It was probably too late, but. . .
He turned back, looking about the room for some clue as to how she had died. There was no apparent wound on her, no scent of gas, no sign of any medications. But there was something. A note. He unfolded it, then went to the window and read it through.
An Sheng... It named An Sheng!
He looked at her again, pitying her. It seemed An Sheng had taken her mother and younger brother and was holding them against her “good behavior.”
He sighed. This was an ill day’s work. Yet at least An Sheng was theirs.
He went out to the doorway as two guards ran up. He handed one the note. “You . . . take this to the T’ang. And you, wait here and guard the door until Surgeon Lu arrives.”
Then, with a final glance at the dead girl, he left, making his way back to his offices.
It was time to get An Sheng.
she was late, but Kennedy had waited. A bodyguard frisked her outside the door, then, satisfied, knocked and pushed the door back. It was an unexpectedly small room. Kennedy was to her right, seated at a table, talking into a small comset. As she stepped inside he looked up and smiled, then hastily signed off.
He stood, coming around the table, offering his hand. “Mary . . .”
She took it, then looked about her. “So? What do you want?”
His smile broadened. “No small talk, huh?” She looked at him: a clear, cold look. “We’re both busy people. Besides, I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to discuss my health.” He laughed. “No. Okay. . . I’ll come right to the point. I want to know if you’ll call off your Eldest Daughter campaign.” “Why?”
He shrugged. “You’re making things difficult, that’s all. For me ... and for Michael.”
“Michael can speak for himself.”
“Sure. Then for me.”
She shook her head, surprised at him. “I don’t get you, Joseph Kennedy. There was a time when you professed to want change. You said you wanted to help the Lowers. What went wrong?”
He sighed. “I take it that’s a no.”
“Absolutely.” She looked at him a moment, expecting something more. Then:
“Is that it? No cogent arguments, no clever reasons why I should give it up? I’m surprised, Joe. You never used to give in so easily.” “No. Maybe not.” He seemed strangely relaxed now, as if somehow a burden had been lifted from him. “I had to try, but... well, I’m glad. You do what you have to, Mary Lever. I admire you for it, really I do.” He smiled again, but this time it seemed pained, for some reason much more sincere than the smiles she was used to from him. “We’ve never got on very well, have we? I guess that was my fault. I should have made more of an effort. But you were right. All those compromises . . . they’re not worth making.
The game’s not worth the candle!”
She stared at him, astonished, then laughed. “You’re mocking me, right?” He shook his head. “No. And I wish you luck. I really do. Maybe you’ll get done what I failed to do. Oh, and thanks for the second gift . . . you know, the newspaper. It seems us Kennedys don’t have much luck, eh?” She shivered, surprised. “You’ve made a decision, huh?”
He nodded. “I’m stepping down. I’m going to announce it tomorrow night.
I’ve booked a slot.”
“Ah. . .”
He held his hand out again. “It’s good-bye, then.” She looked down at it, frowning, then, surprising him, put out her arms and held him to her a moment.
“Good luck, Joseph Kennedy. ...”
Then, turning away, she left.
He stared at the door a moment, a strange, pained expression on his face; then, sighing, he looked about him once again and, seeing nothing there to keep him, followed her out.
as the cruiser settled, An Sheng unbuckled himself, nervously looking out through the porthole to his right. Nothing. He scuttled across to the other side and looked out. Nothing! Fucking nothing! He hissed with rage, then turned, looking about him.
What if it didn’t come? What if...
He went to the back of the craft.
“Open it!” he barked. “Now!”
The guard hit the release pad. The hatch began to open.
An Sheng stared out as the gap widened. Come on, he urged. Be there! But there was nothing. The roof of the City stretched away to the horizon, a flat, dirty-white plain, broken here and there by the up-jutting shape of a ventilation shaft.
He stepped down, chewing at his knuckles. The bastard had promised—he’d given his fucking word!
There was a faint noise, carried on the breeze, like the hum of an insect.
He turned full circle, shading his eyes, then looked back at the ship.
“Where’s south?”
The guard pointed past him.
He turned, looking, staring hard for a long time until he finally saw it—there!—high up, coming in from the southwest. It was coming! Thank the gods! Wang Sau-leyan had kept his promise, after all!
He watched it grow larger, the growl of its engines growing all the while. Then, as it settled, he ran across to it, a wave of relief and exultation replacing the heaviness—the dread—he’d been feeling all day. As the hatch hissed open and the ramp unfolded toward him, he glimpsed an honor guard waiting within. Then, as the ramp flattened, a man he recognized as one of Wang Sau-leyan’s senior household staff stepped out and bowed low. “Prince An, if you would be our guest. . . ?” He turned, dismissing his own craft, then climbed up onto the ramp. Africa ... he would be safe in Africa.
Inside he sat in a chair of soft silk cushions while a girl massaged his neck and a servant brought him wine.
Thank the gods for good wine, he thought, remembering the night with Fifth Brother, when he had first learned of this “rabbit hole.” And thank the gods, too, for serving girls, for without serving girls and wine, he would never have unhinged the bastards tongue.
Yes, and wouldn’t the I Lung be surprised to see him? That was one reunion he was really looking forward to.
And Wang Sau-leyan? Wang would use him, he was certain of it. How and for what purpose he did not know, but it was better than being dead, and certainly a lot better than bowing to that bastard Li Yuan. “Is all to your satisfaction, Excellency?” He smiled and nodded. “Most excellent, thank you.” Then, closing his eyes, he let himself relax, the soft pressure of the girl’s hands on his chest making him think that exile might not be so bad a thing after all. the reporter came across and stood before her, leaning in over the desk in an almost threatening manner. “She’s late,” he said. “Yes,” Jill answered, looking up at him wearily. “I know. She sometimes is.”
“Half an hour late.”
She stared back at him. “She’ll be here. Okay?” He turned away, clearly angry. But it wasn’t his anger that disturbed her so much as his nervousness. He seemed quite agitated, unduly concerned at Mary’s tardiness. At first she’d put it down to work pressure—no doubt some producer was on his back to deliver something fast—but when she’d asked, he’d muttered something about it going out the next day. And that had struck her as odd. Stations like Downline didn’t usually sit on things longer than an hour, let alone all night. But his accreditation was okay and a quick check on the central file showed he’d been working there seven years now. So why the nervousness? Or was it Mary? Was he nervous at meeting Mary?
She looked down again. Maybe that was it. Maybe this was his big chance and he was scared shitless he’d fuck it up somehow. Well, if he had any sense he’d simply ask the first question, point the microphone at Mary, and let her roll.
The desk com buzzed. She answered it, looking down into the tilted screen.