Things had changed, and in the process Mu Chua's had lost its shine. The girls here were no longer quite so carefree; and violence, once banned from the house, was now a regular feature of their lives.
So the world changes, thought DeVore, considering whether he should make Whiskers Lu an offer for the place.
"Has something amused you?"
He turned sharply, surprised that he'd not heard Ebert enter, then saw that the Major was barefooted, a silk pan drawn loosely about his otherwise naked body.
DeVore set the ch'a bowl down beside him and stood, facing Ebert. "I thought you were in a hurry to see me."
Ebert smiled and walked past him, pulling at the bell rope to summon one of the girls. He turned back, the smile still on his lips. "I was. But I've had time to think things through." He laughed softly. "I ought to thank you, Howard. You knew that Tolonen would screen his staff officers, didn't you?"
DeVore nodded.
"I thought so."
There was a movement to their right, a rustling of the curtains, and then a girl entered, her head lowered. "You called, Masters?"
"Bring us a bottle of your best wine and two"— he looked at DeVore, then corrected himself—"no, make that just one glass."
When she was gone, DeVore looked down, for the first time letting his anger show.
"What the fuck are you up to, Hans?"
Ebert blinked, surprised by DeVore's sudden hostility. Then, bridling, he turned, facing him. "What do you mean?"
"I ought to kill you."
"Kill me? Why?"
"For what you did. It didn't take much to piece it together. There was really no other possibility. No one else knew enough about our plans to attack the plantations. It had to be you who blew the whistle."
Ebert hesitated. "Ah . . . that." Then, unbelievably, he gave a little laugh. "I'm afraid I had to, Howard. One of our captains got a whiff of things. If it had been one of my own men I could have done something about it, but the man had already put in his report. I had to act quickly. If they'd taken them alive . . ."
DeVore was breathing strangely, as if preparing to launch himself at the bigger man.
"I'm sure you see it, Howard," Ebert continued, looking away from him. "It's like in wei chi. You have to sacrifice a group sometimes, for the sake of the game. Well, it was like that. It was either act or lose the whole game. I did it for the best."
You did it to save your own arse, thought DeVore, calming himself, trying to keep from killing Ebert there and then. It wouldn't do to be too hasty. And maybe Ebert was right, whatever his real motive. Maybe it had prevented a far worse calamity. At least the fortresses were safe. But it still left him with the problem of dealing with the Ping Tiao.
"So Wiegand's dead?"
Ebert nodded. "I made sure of that myself."
Yes, he thought. I bet you did. He forced himself to unclench his fists, then turned away. It was the closest he had come to losing control. Don't let it get to you, he told himself, but it did no good. There was something about Ebert that made him want to let fly, whatever the consequences. But no—that was Tolonen's way, not his. It was what made the old man so weak. And Ebert too. But he was not like that. He used his anger; made it work for him, not against him.
The girl brought the wine, then left them. As Ebert turned to pour, DeVore studied him, wondering, not for the first time, what Hans Ebert would have been had he not been bom heir to GenSyn. A low-level bully, perhaps. A hireling of some bigger, more capable man; but essentially the same callous, selfish type, full of braggadocio, his dick bigger than his brain.
Or was that fair? Wasn't there also something vaguely heroic about Ebert— something that circumstance might have molded otherwise? Was it his fault that he had been allowed everything, denied nothing?
He watched Ebert turn, smiling, and nodded to himself. Yes, it was his fault. Ebert was a weak man, beneath it all, and his weakness had cost them dearly. He would pay for it. Not now—he was needed now—but later, when he had served his purpose.
"Kan Pei!" Ebert said, raising his glass. "Anyway, Howard, I've better news."
DeVore narrowed his eyes. What else had Ebert been up to?
Ebert drank heavily from his glass, then sat, facing DeVore. "You're always complaining about being underfunded. Well. . ." his smile broadened, as if at his own cleverness, "I've found us some new backers. Acquaintances of mine."
"Acquaintances?"
Ebert laughed. "Friends . . . People sympathetic to what we're doing." DeVore felt the tension creep back into his limbs. "What have you said?" Ebert's face cleared, became suddenly sharper. "Oh, nothing specific, don't worry. I'm not stupid. I sounded them first. Let them talk. Then, later on, I spoke to them in private. These are people I trust, you understand? People IVe known a long time."
DeVore took a long breath. Maybe, but he would check them out himself. Thoroughly. Because, when it came down to it, he didn't trust Ebert's judgment. "What sums are you talking about?" "Enough to let you finish building your fortresses."
DeVore gave a small laugh. Did Ebert know how much that was, or was-he just guessing? One thing was certain; he had never told Hans Ebert how much even one of the great underground fortresses cost.
"That's good, Hans. I'll have to meet these friends of yours."
MU chua closed the door behind her, furious with Ebert. She had seen the bruises on the girl's arms and back. The bastard! There'd been no need. The girl was only fourteen. If he'd wanted that he should have said. She'd have sent in one of the older girls. They, at least, were hardened to it.
She stood still, closing her eyes, calming down. He would be out to see her any moment and it wouldn't do to let him see how angry she was. Word could get back to Lu Ming-shao, and then there'd be hell to pay.
She shuddered. Life here could still be sweet—some days—but too often it was like today, a brutish struggle simply to survive.
She went to her desk and busied herself, making out his bill, charging him for the two sessions and for the wine and ch'a. She paused, frowning, as she thought of his guest. There was something strangely familiar about Shih Reynolds—as if they'd met some time in the past—but she couldn't place him. He seemed a nice enough man, but could that really be said of anyone who associated with that young bastard? For once she wished she had overheard what they were talking about. She could have—after all, Lu Ming-shao had put in the surveillance equipment only four months back—but a lifetime's habits were hard to break. She had never spied on her clients and she didn't intend to start now; not unless Lu specifically ordered her to.
Mu Chua froze, hearing Ebert's voice outside, then turned in time to greet him as he came through the door into her office.
"Was it everything you wished for, Master?"
He laughed and reached out to touch her breast familiarly. "It was good, Mu Chua. Very good. I'd forgotten how good a house you run."
Her smile widened, though inside she felt something shrivel up at his touch. Few men touched her these days, preferring younger flesh than hers, even so there was something horrible about the thought of being used by him.
"I'm pleased," she said, bowing her head. "Here," she said, presenting her bill, the figures written in Mandarin on the bright-red paper.
He smiled and, without looking at the bill, handed her a single credit chip. She looked down, then bowed her head again.
"Why, thank you, Master. You are too generous."
He laughed, freeing her breasts from her robe and studying them a moment. Then, as if satisfied, he turned to go.