An Inch of Ashes (26 page)

‘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 laughing stock.’

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

Ebert sat back, staring away across the sea of empty tables towards 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 selfsame 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, then 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 on to 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 there, 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 sing-song 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 head first. 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. Then he was done. For a moment, he rested there, 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 here 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 dishonoured 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...’

Haavikko’s boot caught Fest on the shoulder. He fell on to his side, groaning, then lay there, the pain lancing through him. For a time he was still, silent, then he turned his head again, trying to look back at Haavikko.

‘You think you’ll get away with this?’

It was the Han who answered him, his face pressed close to Fest’s, his breath sour on Fest’s cheek. ‘See this?’ He brought a knife into the range of Fest’s vision – a big, vicious-looking knife, longer and broader than the regulation issue, the edge honed razor-sharp.

‘I see it,’ Fest said, fighting down the fear he suddenly felt.

‘Good. Then you’ll be polite, my friend, and not tell us what we can or cannot do.’

There was something coldly fanatical about the Han. Something odd. As if all his hatred were detached from him. It made him much more dangerous than Haavikko, for all Haavikko’s threats. Fest looked away, a cold thrill of fear rippling through him.

‘What are you going to do?’

The Han laughed. Again it was cold, impersonal. ‘Not us, Fest. You. What are
you
going to do? Are you going to help us nail that bastard, Ebert, or are you going to be difficult?’

Fest went very still. So that was it. Ebert. They wanted to get at Ebert. He turned back, meeting the Han’s eyes again. ‘And if I don’t help you?’

The Han smiled. A killer’s smile. ‘If you don’t, then you go down with him. Because we’ll get him, be assured of that. And when we do, we’ll nail you at the same time, Captain Fest. For all the shit
you’ve
done at his behest.’

Fest swallowed. It was true. His hands were far from clean. But he also sensed the unstated threat in the Han’s words. If he
didn’t
help... He looked away, certain that the Han would kill him if he said no. And then, suddenly, something broke in him and he was sobbing, his face pressed against the floor, the smell of his own vomit foul in his nostrils.

‘I hate him. Don’t you understand that?
Hate
him.’

Haavikko snorted his disgust. ‘I don’t believe you, Fest. You’re his creature. You do his bidding. You forget, old friend, I’ve seen you at your work.’

But Fest was shaking his head. He looked up at Haavikko, his face pained, his voice broken now. ‘I
had
to. Don’t you understand that, Haavikko? That time before Tolonen – I
had
to lie. Because if I hadn’t...’

The Han looked to Haavikko, something passing between them, then he looked back at Fest. ‘Go on,’ he said, his voice harder than before. ‘Tell us. What
could
he have done? You only had to tell the truth.’

Fest closed his eyes, shuddering. ‘Gods, how I wished I had. But I was scared.’

‘You’re a disgrace—’ Haavikko began, but Fest interrupted him.

‘No. You still don’t understand. I
couldn’t
. I...’ He looked down hopelessly, then shook his head again. ‘You see, I killed a girl...’

Haavikko started forward angrily. ‘You lying bastard!’

Fest stared back at him, wide-eyed, astonished by his reaction; not understanding what he meant by it. ‘But it’s true! I killed a girl. It was an accident... in a sing-song house – and Ebert found out about it...’

Haavikko turned, outraged. ‘He’s lying, Chen! Mocking me!’

‘No!’ Chen put his hand on Haavikko’s arm, restraining him. ‘Hear him out. And think, Axel. Think. Ebert’s not that imaginative a man. What he did to you – where would he have got that idea if not from Fest here? And what better guarantee that it would work than having seen it done once before?’

Haavikko stared back at him open-mouthed, then nodded. He turned, looking back at Fest, sobered. ‘Go on,’ he said, almost gently this time. ‘Tell us, Fest. Tell us what happened.’

Fest shivered, looking from man to man, then, lowering his eyes, he began.

The doorman bowed low, then stepped back, his fingers nimbly tucking the folded note into his back pocket as he did so.

‘If the gentleman would care to wait, I’ll let
Shih
Ebert know he’s here.’

DeVore went inside and took a seat, looking about him. The lobby of the Abacus Club was a big, high-ceilinged room, dimly lit and furnished with low, heavy-looking armchairs. In the centre of the room a tiny pool was set into a raised platform, a fountain playing musically in its midst, while here and there huge bronze urns stood like pot-bellied wrestlers, their arms transformed to ornately curved handles, their heads to bluntly flattened lids.

Across from him the wall space was taken up by a single huge tapestry. It depicted an ancient trading hall, the space beneath its rafters overflowing with human life, busy with frenetic activity, each trader’s table piled high with coins and notes and scrolled documents. In the foreground a clearly prosperous merchant haggled with a customer while his harried clerk sat at the table behind him, his fingers nimbly working the beads of his abacus. The whole thing was no doubt meant to illustrate the principles of honest trade and sturdy self-reliance, but to the eye of an impartial observer the impression was merely one of greed.

DeVore smiled to himself, then looked up as Lutz Ebert appeared at the far end of the lobby. He went across, meeting Ebert halfway.

Lutz Ebert was very different from his brother, Klaus. Ten years his brother’s junior, he had inherited little of his father’s vast fortune and even less, it seemed, of his distinctive personal traits. Lutz was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, more suave in his manner than his brother – the product of his father’s second marriage to an opera star. Years before DeVore had heard someone describe Lutz as honey-tongued, and it was true. Unlike his brother he’d had to make his own way in the world and the experience had marked him. He was wont to look away when he talked to you or press one’s hand overzealously, as if to emphasize his friendship. The blunt, no-nonsense aloofness that was his brother’s way was not allowed him, and he knew it. He was not his brother, neither in power nor personality, though he was not averse to using the connection, letting others make what they would of his relationship with – and his possible influence over – one of Chung Kuo’s most powerful men. He had swung many deals that way: deals which the force of his own personality and limited circumstances might have put outside his grasp. Here, in the Abacus Club, however, he was in his element – among his own kind.

Lutz smiled warmly, greeting him, then gave a small, respectful bow.

‘What an unexpected pleasure,
Shih
Loehr. You’ll dine with me, I hope. My private rooms are at the back. We can talk there undisturbed.’

‘Of course.’

The rooms were small but sumptuously furnished in the latest First Level fashion. DeVore unbuttoned his tunic, looking about him, noting the bedroom off to one side. No doubt much of Lutz Ebert’s business was transacted thus, in shared debauchery with others of his kind. DeVore smiled to himself again, then raised a hand, politely refusing the drink Ebert had poured for him.

‘I won’t, thanks. I’ve had a tiring journey and I’ve a few other visits to make before the day’s over. But if you’ve a fruit juice or something...’

‘Of course.’ Ebert turned away and busied himself at the drinks cabinet again.

‘This is very nice, my friend. Very nice indeed. Might I ask what kind of rental you pay on these rooms?’

Ebert laughed, then turned, offering DeVore the glass. ‘Nominally it’s only twenty thousand a year, but in reality it works out to three or four times that.’