Wingrove, David - Chung Kuo 02 (63 page)

He laughed
gently. "You need no reason to interrupt me. You are reason
enough in yourself."

She smiled and
looked down. "Even so, it wasn't only my eagerness to see you. I
have some news."

"News?"
He moved her slightly back from him, taking her upper arms gently in
his hands, studying her. Then he smiled again. "Well, let us go
outside into the garden. We'll sit on the bench seat, side by side,
like doves on a perch, and you can tell me your news."

Returning his
smile she let herself be led out into the sunlit warmth of the
garden. From somewhere near at hand a songbird called, then called
again. They sat, facing each other on the sun-warmed bench.

"You look
beautiful, my love" he said, admiring her. "I don't know
what you've done, but it suits you." He reached out, his fingers
brushing against her cheek, caressing the bare, unadorned flesh of
her neck. "But come, my love, what news is this you have?"
'

For a second or
two her eyes searched his, as if for prior knowledge of what she was
about to say; but he, poor boy, suspected nothing. "What would
you say if I told you I had fallen?"

He laughed, then
shook his head, puzzled. "Fallen?"

She smiled, then
reached out, taking his hands in her own. "Yes, my wise and yet
foolish husband. Fallen. The doctors confirmed it this very morning."
She saw how his eyes widened with sudden comprehension and she
laughed, nodding her head. "Yes, my love. That's right. We're
going to have a child."

* *
*

IT WAS LATE
afternoon and the Officers Club at Bremen was almost empty. A few men
stood between the pillars on the far side of the vast, hexagonal
lounge, talking idly; only one of the tables was occupied.

A Han servant,
his shaved head bowed, made his way across the huge expanse of
green-blue carpet to the table, a heavily laden tray carried
effortlessly in one hand. And as he moved between the men,
scrupulously avoiding touching or even brushing against them as he
put down their drinks, he affected not to hear their mocking laughter
or the substance of their talk.

One of them, a
tall mustached man named Scott, leaned forward, laughing, then
stubbed out his cigar in one of the empty glasses.

"It's the
talk of the Above," he said, leaning back and looking about him
at his fellow officers. Then, more dryly. "What's more, they're
already placing bets on who'll succeed the old bugger as Minister."

Their laughter
spilled out across the empty space, making the Han working behind the
bar look up before they averted their eyes again.

They were
talking of Minister Chuang's marriage earlier that day. The old man
had cast off his first wife and taken a new one—a young girl of
only fourteen. It was this last that Scott had been rather
salaciously referring to.

"Well, good
luck to the man, I say," an officer named Panshin said, raising
his glass in a toast. Again there was laughter. Only when it had died
down did Hans Ebert sit forward slightly and begin to talk. He had
been quieter than usual, preferring for once to sit and listen rather
than be the focus of their talk; but now all eyes looked to him.

"It's a sad
story," he began, looking down. "And if I'd had an inkling
of how it would turn out I would never have got involved."

There was a
murmur of sympathy at that, an exchange of glances and a nodding of
heads.

"Yes,
well—there's a lesson to us all, neh?" he continued,
looking about him, meeting their eyes candidly. "The woman was
clearly deranged long before I came across her."

For once there
was no attempt to derive a second meaning from his words. All of them
realized the significance of what had happened. An affair was one
thing, but this was different. Events had got out of hand and the
woman had overstepped the mark when she had attacked Ebert.

"No,"
Ebert went on. "It saddens me to say so, but I do believe Madam
Chuang would have ended in the sanatorium whether I'd crossed her
path or not. As for her husband, I'm sure he's much better off with
his
nan-fang,"
he smiled, looking to Scott, "even if
the girl kills him from sheer pleasure."

There were
smiles at that but no laughter. Even so, their mood was suddenly
lighter. The matter had been there, unstated, behind all their
earlier talk, dampening their spirits. But now it was said and they
all felt easier for it.

"No one
blames you, Hans," Panshin said, leaning forward to touch his
arm. "As you say, it would have happened anyway. It was just bad
luck that you got involved."

"That's
so," Ebert said, lifting his shot glass to his lips and downing
its contents in one sharp, savage gulp. "And there are
consolations. The
mui tsai
for one."

Fest leaned
forward, leering, his speech slurred. "Does that mean you've
cooled toward the other one, Hans?" He laughed suggestively.
"You know. The young chink whore . . . Golden Heart."

Fest was not
known for his discretion at the best of times, but this once his
words had clearly offended Ebert. He sat there, glaring at Fest.
"That's my business," he said coldly. "Don't you
agree?"

Fest's smile
faded. He sat back, shaking his head, suddenly more sober. "Forgive
me, Hans, I didn't mean . . ." He fell silent, bowing his head.

Ebert stared at
Fest a moment longer, then looked about him, smiling. "Excuse my
friend,
ch'un tzu.
I think he's had enough." He looked
back at Fest. "I think you'd best go home, Fest. Auden here will
take you if you want."

Fest swallowed,
then shook his head. "No. I'll be all right. It's not far.”
He sought Ebert's eyes again. "Really, Hans, I didn't mean
anything by it."

Ebert smiled
tightly. "It's all right. I understand. You drank too much,
that's all."

"Yes."
Fest put his glass down and got unsteadily to his feet. He moved out
from his seat almost exaggeratedly, then turned, bowing to each of
them in turn. "Friends . . ."

When he was
gone, Ebert looked about him, lowering his voice slightly. "Forgive
me for being so sharp with him, but sometimes he forgets his place.
It's a question of breeding, I suppose. His father climbed the
levels, and sometimes his manners—" he spread his arms,
"Well, you know how it is."

"We
understand," Panshin said, touching his arm again. "But
duty calls me, too, I'm afraid, much as I'd like to sit here all
afternoon. Perhaps you'd care to call on me some time, Hans? For
dinner?"

Ebert smiled
broadly. "I'd like that, Anton. Arrange something with my
equerry. I'm busy this week, but next?"

Slowly it broke
up, the other officers going their own ways, until only Auden was
there with him at the table.

"Well?"
Auden asked, after a moment, noticing how deep in thought Ebert was.
Ebert looked up, chewing on a fingernail.

"You're
annoyed, aren't you?"

"Too
fucking right I am. The bastard doesn't know when to hold his tongue.
It was bad enough the Minister committing his wife to the asylum, but
I don't want to be made a total laughingstock."

Auden hesitated,
then nodded. "So what do you want me to do?"

Ebert sat back,
staring away across the sea of empty tables toward the bar, then
looked back at him, shuddering with anger.

"I want him
taught a lesson, that's what I want. I want something that'll remind
him to keep his fucking mouth shut and drink a little less."

"A warning,
you mean?"

Ebert nodded.
"Yes. But nothing too drastic. A little roughing up, perhaps."

"Okay. I'll
go there now, if you like." He hesitated, then added, "And
the pictures?"

Ebert stared
back at him a moment. Auden was referring to the package he had left
with him the day he had been attacked by the madwoman. He took a
breath, then laughed. "They were interesting, Will. Very
interesting. Where did you get them?"

Auden smiled.
"From a friend, let's say. One of my contacts in the Net."

Ebert nodded. It
had been quite a coincidence. There he'd been, only half an hour
before, talking to Marshal Tolonen about the missing sculptures, and
there was Auden, handing him the package containing holograms of the
self-same items he had been instructed to find.

"So what do
you want to do?" Auden prompted.

"Nothing,"
Ebert answered, smiling enigmatically. "Unless your friend has
something else for me."

Auden met his
eyes a moment, then looked away. So he understood at last. But would
he bite? "I've a letter for you," he said, taking the
envelope from his tunic pocket. "From your Uncle Lutz."

Ebert took it
from him and laughed. "You know what's in this?"

Auden shook his
head. "I'm only the messenger, Hans. It wouldn't do for me to
know what's going on."

Ebert studied
his friend a while, then nodded slowly. "No, it wouldn't, would
it?" He looked down at the envelope and smiled. "And this?
Is this your friend's work, too?"

Auden frowned.
"I don't know what you mean, Hans. As I said—"

Ebert raised a
hand. "It doesn't matter." He leaned forward, taking
Auden's hand, his face suddenly earnest. "I trust you, Will.
Alone of all this crowd of shits and hangers-on, you're the only one
I can count on absolutely. You know that, don't you?"

Auden nodded. "I
know. That's why I'd never let you down."

"No,"
Ebert smiled back at him fiercely, then sat back, releasing his hand.
"Then get going, Will. Before that loud-mouthed bastard falls
asleep. Meanwhile, I'll find out what my uncle wants."

Auden rose, then
bowed. "Take care, Hans."

"And you,
Will. And you."

* *
*

FEST LEANED
against the wall pad, locking the door behind him, then threw his
tunic down onto the floor. Ebert had been right. He
had
had
too much to drink. But what the hell? Ebert was no saint when it came
to drinking. Many was the night
he'd
fallen from his chair
incapable. And that business about the girl, the chink whore, Golden
Heart. Fest laughed.

"I touched
a sore spot there, didn't I, Hans old pal? Too fucking sore for your
liking, neh?"

He shivered,
then laughed again. Ebert would be mad for a day or two, but that was
all. If he kept his distance for a bit it would all blow over. Hans
would forget, and then . . .

He belched, then
put his arm out to steady himself against the wall. "Time to
piss."

He stood over
the sink, unbuttoning himself. It was illegal to urinate in the wash
basins, but what the shit? Everyone did it. It was too much to expect
a man to walk down the corridor to the urinals every time he wanted a
piss.

He was partway
through, thinking of the young singsong girl Golden Heart and what
he'd like to do to her, when the door chime sounded. He half-turned,
pissing on his boots and trouser leg, then looked down, cursing.

"Who the
hell. . . ?"

He tucked
himself in and not bothering to button up, staggered back out into
the room.

"Who is
it?" he called out, then realized he didn't have his hand on the
intercom.

What the fuck?
he thought, it's probably Scott, come to tell me what happened after
I'd gone. He went across and banged his hand against the lock to open
it, then turned away, bending down to pick his tunic up off the
floor.

He was
straightening up when a boot against his buttocks sent him sprawling
headfirst. Then his arms were being pulled up sharply behind his back
and his wrists fastened together with a restraining brace.

"What in
hell's name?" he gasped, trying to turn his head and see who it
was, but a blow against the side of the head stunned him and he lay
there a moment, tasting blood, the weight of the man on his back
preventing him from getting up.

He groaned, then
felt a movement in his throat. "Oh, fuck. I'm going to be sick .
. ."

The weight
lifted from him, letting him bring his knees up slightly and hunch
over, his forehead pressed against the floor as he heaved and heaved.
When he was finished he rested there for a moment, his eyes closed,
sweat beading his forehead, the stench of sickness filling the room.

"Gods, but
you disgust me, Fest."

He looked
sideways, finding it hard to focus, then swallowed awkwardly. "And
who the fuck are you?"

The man laughed
coldly. "Don't you recognize me, Fest? Was it so long ago that
your feeble little mind has discarded the memory?"

Fest swallowed
again. "Haavikko. You're Haavikko, aren't you?"

The man nodded.
"And this is my friend, Kao Chen."

A second face,
that of a Han, appeared beside Haavikko's, then moved away. It was a
strangely familiar face, though Fest couldn't recall why. And that
name . . .

Fest closed his
eyes, the throbbing in his head momentarily painful, then slowly
opened them again. The bastard had hit him hard. Very hard. He'd get
him for that.

"What do
you want?" he asked, his cut lip stinging now.

Haavikko
crouched next to him, pulling his head back by the hair. "Justice,
I'd have said, once upon a time, but that's no longer enough—not
after what I've been through. No. I want to hurt you and humiliate
you, Fest, as much as I've been hurt and humiliated."

Fest shook his
head slowly, restrained by the other's grip on him. "I don't
understand. I've done nothing to you, Haavikko. Nothing."

"Nothing?"
Haavikko's laugh of disbelief was sour. He tugged Fest's head back
sharply, making him cry out. "You call backing Ebert up and
having me dishonored before the General nothing?" He snorted,
then let go, pushing Fest's head away roughly. He stood. "You
shit. You call that nothing?"

Fest grimaced.
"I warned you. I told you to leave it, but you wouldn't. If only
you'd kept your mouth shut—"