He turned to the window again. Out there, under the bluest of skies, the sea glimmered like a mirror to the horizon. Perfect, he thought, recalling for some reason the blue of the woman’s eyes. And even as he did he heard the click of the trigger mechanism, the slow whirring of the gears beneath his seat as the bomb’s detonator turned a half circle and engaged.
the men were dropping from the craft before it settled, scuttling across the roof of the great Palace toward the ventilation shafts. They had expected defensive fire coming in, but the Palace batteries had been silent, the lookout posts unmanned. Even so, they took positions as rehearsed, going through routines drilled into them a hundred times. There were the dull concussions of grenades and then they were inside, dropping swiftly, silently, down the shafts and out into the upper corridor. At the top of the great stairway the team leader stopped, sniffing the air, then raised a hand, bidding his men be still. There was a strange smell in the air, like the smell of overcooked meat. He listened. Nothing. The place seemed deserted. Then, from way down in the bowels of the palace, they heard a distant groan.
They descended, more slowly now, checking each room, each intersection, before they went on. Down, four flights and then a fifth, until they came to the Great Hall itself and, beyond it, the throne room. There, in the entrance to the Hall, beneath the faded wedding banners, they found the cauldrons—five of them in a line, the charred remnants of a fire about the base of each. Inside, their popeyed inhabitants were flushed a perfect pink, like crabs, the flesh bloated and grotesquely mottled. The surface of the cauldrons was still warm, the water—what was left of it—tepid.
The team leader nodded to himself, then waved his men on. Beyond the throne room were the T’ang’s offices and above them. . . He stopped, hearing the groaning come again, closer now and louder. The great doors to the throne room were partly closed, the view within obscured.
There! he mouthed, signaling to one of his men. At once the man crossed the hall, disappearing behind one of the pillars and reappearing farther down.
“Stay where you are!” a voice called out from inside the throne room. He saw his man freeze, then begin to back away. A single shot rang out. He heard his man fall, his gun clatter away from him. He looked back. The doors were beginning to close. “Now!” he yelled, urging his men forward. Then, taking a grenade from his belt, he ran, hurling it toward the ever-narrowing gap. The explosion threw him back.
Climbing to his feet he charged again, firing into the smoking ruins of the doors, his men close by, the sound of their guns making his ears ring loudly.
Inside the throne room, just beyond the shattered doors, six bodies lay still, as if asleep, their clothes disheveled. Coughing, he scrambled over the debris, looking about him. The throne was vacant, the room itself empty save for the corpses.
He turned, issuing orders. “Stewart, Blofeld, secure the stairway to the T’ang’s quarters. Edsel, Graham, check the anteroom.” His breath hissed from him. If Wang were here, he was upstairs, in his private rooms. In fact, he was certain of it now. These men—he bent over them, examining their uniforms, making sure—were Lan Tian, members of Wang Sau-leyan’s elite “Blue Sky” Division, the same that had launched the attack on Tongjiang. They would not have defended the door unless there were a reason for it.
The groaning came again, much louder than before—a ragged, awful sound that tore at one’s innards. A death sound. Upstairs. It came from upstairs.
He picked his way through the wreckage, then walked across to the throne, his gun cradled against his chest. At the foot of the steps he stopped, looking down at the three corpses that lay there, the blood congealed in a single, sticky pool about them. This was Wang’s work, he had no doubt of it. His face wrinkled with disgust, he turned, beckoning his men across to him, then looked toward the door of the anteroom. “Clear,” Edsel said.
“Good.” He waited as they gathered about him, then addressed them quietly. “You know what we have to do. Li Yuan wants his cousin taken alive. He wants him tried for what he did at Tongjiang.” There were grave nods at that, then, at his wave of dismissal, they moved across, taking positions beside the door that led through to Wang’s rooms. He sent four men through to check out the offices. They were clear. Then, with a whispered prayer to Kuan Ti, the God of War, he began to climb the steps, his gun out before him.
wang sau-leyan sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the woman. Her eyes were closed, the lids almost transparent now. Sweat beaded her naked skull, the yellowing flesh stretched tight and flecked with tiny pustules. He watched her, seeing how she writhed in her torment, fascinated by her suffering, and when she groaned again something in him responded to the sound, urging it from her.
Death. This was what death was like. He could feel it. He could actually feel it.
He reached across, taking the silver-handled gun from the bedside table, then stood. He could hear them outside. Could hear their whispering and their quiet tread. In a moment they would be here. Come, he thought, unafraid now that it was upon him. Death, do your worst. I, for one, am not beholden to you. I will not cower at your door. I am a Tang—a Son of Heaven!
He laughed, wondering, even as he did, what they made of his laughter. Did they think him mad? Well ... let them. What did it matter what the hsiao jen thought? It was not their fate to have their deaths recorded. He stood before the mirror, studying himself a moment, then turned, hearing the faintest buzzing in the air. At first he couldn’t make it out, then he saw it: a remote, the tiny floating camera hugging the tiled ceiling of the room.
It slowed, then stopped, no more than ten ch’i from where he stood, its tiny camera eye focused on him.
He smiled, a knowing smile, then returned to the bed, sitting on the end, the gun cradled in his lap.
The first man entered slowly, cautiously, and took up a kneeling position to the left of the door, beside a standing vase. The second was more nervous. He ducked into the room and scurried to his position to the right. From there the two men covered Wang with their automatics. He watched them, expressionless—saw how they tried to watch him without meeting his eyes—and smiled inwardly. Whatever their orders, when it came to killing a T’ang it went against their deepest instincts. He stretched his neck, then turned, hearing the woman stir. Her teeth were clenched, almost in a rictus, yet she was still alive. Her breath hissed from her momentarily in tiny gasps, then she relaxed again. Not long, he thought, and turned as the Captain came into the room.
“Chieh Hsia...”
Wang Sau-leyan stared at the man a moment, then, with an effort to be regal, hauled himself up off the bed and stood. “You are not welcome here, Captain. These are my private rooms.” The man’s head lowered the slightest degree. He took two paces toward Wang Sau-leyan. “I—“ Wang raised the gun, pointing it at him.
The Captain swallowed. “Put the gun down, Chieh Hsia. We are not here to hurt you. My orders are—“ Wang pulled the trigger.
There was a huge bang and then a moments shocked silence. The two men by the door were staring at Wang, astonished, yet still they did not fire. The Captain lay where he had fallen, groaning, clutching his ruined stomach, blood pooling beneath him on the polished tiles. Wang Sau-leyan looked up into the eye of the remote and smiled. “Well, cousin Yuan? Is that what you wanted?”
He looked back at the two men by the door, moving the gun between them.
“You? ... Or you?”
He lowered the gun, considering a moment, then, making a show of aiming it again, pointed it at the second guard. “You, I think.” “Husband ...”
The voice was like a whisper from the other side. Wang turned, looking at the woman. She was sitting up, and her eyes, which bulged from the diseased flesh, stared at him as if from Hell itself. Husband . . .
The explosion rocked him. It was as if he had been jabbed with a red-hot poker. He looked down, seeing at once where the bullet had entered him. Even as he stared the redness spread, and with it a searing pain that was like ice scorching through his veins. The gun fell from his hand. Slowly he sank to his knees.
He turned his head, looking, trying to understand just what had happened. The two guards seemed frozen. Their guns were lowered, their faces shocked. Between them, looking back at him from where he lay, the Captain held a gun. As he watched the faintest trace of smoke lifted from the barrel.
“Ah...” he said, smiling through the encroaching blackness. “Ah. . .” “Chieh Hsia,” the man answered him, letting his face fall back into the sticky mess that surrounded him. “Chieh Hsia ...”