For a moment longer he simply looked at her. Then, smiling, he squeezed her hand gently. "Come. Let's go back."
On the bridge he paused and stood looking out across the lake, watching the swans moving on the water, conscious of the warmth of her hand in his own.
"How long this time?" she asked, her voice softer, less insistent than before.
"A week," he said, turning to look at her. "Maybe longer. It depends on whether things keep quiet."
She smiled—the first smile she had given him in weeks. "That's good, Yuan. I'm tired of being alone. 1 had too much of it before."
He gave a single nod. "I know. But things will change. I promise you, Fei. It will be better from now on."
She raised her chin, looking at him intently. "I hope so. It's so hard here on my own."
Hard? He looked across the placid lake toward the orchard, wondering what she meant. He saw only softness here. Only respite from the harsh realities of life. From deals and duties. Smelled only the healthy scents of growth.
He smiled and looked at her again. "I decided something, Fei. While I was away."
She looked back at him. "What's that?"
"The boy," he said, placing his hand on her swollen belly once more. "I've decided we'll call him Han."
LEHMANN WOKE HIM, then stood there while he dressed, waiting.
DeVore turned, lacing his tunic. "When did the news break?"
"Ten minutes ago. They've cleared all channels pending the announcement. Wei Feng is to speak."
DeVore raised an eyebrow. "Not Li Shai Tung?" He laughed. "Good. That shows how much we've rattled him." He turned, glancing across the room at the timer on the wall, then looked back at Lehmann. "Is that the time?"
Lehmann nodded.
DeVore looked down thoughtfully. It was almost four hours since the attacks. He had expected them to react quicker than this. But that was not what was worrying him.
"Has Wiegand reported back?"
"Not yet."
DeVore went into the adjoining room. He sat in the chair, facing the big screen, his fingers brushing the controls on the chair's arm to activate it. Lehmann came and stood behind him.
The Ywe Lung—the wheel of dragons, symbol of the seven—filled the screen as it did before every official announcement; but this time the backdrop to the wheel was white, signifying death.
Throughout Chung Kuo, tens of billions would be sitting before their screens, waiting pensively, speculating about the meaning of this break in regular programming. It had been a common feature of the War-that-wasn't-a-War, but the screens had been empty of such announcements for some time. That would give it added flavor.
He looked back at Lehmann. "When Wiegand calls in, have him switched through. I want to know what's been going on. He should have reported back to me long before this."
"I've arranged it already."
"Good." He turned back, smiling, imagining the effect this was having on the Seven. They would be scurrying about like termites into whose nest a great stick had just been poked; firing off orders here, there, and everywhere; readying themselves against further attacks; not knowing where the next blow might fall. Things had been quiet these last few months. Deliberately so, for he had wanted to lull the Seven into a false sense of security before he struck. It was not the act itself but the context of the act that mattered. In time of war, people's imaginations were dulled by a surfeit of tragedy, but in peacetime such acts took on a dreadful significance. So it was now.
They would expect him to follow up—to strike again while they were in disarray—but this time he wouldn't. Not immediately. He would let things settle before he struck again, choosing his targets carefully, aiming always at maximizing the impact of his actions, allowing the Seven to spend their strength fighting shadows while he gathered his. Until their nerves were raw and their will to fight crippled. Then—and only then—would he throw his full strength against them.
He let his head fall back against the thick leather cushioning, relaxing for the first time in days, a sense of well-being flooding through him. Victory would not come overnight, but then that was not his aim. His was a patient game and time was on his side. Each year brought greater problems for Chung Kuo—increased the weight of numbers that lay heavy on the back of government. He had only to wait, like a dog harrying a great stag, nipping at the heels of the beast, weakening it, until it fell.
Martial music played from the speakers on either side of the screen. Then, abruptly, the image changed. The face of Wei Feng, T'ang of East Asia, filled the screen, the old man's features lined with sorrow.
"People of Chung Kuo, I have sad news. . ." he began, the very informality of his words unexpected, the tears welling in the comers of the old man's eyes adding to the immense sense of wounded dignity that emanated from him. DeVore sat forward, suddenly tense. What had gone wrong? He listened as Wei Feng spoke of the tragedy that had befallen Bremen, watching the pictures dispassionately, waiting for the old man to add something more—some further piece of news. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. And then Wei Feng was finished and the screen cleared, showing the Ywe Lung with its pure white backdrop.
DeVore sat there a moment longer, then pulled himself up out of the chair, turning to face Lehmann.
"They didn't do it. The bastards didn't do it!"
He was about to say something more when the panel on his desk began to flash urgently. He switched the call through, then turned, resting on the edge of the desk, facing the screen.
He had expected Wiegand. But it wasn't Wiegand's face that filled the screen. It was Hans Ebert.
"What in hell's name has been happening, Howard? I've just had to spend two hours with the Special Investigation boys being grilled! Bremen, for the gods' sakes! The stupid bastards attacked Bremen!"
DeVore looked down momentarily. He had deliberately not told Ebert anything about their designs on Bremen, knowing that Tolonen would screen all his highest-ranking officers—even his future son-in-law—for knowledge of the attack. Caught out once that way, Tolonen's first thought would be that he had once again been infiltrated at staff level. It did not surprise him, therefore, to learn that Tolonen had acted so quickly. .-.; "I know," he said simply, meeting Ebert's eyes.
"What do you mean, you know? Were you involved in that?"
Ignoring Ebert's anger, he nodded, speaking softly, quickly, giving his reasons. But Ebert wasn't to be placated so simply.
"I want a meeting," Ebert said, his eyes blazing. "Today! I want to know what else you've got planned."
DeVore hesitated, not for the first time finding Ebert's manner deeply offensive, then nodded his agreement. Ebert was too important to his plans just now. He needn't tell him everything, of course. Just enough to give him the illusion of being trusted.
"Okay. This afternoon," DeVore said, betraying nothing of his thoughts. "At Mu Chua's. I'll see you there, Hans. After fourth bell."
He broke contact, then sat back.
"Damn him!" he said, worried that he had still heard nothing. He turned. "Stefan! Find out where the hell Wiegand is. I want to know what's been happening."
He watched the albino go, then looked about the room, his sense of well-being replaced by a growing certainty.
Lehmann confirmed it moments later. "Wiegand's dead," he said, coming back into the room. "Along with another fifty of our men and more than a hundred and fifty Ping Tiao."
DeVore sat down heavily. "What happened?"
Lehmann shook his head. "That's all we know. We've intercepted Security reports from the Poznan and Krakov garrisons. It looks like they knew we were coming."