“I didn’t know him,” she said, before he could speak again. “The man who was killed, I mean. I saw him clearly as he ran past me, but I don’t think I’d ever seen him before. Mind you, that’s not really surprising, is it?” “No ...” But he was still thrown by the fact that she was at College at all. He had been assuming that it was sheer coincidence that the Junior Minister’s daughter had been there, of all places, when the man had been cornered with the File, but now he began questioning that assumption. What if she had been there for just that reason—to meet the man and take the File? For there was no doubt about that—she had the File. Here, possibly, in her rooms, or somewhere else. Somewhere she’d hidden it, between yesterday afternoon and now.
“What do you do at College?”
“Is that relevant, Major Kao?”
“Maybe not. I was just interested. If you want to move on ... ?” “No. It’s okay. I study art. Art and sculpture. Those paintings and sketches on the wall behind you. They’re mine.” Chen turned, looking at them again, impressed. “Yours? I thought...” He turned back. “You’re certain you’d never seen the man before?” She smiled. “No, Major Kao. I was watching the hua pen, you see. Sketching him. . . .”
“Sketching him? You mean, with paper and pencil?”
“No. With a sketchboard. You know, one of those computer-generated
things.”
“I know. My son has one. He, too, wants to study art.”
“Your son?”
Chen waved the question aside. “Look . . . can I possibly see your sketches? They might help us in some way.” “Of course,” she said, getting up. “I think I left the sketchboard in the other room. If you’ll wait just a second or two . . .” He turned, watching her go through, expecting her to come back and say she couldn’t find it, to make some excuse. But when she returned, it was with the sketchboard. She came across, handing it to him. “You know how to work it?”
Chen nodded, then fiddled with the controls, trying to remember how to summon up the last few stored items. “They’re a nuisance to clean, neh?” he said, looking up at her.
“Here,” she said, leaning across him to tap out an instruction on the touch pad. “I only made one sketch. I’d have made more, but there wasn’t time. I’d barely finished this one when it all happened.” He stared at the sketch, surprised. If she had taken the inner workings out of the machine, then she could not have kept the sketch, but here it was, and from the security camera records he had seen, she had captured the scene about the hua pen almost perfectly. “It’s very good,” he said, handing it back to her. “Perhaps we could have a copy ... for the investigation file. There just might be something in it that will help us.”
She smiled. “Of course. I’ll print one out and send it to you. Oh, and I could sketch the man for you, if you like. I’m told I’ve a good visual memory.”
For a moment he had begun to doubt his own theory—to think he’d been mistaken—but her words made him reassess things. A good visual memory. So it was possible that she had reworked the sketch on a second, a spare, sketchboard, just in case someone like himself should come asking awkward questions.
Chen looked down at the dispatch bag which lay beside his chair. “No.
There’s no need. But if you would tell me now what you saw.” As he listened to her, Chen thought it all through, examining all the angles. She had the File. There was no doubt of that. She had removed it from the scene in the inside of her sketchboard. But why? And was it only coincidence that she had been there at that very moment? It seemed unlikely. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she was involved—that she in fact knew the man who’d died. Checks could be made, of course, and if they could find a camera record of her talking to him, then the matter could be proved. Alternatively, they could search the Mansion and locate the File. Both were fairly routine and straightforward procedures. The question was, did he really want to do either?
It wasn’t just the fact that her father was a Junior Minister in the Thousand Eyes and senior adviser to the First Dragon himself, though that was not something to be readily dismissed. It was more to do with how he himself felt about this matter. To have this young woman arrested, to have her tortured and eventually killed, simply for knowing the truth about their world—was that right? Or was it, as he had increasingly begun to feel, a kind of evil?
Chen felt himself go cold, remembering what he himself had seen, at the research station—Kibwezi—he had been posted to, three years before. He had seen then what the system he served was capable of— of the moral depths his Masters plumbed to keep their world in check—and had been changed by the experience. Oh, he still served, for that was all he really knew, yet it was with a kind of self-disgust, and with a desire, if possible, to do what he could, however small, to counterbalance that great evil. As she came to the end, he gave a tiny bow and, his decision made, stood, picking the tape up off the desk.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “That’s all 1 need. We’ll terminate the interview here, at—“ he glanced at his timer—“forty-nine minutes after eight.” He placed pressure on the top of the tiny unit, switching off the tape and sealing it.
“That’s all, then?”
He nodded. “Yes. You’ll get the copies of your statement. Oh, and your father will get a copy of the final report. Apart from that, well. . . it was very pleasant to meet you, Hannah. Very pleasant indeed.” She stood, then came around the desk. “Forgive me, Kao Chen . . . I’ve just realized. I forgot to ask the servant to bring the ch’a. If you’ve time?” She raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “No,” he said, tempted by her offer, wanting to ask her about the various things in the glass-fronted cabinet behind him, curious to see the Magic Theater in operation. “It’s kind of you, but I must get back. I’ve a lot to do. Besides, I haven’t seen my family in three days. You know how it is.”
She laughed. “I wish I did. I’m afraid I don’t get on with my father’s second wife, nor with my half brother and sister. We are too ... well, different, let’s say. Oh, it’s not a racial thing, Kao Chen. It’s just. .
.”
“I understand,” he said sympathetically, seeing it all clearly. “It must be difficult for you.”
“Difficult?” Again she laughed, but this time there was a hint of sourness. “She is the First Dragon’s youngest sister, you understand. A very important lady. It was a convenient alliance for my father, but some days I think she would have preferred my father’s first marriage to have been . . . without issue.”
Chen winced inwardly at the pain he heard in her voice.
“Is it that bad?”
She looked back at him, forcing herself to smile. “Sometimes. But I can give as good as I get. I was eight when my mother died. Nine when my father married that woman. It toughened me up, you might say. Forced me to be a survivor. And that’s what it’s about, neh? Surviving. Or so my father’s friends all say.”
“Maybe . . . but there ought to be more to life than that, neh?”
She nodded.
“Anyway, I must go now.” Chen bowed, then turned, making for the door.
“Major Kao?”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“Your bag...”
“Keep it. I think you might find it... interesting.”
“Interesting?” She stared back at him, her eyes half lidded. “You’ll see.” He smiled. “It was pleasant meeting you, Hannah. I’m sorry that our acquaintance has to be so brief, but good luck.” He bowed again, then turned, making his way out. And as he walked down the long, luxuriant corridor, following the House Steward, he smiled, imagining her surprise when she opened the bag. Small things, he thought, letting himself be ushered out of the great doorway. That’s all we can do to counter the great evil in our world. Small things. And yet, for once, he felt pleased, as if he had done something big. He laughed and walked on, making for the lift. Something that would reverberate.