through our proxies in New Delhi. Along those lines, a consortium of Japanese and American investors have applied for permits to build a state-of-the-art auto factory outside Haryana, which would significantly relieve unemployment in that region. The so-called ‘official’ government is likely to approve the project; we should grant our blessing as well.”
[88]Khan trusted Ament’s judgment in such matters. “Very well,” he agreed. Despite his strenuous exertions, he spoke with no shortness of breath. “Let it be so.”
In truth, his mind was elsewhere, and not only because he found the great game of war and conquest rather more compelling than dry economics. How could he concentrate on inflation rates and unemployment figures when this very night his commandos were striking out at his enemies two continents away? It is almost eight o’clock in London, he calculated, parrying another lunge from Joaquin with the curved mahogany guard of his sword’s hilt. He retaliated by slashing at the bodyguard’s head and shoulders with such blinding speed that Joaquin was barely able to defend himself.
“Great Khan! I have news!” An officer of his intelligence force ran into the gym, distracting Khan just as Joaquin jabbed at Khan with one end of his staff. The weighted ironwood sphere slammed into Khan’s chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed flat on his back upon the mat, the protective padding only partly blunting the impact of his fall.
“Your Excellency!” Joaquin sounded positively mortified. Dropping the marati where he stood, the stricken bodyguard rushed forward to offer Khan a hand up. Ament chuckled softly as, with Joaquin’s oversolicitous assistance, Khan quickly climbed back onto his feet. An ugly purple bruise was already forming where the dense wooden globe had struck him, over his breastbone. “A thousand pardons, sire!”
Joaquin stammered. His usually impassive face was uncharacteristically animated. “I did not mean—”
[89]Khan dismissed his servant’s apologies with a wave of his hand, just as he ignored Ament’s amusement at his expense. He gave his full attention to the newly arrived courier. “Speak,” he commanded, speaking in English to keep his urgent inquiries from the ears of the palace’s native-born staff of servants and attendants. “What is the word from London?”
The intelligence officer—an Asian woman named Suzette Ling, whom Khan had known as a child at Chrysalis—shuffled uncomfortably. Khan knew at once that the news was bad. “Most of the retrieval team was caught in an explosion at the site of the operation. It is unclear how many survived.”
Khan scowled, appalled already at this apparent debacle. “And the targets?”
“The fate of the older American is unknown,” Ling reported, “but the woman was clearly seen escaping the structure moments before its collapse.” She nervously eyed the rattan sword still gripped in Khan’s clenched fist. “Her present whereabouts are also unknown.”
The apprehensive officer need not have feared Khan’s wrath. A truly superior leader did not waste his fury punishing the messenger. No, Khan reserved his anger and disappointment for the actual well-spring of his present frustration: Gary Seven and his indefatigable Girl Friday.
Damn them!he thought. Seizing the soti with both hands, he snapped the practice sword in half, the sharp report echoing in the open space of the gymnasium. How long must I put up with their self-righteous interference? It was all so unnecessary; he had graciously offered Seven and Ms. Lincoln a truce years ago,[90]promising to leave them be provided they did not get in the way of his inevitable rise to power.
Yet the insufferable pair had flagrantly trampled on his proffered olive branch, inserting themselves time and again into affairs in which they had no place. The Lincoln woman’s recent attempt to sabotage the launching of Morning Star was only the latest in a never-ending
[88]Khan trusted Ament’s judgment in such matters. “Very well,” he agreed. Despite his strenuous exertions, he spoke with no shortness of breath. “Let it be so.”
In truth, his mind was elsewhere, and not only because he found the great game of war and conquest rather more compelling than dry economics. How could he concentrate on inflation rates and unemployment figures when this very night his commandos were striking out at his enemies two continents away? It is almost eight o’clock in London, he calculated, parrying another lunge from Joaquin with the curved mahogany guard of his sword’s hilt. He retaliated by slashing at the bodyguard’s head and shoulders with such blinding speed that Joaquin was barely able to defend himself.
“Great Khan! I have news!” An officer of his intelligence force ran into the gym, distracting Khan just as Joaquin jabbed at Khan with one end of his staff. The weighted ironwood sphere slammed into Khan’s chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed flat on his back upon the mat, the protective padding only partly blunting the impact of his fall.
“Your Excellency!” Joaquin sounded positively mortified. Dropping the marati where he stood, the stricken bodyguard rushed forward to offer Khan a hand up. Ament chuckled softly as, with Joaquin’s oversolicitous assistance, Khan quickly climbed back onto his feet. An ugly purple bruise was already forming where the dense wooden globe had struck him, over his breastbone. “A thousand pardons, sire!”
Joaquin stammered. His usually impassive face was uncharacteristically animated. “I did not mean—”
[89]Khan dismissed his servant’s apologies with a wave of his hand, just as he ignored Ament’s amusement at his expense. He gave his full attention to the newly arrived courier. “Speak,” he commanded, speaking in English to keep his urgent inquiries from the ears of the palace’s native-born staff of servants and attendants. “What is the word from London?”
The intelligence officer—an Asian woman named Suzette Ling, whom Khan had known as a child at Chrysalis—shuffled uncomfortably. Khan knew at once that the news was bad. “Most of the retrieval team was caught in an explosion at the site of the operation. It is unclear how many survived.”
Khan scowled, appalled already at this apparent debacle. “And the targets?”
“The fate of the older American is unknown,” Ling reported, “but the woman was clearly seen escaping the structure moments before its collapse.” She nervously eyed the rattan sword still gripped in Khan’s clenched fist. “Her present whereabouts are also unknown.”
The apprehensive officer need not have feared Khan’s wrath. A truly superior leader did not waste his fury punishing the messenger. No, Khan reserved his anger and disappointment for the actual well-spring of his present frustration: Gary Seven and his indefatigable Girl Friday.
Damn them!he thought. Seizing the soti with both hands, he snapped the practice sword in half, the sharp report echoing in the open space of the gymnasium. How long must I put up with their self-righteous interference? It was all so unnecessary; he had graciously offered Seven and Ms. Lincoln a truce years ago,[90]promising to leave them be provided they did not get in the way of his inevitable rise to power.
Yet the insufferable pair had flagrantly trampled on his proffered olive branch, inserting themselves time and again into affairs in which they had no place. The Lincoln woman’s recent attempt to sabotage the launching of Morning Star was only the latest in a never-ending
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