With a tired sigh he picked up the package and tore the seal open, then tipped it up, letting the contents fall out onto the desk. A file. Another damn file. He picked it up and flicked through it quickly, then returned to the beginning, suddenly alert, sitting forward and drawing the lamp closer.
It was another of them. . . .
He read it through quickly, then pushed it aside with a grunt of irritation, shaking his head angrily. The idiots! The fatheads! Couldn’t they ever get it right? This was the fourth of these he’d seen in the last six months and every time they’d fucked up when it came down to it. Four pursuits, four deaths—it was a pretty slipshod record. Little wonder Rheinhardt wanted someone new to take things over. Yes, but why me? I’ve enough on my plate. He sat back, yawning, knowing he needed rest—a break from duties. Not only that, but he’d promised Jyan he’d spend some time with him. Oh, Jyan would understand—he always understood—but it wasn’t fair on the boy. Not now, when things were so difficult at home.
Leaning forward again, he tapped out the code for his apartment, then waited as the connection was made. Even that was getting worse. Two, three years ago, there would have been no waiting time, but now . . . Well, it was like his friend Karr had said, last time they’d got together. Things were going to hell in a bucket!
“Hello . . . ?”
The voice was small, distorted, but Chen knew at once who it was. It was his daughter, Ch’iang Hsin, the baby of the family. “Hello, my little peach. It’s Daddy. Is Jyan there?” There was a hesitation, then: “He’s with Mummy. She’s not been well. She’s been crying again. Wu has gone for the doctor.” Chen sighed. “Okay. Well, look, my love, tell Jyan that I can’t get back tonight. Tell him—tell him that I’ll speak to him as soon as I can. Have you got that?”
“She’s not well, Daddy. She—“
He could hear the pain in her voice, but there was little he could do. The doctor could give Wang Ti something to make her sleep, perhaps. Maybe that would help.
“Look, my love, be brave for me, okay? I’ll try and get back there as soon as I can. I promise I will. But it won’t be tonight. Something very important has come up and Daddy has to see to it, okay?” Her voice seemed even smaller. “Okay . . . but be home soon, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you, too, my peach. I love you very much. Kiss Mummy for me, neh?” He broke contact, the tightness in his gut much worse than usual. It wasn’t fair on them, he knew. He was away too much, and the woman he had hired to help out didn’t even begin to meet the children’s emotional needs. Something had to be done, and soon, but just now he had no time to see to it.
Chen stood, raising his arms above his head, stretching the tiredness from his chest and upper shoulders. Reaching into his left-hand drawer, he took two tablets from the packet he kept there and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them down, knowing they’d keep him awake and alert for another twelve hours.
He looked about him at the clutter of his office. Short-term solutions, that was how he lived his life these days—juggling a whole mess of short-term solutions. But the problems were long-term and sometime soon he’d have to face up to them.
After this, perhaps, he thought, picking up the file and going across to the door. Maybe 111 ask for a week’s leave and try and sort things out. It was what he ought to do. Things couldn’t go on much longer the way they were. But what was the answer?
To endure, part of him answered. To keep on, day by day, holding things together, smoothing over the cracks, until. . . Chen shuddered, then, taking his tunic down from the peg by the door, slipped it on and went through into the outer office, summoning his men to him, getting down to the task at hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Land Without Ghosts
It was early morning in City North America, and at the Lever Mansion in Richmond servants hurried to and fro along the broad, high-ceilinged corridors, returning items to their rightful places or ticking off others against ancient, dusty ledgers, as the Mistress set about making an inventory of the great house.
Mary Lever had been up since four, organizing the venture, and now her attention had turned to the West Wing of the Mansion, unused since her father-in-law’s death some eighteen months before. She was up on the second floor, among the guest suites, checking for herself that what was actually there tallied with the book account of what ought to be there. So far she had been pleasantly surprised. Very little had gone missing. She walked from room to room, drawing curtains and throwing open windows as she went, Old Man Lever’s First Steward, Elliot, following her closely, like a shadow.
As if, she thought wryly, he doesn’t trust me with the family silver. She looked about the last of the guest rooms, wondering vaguely which of Old Man Lever’s powerful friends had last slept here . . . and with whom. If these walls could only speak . . .
She smiled, then, satisfied, pulled the door closed and locked it, returning the key to the bunch jangling at her waist. She swept a lock of her short blond hair from her eyes, then turned, looking toward the door at the far end of the corridor. A big twelve-paneled door painted a dreary cream.
“Okay. What’s down there?”
The elderly servant turned, glancing at the door, then looked back at her, his head bowed. “I don’t know, Mistress. The Master never used this wing of the Mansion much. We were not encouraged—“ “I see,” she said, interrupting, then moved past him. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself.”
“Forgive me, Mistress ...”
She stopped. “Yes, Richard?”
As before, the use of his first name unsettled the old retainer. He was not used to such informality.
“Nothing, Mistress. Simply that I don’t think there’s a key to that door.” She stared at him, intrigued. Why is he so uncomfortable? and How does he know there is no key if he was never encouraged to come here? “Why not?” she asked, deciding to be direct.
“It. . . was never used.”
“Never?” She shrugged. “Well, we’ll see, neh?”
She turned, continued to the door.
As he caught up with her, she whirled about, the abruptness of her action surprising him. “You’re absolutely certain there’s no key?” He bowed his head, nodded.
“Then we’d best break it down, no?”
“Mistress?” He looked at her, alarmed.
“If there’s no key ...”
He stared back at her, nonplussed.
“Well?” she said, almost smiling now. “Will you do it, or shall I?”
His mouth opened slightly, closed.
There’s something in there, she thought. Something he’d rather I didn’t see.
She turned, took a step backward, kicked.
The door shuddered, held.
She kicked again. This time the wood surrounding the lock split and partly gave. A third kick shattered it.
The door swung slowly back.
She turned, smiling at him, enjoying the look of astonishment on his face.
And inside?
She stepped into the room. Into a dark mustiness.
“Lights,” she said, addressing the House Computer.
At once the room was brightly lit.
She looked about her. It was a big room—a storeroom of some kind. Crates were stacked up four high, two deep, all around the bare walls. She went across and examined one. It was sealed. She tried another and then a third. All sealed, untouched since they’d been placed here—when?—at least eighteen months back. She crouched, looking about her. The same label was on all the crates—the ornate blue-and-gold label of the Hythe-MacKay Auction House.