“You have it, I see,” Kemp said, his eyes indicating the thick folder under Britton’s arm.
“It wasn’t easy,” Britton answered, looking about him at the elegant apartment as if checking for assassins. Then, looking back at Kemp, he smiled tightly. “I had to trade upon a lot of old friendships to get this. There’s a lot more here than you’d find in the official Security file. A lot more.”
Kemp nodded, then gestured that Britton should take a seat, but Britton ignored him, walking across to the bathroom door. Opening it a fraction he looked inside, his eyes taking in the mammoth sunken bath, the gold rails, the marble tiling.
“They look after you well, Shih Kemp.”
None of your business, Kemp thought, smiling broadly. “Naturally,” he said. “They’re powerful men. They treat their friends well.”
There was a couched threat in that which Britton didn’t miss. He turned, looking sourly at Kemp.
“And how well do you treat your friends, Shih Kemp?” Kemp went to the drawer beside the bed and took out the envelope, then turned back, facing Britton.
“It’s all here. One hundred thousand, as agreed.” Britton’s face was hard. “I’ve had a lot of expenses. As I said, there’s a lot more here than you’d have thought.”
Kemp eyed him. “I can find an extra twenty-five. But that’s it.” Britton considered a moment, then nodded. He stepped across and handed Kemp the dossier.
Kemp flicked through it, then whistled. Eight hundred pages. And good stuff by the look of it. He looked up at Britton and smiled. “I’ll send your expenses over later.”
“That’s fine with me, Shih Kemp, but you might have a look at the passage I’ve marked on page three hundred seventy-four before I leave. There’s an interesting sideline you might want me to follow up on.” Kemp raised an eyebrow, then flicked through, finding the page. He read the passage through, then looked up again, interested. “So just what were our two friends investigating before they had their . .
. accident?”
Britton smiled. The smile of a shark. “Old Man Lever had hired them to look into the background of his son’s new wife. It seems they came up with a blank. Lever paid them off, but for some reason they kept looking. And then this. Suspicious, neh?”
“Very.” Kemp paused. “Do we know what they found?”
“No. It all got burned with them.”
“Interesting.” He considered, then nodded. “Okay. Look into it. But this time keep expenses to a minimum, huh?”
Britton stared at him, fish eyed. “It’ll cost what it costs.”
Kemp shrugged. Yes, he thought, but if it costs too much, you can whistle. At the door Britton stopped, looking back at Kemp, his face like a sculpted mask, cold and expressionless. “Oh, and say good-bye to your girlfriend for me!”
Kemp sat there a moment after he’d gone, staring at the door, his anger slowly subsiding. Britton was becoming a nuisance. More than that, he was an insolent son of a bitch. But he was useful, there was no denying that, and if he could find out something juicy about Mary Lever, then all the better. There’d be a big fat bonus in it for himself. He looked down at the dossier again, then laughed. The Old Men would pay him well for this. Very well indeed. He flicked through, stopping at a picture of an adolescent Michael Lever with his father, and nodded to himself. Then, calling for the girl to come and help him dress, he turned to the front of the file and began to read.
in the great hall of John Fairbank’s Mansion at the top of Denver central, the four old men were gathered about the life-size statue of the boy, casting admiring, acquisitive eyes over its perfect marble form. Egan, who had crouched to study the detail of the outstretched arm, looked up at Fairbank and smoothed a hand over his polished skull. “Where did you find it?”
“There’s a dealer in Europe I use,” Fairbank answered, looking to the other two as he did. “I’ll give you his address. It seems there’s a new man working the Clay in Central Europe. They say he’s unearthed a whole warehouse full of treasures!”
“If it’s like this, I’m interested,” Green said, nodding in his distinctive manner. “Could I be indelicate, John, and ask what this cost?” Fairbank’s smile widened a fraction. “Have a guess.” Chamberlain looked at the statue, considered a moment, then laughed. “I haven’t a clue! Statuary really isn’t my thing. But having said that, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this well preserved. Why, there’s not a mark on it!”
“That’s true enough,” Egan said, straightening up. “So much of what I’ve seen in the auction houses is damaged. The little savages tend to smash anything they get their hands on. This must have been hidden away somewhere—in a cellar, perhaps, or under rubble. To find it. . .” He gazed at the statue again, clearly impressed. “Well, it’s rare, that’s all I know. So ... fifty million? A hundred?”
“Double that,” Green said, watching Fairbank’s face. “I bet you paid . . . oh, two twenty?”
“Two twenty-five,” Fairbank said, laughing, then shook his head. “Every time! I don’t know how you do it, Clive.” “It’s sixty years of watching that face of yours,” Green answered, laughing. “I’m sure I know every little tick and nervous gesture on it!” “Is that what it is?” Again Fairbank laughed. “Two two five, huh?” Egan said, and turned, looking at the statue with a new respect. “And you think he might have something else like this?” “He might”—Fairbank looked about him—“or you might make me an offer.” Egan looked up, frowning, then, seeing how the others were smiling, gave a bark of laughter. “Am I that transparent?” “Only to your friends!”
Egan looked about him. “And good friends you’ve been these past thirty years. Through thick and thin.”
“Which is one of the reasons why we’re here, neh?” Fairbank said, serious suddenly. It was true. For thirty years they had suffered at the hands of Old Man Lever. He had bought their best men, plundered their markets, stolen their secrets, undercut their products. No trick had been too low or too filthy for him, no method too devious or too immoral. But now that had changed. His death eighteen months back had opened a door of opportunity. His son was raw and inexperienced. Better than that, the boy was an idealist and wanted to implement a number of changes to his corporate structure: changes which would severely weaken ImmVac and—for the first time in three decades— make it vulnerable to a concerted effort by its trading rivals.
“I’ve had my man on ImmVac’s board prepare a special briefing for us,” Fairbank said, throwing the cloth back over the statue. “He’ll be here at four to present it. In the meantime I suggest we break for lunch. Besides, there’s another matter I’d like to raise with you.” “Another?” Egan asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.
“Over lunch,” Fairbank said, and smiled. “I’ll tell you while we eat.”
wu shih stood there, his palms damp, facing the ching, while in the room behind him the technicians whispered urgently among themselves, hurrying to prepare the tests.
It had been three weeks after his twenty-second birthday when he had first come here, sad eyed and dressed in mourning clothes, to meet his other self. Since then, once a year for the past thirty-five, he had returned, unannounced, to spend an hour or two with it. A servant brought a chair. He sat, looking about him at the tiny chamber. To his right an altar had been set up, and offerings of food and drink had been placed before its tiny bright red pillars. To the left was a matt black exercise walkway, the looped track motionless. The ching itself sat on a high-backed throne facing him, wearing a bright yellow exercise suit that left its arms and legs bare. It was perfectly, unnaturally still, its smooth, unlined face vacant, like an idiot’s. The ching was his age exactly, a perfect copy of him, kept ready for the day when he, Wu Shih, finally died. Only then would it emerge from its lifelong seclusion in these rooms and, for the briefest while, take on his power and authority. Until, as the ritual demanded, his eldest son killed it and became T’ang in his place.