Ice and Fire: Chung Kuo Series (33 page)

It was not until halfway through the fourth game that DeVore raised the matter.

‘Well, Tong Chou? Have you dealt with our thief?’

Chen met the Overseer’s eyes and gave the briefest nod. It had been a dreadful job
and it was not pleasant to be reminded of it. He had been made to feel unclean; a
brother to the Tengs of
the world.

‘Good,’ DeVore said. He leaned forward and connected two of his groups, then turned
the board about. ‘Play white from here, Tong Chou.’

It was the fourth time it had happened and DeVore had yet to lose a game, despite
being each time in what seemed an impossible position as black.

Yes,
Chen thought.
Karr was right after all. But you’re not just a Master at this game – it is as if
the game were invented for one like you
. He smiled inwardly and
placed the first of his stones as white.

There was the same ruthlessness in him. The same cold calculation. DeVore did not
think in terms of love and hate and relationships but in terms of advantage and groups
and sacrifice. He played
life as if it was one big game of
wei chi
.

And perhaps that’s your weakness
, Chen thought, studying him a moment.
Perhaps that’s where you’re inflexible. For men are not stones, and life is not a
game. You
cannot order it thus and thus and thus, or connect it thus and thus and thus. Neither
does your game take account of accident or chance.

Chen looked down again, studying the board, looking for the move or sequence of moves
that would make his position safe. White had three corners and at least forty points
advantage. It was his
strongest position yet: how could he lose from this?

Even so, he knew that he
would
lose. He sighed and sat back. It was as if he were looking at a different board from
the one DeVore was studying. It was as if the other man saw through to
the far side of the board, on which were placed – suspended in the darkness – the
stones yet to be played.

He shivered, feeling suddenly uneasy, and looked down at the tube he had brought with
him.

‘By the way, Tong Chou, what
is
that thing?’

DeVore had been watching him; had seen where his eyes went.

Chen picked it up and hefted it, then handed it across. He had been surprised DeVore
had not insisted on looking at the thing straight away. This was his first mention
of it in almost two
hours.

‘It’s something I thought might amuse you. I brought it with me from the Above. It’s
a viewing tube. You manipulate the end of it and place your eye to the lens at this
end.’

‘Like this?’

Chen held his breath. There! It was done! DeVore had placed his eye against the lens!
The imprint would be perfect! Chen let his breath out slowly, afraid to give away
his excitement.

‘Interesting,’ said DeVore and set it down again, this time on his side of the board.
‘I wonder who she was.’

The image was of a high-class
Hung Mao
lady, her dress drawn up about her waist, being ‘tupped’ from the rear by one of
the GenSyn ox-men, its huge, fifteen inch member
sliding in and out of her while she grimaced ecstatically.

Chen stared at the tube for a time, wondering whether to ask for it back, then decided
not to. The imprint might be perfect, but it was better to lose the evidence than
have DeVore
suspicious.

For a while he concentrated on the game. Already it was beginning to slip from him,
the tide to turn towards the black. He made a desperate play in the centre of the
board, trying to link, and
found himself cut not once but twice.

DeVore laughed. ‘I must make those structures stronger next time,’ he said. ‘It’s
unfair of me to pass on such weaknesses to you.’

Chen swallowed, suddenly understanding. At some point in the last few games he had
become, if not superfluous, then certainly secondary to the game DeVore was playing
against himself.

Like a machine with a slight unpredictability factor built into its circuits.

He let his eyes rest on the tube a moment, then looked up at DeVore. ‘Does my play
bore you,
Shih
Bergson?’

DeVore sniffed. ‘What do you think, Tong Chou?’

Chen met his eyes, letting a degree of genuine admiration colour his expression. ‘I
think my play much too limited for you, Overseer Bergson. I am but a humble player,
but you,
Shih
Bergson, are a Master. It would not surprise me to find you were the First Hand Supreme
in all Chung Kuo.’

DeVore laughed. ‘In this, as in all things, there are levels, Tong Chou. It is true,
I find your game limited, predictable, and perhaps I have tired of it already. But
I am not quite what
you make me out to be. There are others – a dozen, maybe more – who can better me
at this game, and of them there is one, a man named Tuan Ti Fo, who was once to me
as I am to you. He
alone deserves the title you conferred on me just now.’

DeVore sat back, relaxed. ‘But you are right, Tong Chou. You lost the game two moves
back. It would not do to labour the point, neh?’ He half turned in his chair and leaned
back into
the darkness. ‘Well, Stefan? What do you think?’

The albino stepped out from the shadows at the far end of the room and came towards
the table.

Chen’s heart missed a beat. Gods! How long had
he
been there?

He edged back, instinctively afraid of the youth, and when the albino picked up the
viewing tube and studied it, Chen tensed, believing himself discovered – certain,
for that brief moment,
that DeVore had merely been toying with him; that he had known him from the first.

‘These GenSyn ox-men are ugly beasts, aren’t they? Yet there’s something human about
them, even so.’

The pale youth set the tube down then stared at Chen a moment: his pink eyes so cruel,
so utterly inhuman in their appraisal, Chen felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.

‘Well?’ DeVore had sat back, watching the young man.

The albino turned to DeVore and gave the slightest shrug. ‘What do I know, Overseer
Bergson? Make him Field Supervisor if it suits you. Someone must do the job.’

His voice, like his flesh, was colourless. Even so, there was something strangely,
disturbingly familiar about it. Something Chen could not, for the life of him, put
his finger on just then.

DeVore watched the youth a moment longer, then turned, facing Chen again. ‘Well, Tong
Chou. It seems the job is yours. You understand the duties?’

Chen nodded, forcing his face into a mask of gratitude; but the presence of the young
albino had thrown him badly. He stood up awkwardly, almost upsetting the board, then
backed off, bowing
deeply.

‘Should I leave, Overseer?’

DeVore was watching him almost absently. ‘Yes. Go now, Tong Chou. I think we’re done.’

Chen turned and took a step towards the door.

‘Oh, and, Tong Chou?’

He turned back slowly, facing DeVore again, fear tightening his chest and making his
heart pound violently. Was this it? Was this the moment when he turned the board about?

But no. The Overseer was holding out the viewing tube, offering it to him across the
board.

‘Take this and burn it. Understand me? I’ll have no filth on this plantation!’

When the peasant had gone, Lehmann came across and sat in the vacant seat, facing
DeVore.

DeVore looked up at him. ‘Will you play, Stefan?’

Lehmann shook his head curtly. ‘What was all that for?’

DeVore smiled and continued transferring the stones into the bowls. ‘I had a hunch,
that’s all. I thought he might be something more, but it seems I’m wrong. He’s just
a
stupid peasant.’

‘How do you know?’

DeVore gave a short laugh. ‘The way he plays this game, for an opener. He’s not pretending
to be awkward, he is! You’ve seen his face when he concentrates on the
board!’

DeVore pulled down his eyes at the corners and stretched his mouth exaggeratedly.

‘So? He can’t play
wei chi
. What does that mean?’

DeVore had finished clearing the board. Taking a cloth from the pocket of his
pau
, he wiped the wood. ‘It means he’s not Security. Even the basest recruit would play
better
than Tong Chou.’ He yawned and sat back, stretching out his arms behind him, his fingers
interlaced. ‘I was just being a little paranoid, that’s all.’

‘Again, I thought it was your policy to trust no one?’

DeVore smiled, his eyes half-lidded now. ‘Yes. That’s why I’m having his background
checked out.’

‘Ah…’ Lehmann sat back, still watching him, his eyes never blinking, his stare quite
unrelenting. ‘And the tube?’

DeVore shook his head. ‘That was nothing. He was just trying to impress me. These
Han are strange, Stefan. They think all
Hung Mao
are beasts, with the appetites of beasts. Maybe
it’s true of some.’

Yes, but he had wondered for a moment: had waited to see if Tong Chou would clamour
for it back.

‘You’re certain of him, then?’

DeVore looked sharply at the youth. ‘And you’re not?’

Lehmann shook his head. ‘You said you had a hunch. Why not trust to it? Have you ever
been wrong?’

DeVore hesitated, reluctant to say, then nodded. ‘Once or twice. But never about something
so important.’

‘Then why trust to luck now?’

When Lehmann was gone, he went upstairs and sat at his desk, beneath the sharp glare
of the single lamp, thinking about what the albino had said. The unease he felt was
understandable.
Everything was in flux at present –
The New Hope
, the fortresses, the recent events in the House, all these demanded his concentration,
night and day. Little wonder, then, that he
should display a little paranoia now and then. Even so, the boy was right. It was
wrong to ignore a hunch simply because the evidence wasn’t there to back it up. Hunches
were signs from the
subconscious – reports from a game played deep down in the darkness.

Normally he would have had the man killed and thought nothing of it, but there were
good reasons not to kill Tong Chou just now. Reports of unrest were serious enough
as it was, and had brought
enquiries from Duchek’s own office. Another death was sure to bring things to a head.
But it was important that things were kept quiet for the next few days, until his
scheme to pay that
bastard Duchek back was finalised and the funds transferred from his accounts.

Yes. And he wanted to get even with Administrator Duchek. Because Duchek had let him
down badly when he had refused to launder the funds for the Swiss Wilds fortresses
through his accounts. Had
let them all down.

Even so, there was a way that he could deal with Tong Chou. An indirect way that would
cause the very minimum of fuss.

The dead thief had three brothers. They, certainly, would be keen to know who it was
had put their brother in the ground. And who was to say who had left the anonymous
note?

DeVore smiled, satisfied that he had found the solution to one of his problems, then
leaned forward and tapped out the combination of the discrete line that connected
him directly with
Berdichev.

‘Do you know what time it is, Howard?’

‘Two-twenty. Why? Were you sleeping, Soren?’

Berdichev waved his wife, Ylva, away, then locked the door behind her and came back
to the screen. ‘What’s so urgent?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘What about?’

DeVore paused, conscious of the possibility the call was being traced – especially
after the events of the past few days. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you.’

‘Which is when?’

‘In an hour and a half.’

‘Ah…’ Berdichev removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, then looked up again and
nodded. ‘Okay.’ Then he cut contact. There was no need to say where they would
meet. Both knew.

An hour and a half later they stood there on the mountainside below the landing dome
at Landeck Base. The huge valley seemed mysterious and threatening in the moonlight,
the distant mountains
strange and unreal. It was like being on another planet. Berdichev had brought furs
against the cold, even so he felt chilled to the bone, his face numbed by the thin,
frigid air. He faced DeVore,
noting how little the other man seemed to be wearing.

‘So? What do we need to talk about?’

His voice seemed small and hollow; dwarfed by the immensity of their surroundings.

‘About everything. But mainly about Duchek. Have you heard from Weis?’

Berdichev nodded, wishing he could see DeVore’s face better. He had expected DeVore
to be angry, maybe even to have had Duchek killed for what he had done. ‘I was disappointed
in
him, Howard.’

‘Good. I’d hate to think you were pleased.’

Berdichev smiled tightly. ‘What did you want to do?’

‘Wrong question, Soren. Try “What have you done?”’

‘So?’

‘He’s dead. Two days from now. Next time he visits his favourite singsong house. But
there’s something else I want to warn you about. I’ve got a team switching funds from
the plantation accounts here. At the same time Duchek greets his ancestors there’ll
be a big fire in the Distribution Centre at Lodz. It’ll spread and destroy the computer
records
there. I thought I’d warn you, in case it hurts any of our investors. It’ll be messy
and there’ll doubtlessly be a few hiccups before they can reconstruct things from
duplicate
records.’

‘Is that wise, Howard?’

DeVore smiled. ‘My experts estimate it’ll take them between six and eight weeks to
sort out the bulk of it. By that time I’ll be out of here and the funds will have
been
tunnelled away, so to speak. Then we cut Weis out of it.’

Berdichev narrowed his eyes. ‘Cut Weis out?’

‘Yes. He’s the weak link. We both know it. Duchek’s betrayal gives me the excuse to
deal with them both.’

Berdichev considered a moment, then nodded, seeing the sense in it. With Weis dead,
the trail covered and the fortresses funded, what did it matter if they traced the
missing plantation funds to
Duchek? Because beyond Duchek there would be a vacuum. And Duchek himself would be
dead.