E n was crouched in the middle of the room. The corpses were gone now, his men finished here, but still the room seemed filled with death. He looked up at the young officer, his face pulled tight with grief, his eyes staring out at nothing. "I should have killed him while I had the chance." He shuddered and looked down at his big square hands. "If only I had known what mischief he was up to."
"We'll track him, sir. Bring him back," the officer offered, watching his Marshal, a deep concern in his clear gray eyes.
The old man shook his head and looked down again. Something had broken in him in the last few hours. His shoulders sagged, his hands—real and artificial— rested on his knees limply. All of the anger, all of the old blind rage that had fired him as a man, had gone. There was no avenging this, whatever he said. The young officer had seen how the old man had looked, such tenderness and agony in his face as he.bent and gently touched the wire about his brother's neck. It was awful to see such things. More than could be borne.
The young man swallowed, his voice a sympathetic whisper. "Can I get you anything, sir?"
Tolonen looked up at him again, seeming to see him for the first time. There was a faint smile on his lips, but it was only the smallest flicker of warmth in the wasteland of his features.
"Is there any news?"
The young man shook his head. There was no trace of Jelka. It was as if she had vanished. Perhaps she was dead, or maybe Ebert had her after all. He hoped not.
But she was nowhere in the City. An eighteen-hour Security trawl had found no trace of her.
The officer went through to the living room, returning a moment later with two brandies. "Here," he said, handing one to the Marshal. "This will help."
Tolonen took the glass and stared at it a while, then drained it at a gulp. He looked up at the young officer, his face expressionless.
"Telling Li Yuan was hard." His wide brow furrowed momentarily. "I felt I had failed him. Betrayed him. It was bad. Worse than Han Ch'in's death. Much worse."
"It wasn't your fault."
Tolonen met his eyes a moment, then looked away, shaking his head. "If not mine, then whose? I knew and didn't act. And this . . ." His mouth puckered momentarily and his fists clenched. He took a deep breath, then looked up again. "This is the result."
The officer was about to answer the Marshal, to say something to alleviate the old man's pain, when a three-tone signal sounded in his head. There was news. He narrowed his eyes, listening, then smiled; a huge grin of a smile.
"What is it?" Tolonen asked, getting to his feet.
"It's Viljanen, from Jakobstad. He says to tell you that Jelka is there. And safe."
jelka stood at the end of the old stone jetty, waiting for him. Waves crashed against the rocks across the bay. Above her the slate-gray sky was filled with huge thunderheads of cloud, black and menacing.
The island was in winter's grip. Snow covered everything. She stood there, above the deep-green swell of the sea, wrapped in furs against the cold, only her face exposed to the bitter air. The boat was small and distant, rising and falling as she watched, laboring against the elements. Beyond it, its scale diminished by the distance, lay the clifflike whiteness of the City, its topmost levels shrouded by low cloud.
Only as the boat came nearer could she hear the noise of its engine, a thin thread of regularity amid the swirling chaos of wind and wave. Entering the bay the engine noise changed, dropping an octave as the boat slowed, turning in toward the jetty. She saw him on the deck, looking across at her, and lifted her arm to wave.
They embraced on the path above the water, the old man hugging her to him fiercely, as if he would never again let her go. He pushed back her hood and kissed her on the crown, the brow, the lips, his hot tears coursing down her frozen face, cooling in her lashes and on her cheeks.
"Jelka . . . Jelka ... I was so worried."
She closed her eyes and held on to him. Snow had begun to fall, but he was warm and close and comforting. The familiar smell of him eased her tortured mind. She let him turn her and lead her back to the house.
He built a fire in the old grate, then lit it, tending it until it was well ablaze. She sat watching him in the half-light from the window, her hand clasping the pendant at her neck, the tiny kuei dragon seeming to burn against her palm.
Still kneeling, he half turned toward her, his face a mobile mask of black and orange, his gray hair glistening in the flickering light.
"How did you get here?" he asked gently. "My men were looking for you everywhere."
She smiled but did not answer him. Desperation creates its own resources, and she had been desperate to get here. Besides, she wasn't sure. It was as if she had dreamed her journey here. She had known. Known that while the storm might rage on every side, here was safety, here the eye. And she had run for the eye. Here, where it was warm and safe.
He watched her a moment longer, his moist eyes filled with the fire's wavering light, then stood. He was old. Old, and weary to the bone. She went across and held him, laying her cheek against his neck, her arm about his waist. For a moment he rested against her, thoughtless, unmoving, then he shifted slightly, looking down into her face.
"But why here? Why did you come here?"
In her head there had been the memory of brine and leather and engine oils, the strong scent of pine; the memory of a circle of burned and blackened trees in the woods, of an ancient stone tower overlooking a boiling sea. These things, like ghosts, had summoned her.
She smiled. "There was nowhere else."
He nodded, then sighed deeply. "Well. . . It's over now."
"Over?"
His hand went to her face, holding her where the jaw bone came down beneath the ear, his thumb stroking the soft flesh of her cheek. His own face was stiff, his chin raised awkwardly.
"I was wrong, Jelka. Wrong about many things, but most of all wrong to try to force you into something you didn't want."
She knew at once what he meant. Hans. She felt herself go cold, thinking of him.
"I was blind. Stupid." He shook his head slowly. His face muscles clenched and unclenched, then formed a grimace. This pained him. As much as the deaths.
She opened her lips to speak, but her mouth was dry. She nodded. She had tried to tell him.
"He's gone," he said, after a moment. "Hans has gone."
For a moment she said nothing. Her face was blank, her eyes puzzled. "Gone?"