Shang bowed, conscious of the praise in his superior’s eyes. “I have thought long and hard about this, Shang Mu, and have decided that one man alone can organize all this. Only one man has the skill, the diplomacy, the contacts, to enable us to build our great alliance without a word getting out, and that is you.”
The First Dragon’s smile was like the opening of a tiny crevice in a glacier. “As First Operator you will be responsible for coordinating all aspects of our plan. You will appoint key officials to work under you and come to me with any requests for special funding. As for the agents in the field, they will continue as before. They will act only on specific instructions, received direct from your office. At no point are they to be made aware of the new directive. Only we, the seven Dragons, yourself, and others I shall let you have the names of, know of this. It is our secret. A deadly secret. And a sacred trust. You understand?”
“I understand, I Lung.”
“Good. Then there is one last thing you must do for me. On the way out my Chief Steward will hand you a file. In the file is a handwritten report. I want you to read it, tonight, and then come to me first thing tomorrow morning, at sixth bell, here in this office.” Shang went to nod, then spoke instead. “And might I ask what your Excellency requires of me?”
“Exactly what I said. Nothing more. And remember, there can be no turning back. If any one of us fails we are all dead men. And dead men cannot help Chung Kuo, can they?”
Shang Mu met his Master’s eyes solemnly. “No, I Lung.”
“Then go. There is much to do.”
the young woman stood at the entrance to Hui Tsung Street, her sketchboard held against her chest, looking across at the crowd gathered at the feet of the hua pen. The storyteller was sitting cross-legged on a low platform, a ragged group of children scattered about him. Farther back small groups of old man and idlers looked on from among the food stalls, while at a nearby guard post three young, fresh-faced officers leaned idly on the barrier, listening to the tale.
From where she stood Hannah could hear the hua pen’s voice clearly, rising animatedly above the background hubbub. Most of the hua pen she had seen before now had been old men, graybeards, sagelike and somnolent, their delivery slow, almost ritualistic, as if they had told the tale one time too many and were bored with it, but this one was different. For a start he was a relatively young man, in his thirties. Moreover, he looked more like an actor in a historical drama than a traditional hua pen, his startling orange whiskers and unkempt hair—hair that was barely kept in check by a broad, blood-red headband—emphasizing the pop-eyed savagery of his face. In his flowing black cloak he seemed more like an ancient bandit prince than a teller of tales, his arms making huge, exaggerated shapes in the air, his hands every bit as expressive as the words he uttered. She had heard the story often—it was the famous tale of Wu Song, one of the heroes of the Shut Hu Chuan, the “Outlaws of the Marsh”— of how he first met the great Song Jiang, the “Timely Rain” as he was known, and of how he had killed the man-eating tiger on Ching Yang Ridge—yet she had never heard it told with such power, such vitality. For a time she found herself caught up in the tale, swept along, as if this were the very first time she had heard it. Then, reminding herself why she was there, she crouched, balancing the sketchboard on her knee, and began to set it all down, using the finest setting on the stylus. It was a quick, rough sketch—more an impression than an accurate depiction of the scene—yet when she had finished it she nodded to herself. Yes, that was it. That was it exactly. That sense of tense excitement in the crowd—the childlike anticipation of each new, yet familiar, twist in the tale—it was there in every line, every shadow, of her sketch. She pressed to save and store, then rested there, lightly balanced on her haunches, her arms draped loosely across the sketchboard, watching the hua pen. She was a striking-looking young woman, a Hung Mao, yet with something distinctly Han about her. Tall and willowlike, her eyes were dark and piercing, while her long, jet-black hair was plaited into a single thick braid that lay against her back. From the simple elegance of her clothes and the strong lines of her face you might have thought that she was in her early twenties, but in reality she was a mere sixteen years old. As she crouched there, watching the hua pen, the eyes of the youngest of the soldiers went to her appreciatively, then looked away, thoughtful. She was not of this level, that was certain, yet what she was doing down here—a young woman, alone and unguarded—was hard to fathom. The tale was almost ended, the climax of Wu Song’s adventure almost reached. The hua pen was leaning forward, his voice lowered slightly, almost confidential, as he told of the attempted seduction of Wong Sun by his elder brother’s wife, Golden Lotus, when, from the far end of the corridor, came the sound of gunfire. There was a moment’s shocked silence as all heads turned to look, and then all hell broke loose. Hannah had straightened up at the sound of the shots; now she drew back, into the doorway of a nearby shop, staring openmouthed as people struggled to get away. Instinctively she held the sketchboard in front of her to protect herself, yet there was no need. It was as if she stood at the center of a magic circle in which she could not be harmed. All about her people were panicking, knocking over stalls, and fighting each other to get away, yet the stream of frantic humanity flowed about her, as if she were a rock, going either left into the big feed corridor where she had been standing, or right, toward the interlevel stairs. She watched, horrified, as, only ten ch’i from where she stood, an old Han woman went down, one hand grasping at the air, and was instantly trampled beneath a hundred urgent feet. She cried out as she saw a child stumble and go down on the stairway, but there was nothing she could do, the crush of people was so great.
From the far end of the corridor came the sound of sporadic gunfire, carrying over the shouts and screams. Then, as the crowd in front of her began to thin, she glimpsed a tall, well-dressed Hung Mao with long, red-gold hair, making his way between the fallen stalls. He turned and, raising his right hand, fired back at his pursuers, then ran on. Beneath his left arm he was carrying a blood-red package, something that looked like a small bolt of silk or a box of expensive chocolates. He hesitated, looking about him anxiously, then ran off to the left, choosing one of the small side corridors that led through to the interdeck lifts. Yet even as he ran she knew he would not get far, for his pursuers—Security guards, a dozen or more in number—were close behind. For a moment Hannah hesitated, then, impulsively, she started forward, pushing her way through to where she had last seen the man. As she began to run someone called out to her—one of the young soldiers from the guardpost—but she ignored him and ran on. She was certain now that something important was happening: something so important that Security were willing to panic a whole deck—and risk a large number of lives—to get what they wanted.
And what was that?
Instinctively she knew it had to do with the package. In fact the more she thought about it, the more she knew it for a certainty. She had seen the fear in the man’s face—the frightened certainty of capture and death—and yet he had gripped the package as if his life depended upon it. And why should that be unless it were more important than his life? Maybe. Yet what could be more important to a man than his life? Hannah stopped and turned. The short corridor behind her was empty. To her right was a locked-up shop, the boarded window covered with paste-on posters. To the left was a communal washroom. She shivered. Instinct told her that she had missed something. Or seen something but not registered it properly. She walked back slowly, looking to either side of her. Nothing. Nothing at all. She turned back, determined to go on, to witness for herself what happened. And then she saw it. The package was wedged into the vent above the washroom door, one edge jutting out into the corridor. Quickly she went across and, reaching up, tugged at it until it came loose. Then, looking about her, she went inside, ignoring the stench of the place, and found a relatively clean stall, pulling the door closed behind her. For a moment she hesitated, staring at the package. It was heavy, heavier than her sketchboard even. Nor had she been mistaken. The silk wrapping alone was beyond the purse of anyone at this level. This wasn’t Yu, this was First Level. But what did that mean?