"I want to share what I know with you. I want to fight alongside you. If that's using you, then yes, I want to use you, Shih Gesell."
Gesell's surprise was marked. "How do you know my name?"
DeVore met his stare openly. "I do my homework."
"Then you'll know we work with no one."
"You used not to. But those days are past. You've suffered substantial losses. You need me. As much as I need you."
Gesell shrugged. "And why do you need us? Have your Above backers pulled out, then, Shih Turner?"
He feigned surprise, but he had known Gesell would raise this point. Had known because he himself had passed the information on to his contact inside the Ping Tiao.
Gesell laughed. "Come clean, Shih Turner. Tell us the real reason why you're here."
DeVore stepped forward, appealing suddenly to them all, not just Gesell, knowing that this was the point where he could win them over.
"It's true. The War has taken many whose funds supported my activities. But there's more to it than that. Things have changed. It's no longer a struggle in the Above between those in power and those who want to be. The conflict has widened. As you know. It's no longer a question of who should rule, but whether or not there should be rulers at all."
Gesell sat back. "That's so. But what's your role in this? You claim you've killed a Tang."
"And Ministers, and a T'ang's son . . ."
Gesell laughed shortly. "Well, whatever. But still I ask you: why should we trust you?"
DeVore leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. "Because you have to. Alone, both of us will fail. The Ping Tiao will go down into obscurity, or at best earn a footnote in some historical document as just another small fanatical sect. And the Seven . . ." He heaved a huge sigh and straightened up. "The Seven will rule Chung Kuo forever."
He had given them nothing. Nothing real or substantial, anyway. As Gesell had so rightly said, all they had was half a map, an ear. That and his own bare-faced audacity in daring to knock on their door, knowing they were ruthless killers. Yet he could see from their faces that they were more than half convinced already.
"Unwrap the package, Shih Gesell. You'll find there's something else besides an ear inside."
Gesell hesitated, then did as DeVore had asked. Setting the ear aside, he unfolded the transparent sheet and placed it beside its matching half.
"I have three hundred and fifty trained men," DeVore said quietly. "If you can match my force we'll take the Helmstadt Armory two days from now."
Gesell stared at him. "You seem very sure of yourself, Shih Turner. Helmstadt is heavily guarded. It has complex electronic defenses. How do you think we can take it?"
"Because there will be no defenses. Not when we attack."
Quickly, confidently, he spelled out his plan, holding back only the way he had arranged it all. When he'd finished, Gesell looked to his colleagues. He had noted what DeVore had said, in particular the part about the high-profile media publicity the Ping Tiao would gain from the attack, publicity that was sure to swell their ranks with new recruits. That, and the prospect of capturing a significant stockpile of sophisticated weaponry, seemed to have swung the decision.
Gesell turned to him. "You'll let us confer a moment, Shih Turner. We are a democratic movement. We must vote on this."
DeVore smiled inwardly. Democracy, my ass. It's what you want, Gesell. And I think you're clever enough to know you've no option but to go along with me.
Giving the slightest bow, he walked out of the room. He had only to wait a few minutes before the door opened again and Gesell came out. He stood facing the Ping Two leader.
"Well?"
Gesell stared at him a moment, coldly assessing him. Then, with the smallest bow, he stepped back, holding out his arm. "Come in, Shih Turner. We have plans to discuss."
the girl WAS DEAD. Haavikko sat there, distraught, staring at her, at the blood that covered his hands and chest and thighs, and knew he had killed her.
He turned his head slightly and saw the knife, there on the floor where he remembered dropping it; he shuddered, a wave of sickness, of sheer self-disgust washing over him. What depths, what further degradations, lay ahead of him? Nothing. He had done it all. And now this.
There was no more. This was the end of that path he had set out upon ten years ago.
He turned back, looking at her. The girl's face was white, drained of blood. Such a pretty face it had been in life, full of laughter and smiles, her eyes undulled by experience. He gritted his teeth against the sudden pain he felt and bowed his head, overcome. She could not have been more than fourteen.
He looked about the room. There, draped carelessly over the back of the chair, was his uniform. And there, on the floor beside it, the tray with the empty bottles and the glasses they had been drinking from before it happened.
He closed his eyes, then shivered violently, seeing it all again—the images forming with an almost hallucinatory clarity that took his breath. He uttered a small moan of pain, seeing himself holding her down with one hand, striking at her in a frenzy with the knife, once, twice, a third time, slashing at her breasts, her stomach, while she cried out piteously and struggled to get up.
He jumped to his feet and turned away, putting his hands up to his face. "Kuan Yin preserve you, Axel Haavikko for what you've done!"
Yes, he saw it all now. It all led to this. The drinking and debauchery, the insubordination and gambling. This was its natural end. This grossness. He had observed his own fall, from that moment in General Tolonen's office to this . . . this finality. There was no more. Nothing for him but to take the knife and end himself.
He stared at the knife. Stared long and hard at it. Saw how the blood was crusted on its shaft and handle, remembering the feel of it in his hand. His knife.
Slowly he went across, then knelt down next to it, his hands placed on either side of it. End it now, he told himself. Cleanly, quickly, and with more dignity than you've shown in all these last ten years.
He picked up the knife, taking its handle in both hands, then turned the blade toward his stomach. His hands shook, and for the briefest moment, he wondered if he had the courage left to carry the thing through. Then, determined, he closed his eyes.
"Lieutenant Haavikko, I've come to see—"
Haavikko turned abruptly, dropping the knife. The pimp, Liu Chang, had come three paces into the room and stopped, taking in the scene.
"Gods!" the Han said, his face a mask of horror. He glanced at Haavikko fearfully, backing away; then turned and rushed from the room.
Haavikko shuddered, then turned back, facing the knife. He could not stand up. All the strength had gone from his legs. Nor could he reach out and take the knife again. His courage was spent. Nothing remained now but his shame. He let his head fall forward, tears coming to his eyes.
"Forgive me, Vesa, I didn't mean . . ."
Vesa. It was his beloved sister's name. But the dead girl had no name. Not one he knew, anyway.
He heard the door swing open again; there were footsteps in the room, but he did not lift his head. Let them kill me now, he thought. Let them take their revenge on me. It would be no less than I deserve.
He waited, resigned, but nothing happened. He heard them lift the girl and carry her away, then sensed someone standing over him.
Haavikko raised his head slowly and looked up. It was Liu Chang. "You disgust me." He spat the words out venomously, his eyes boring into Haavikko. "She was a good girl. A lovely girl. Like a daughter to me."
"I'm sorry . . ." Haavikko began, his throat constricting. He dropped his head, beginning to sob. "Do what you will to me. I'm finished now. I haven't even the money to pay you for last night."