Noble House

He heard the hesitancy, then his son said in a run, trying to sound manly, "Is it all right for a fellow to have a girl friend a little older than himself?"
Dunross smiled gently and started to dismiss the thought as his son was only just fifteen, but then he remembered Elegant Jade when he himself was not quite fifteen, surely more of a man than Duncan. Not necessarily, he thought honestly. Duncan's tall and growing and just as much a man. And didn't I love her to madness that year and the next year and didn't I almost die the next year when she vanished? "Well," he said as an equal, "it really depends on who the girl is, how old the man is and how old the girl is." "Oh." There was a long pause. "She's eighteen." Dunross was greatly relieved. That means she's old enough to know better, he thought. "I'd say that would be perfect," he told Duncan in the same voice, "particularly if the fellow was about sixteen, tall, strong and knew the facts of life." "Oh. Oh I didn't … oh! I wouldn't . . ." "I wasn't being critical, laddie, just answering your question. A man has to be careful in this world, and girl friends should be chosen carefully. Where did you meet her?"
"She was on the station. Her name's Sheila." Duncan suppressed a smile. Girls in Australia were referred to as sheilas just as in England they were called birds. "That's a nice name," he said. "Sheila what?"
"Sheila Scragger. She's a niece of old Mr. Tom and she's on a visit from England. She's training to be a nurse at Guy's Hospital. She was ever so super to me and Paldoon's super too. I really can't thank you enough for arranging such a super holiday." Paldoon, the Scragger ranch, or station as it was called in Australia, was the only property they had managed to save from the crash. Paldoon was five hundred miles southwest of Sydney near the Murray River in Australia's rice lands, sixty thousand acres—thirty thousand head of sheep, two thousand acres of wheat and a thousand head of cattle —and the greatest place for a youth to holiday, working all day from dawn to dusk, mustering the sheep or cattle on horseback, galloping twenty miles in any direction and still on your own property.
"Give Tom Scragger my regards and make sure you send him a bottle of whiskey before you leave."
"Oh I sent him a case, is that all right?"
Dunross laughed. "Well laddie, a bottle would have done just as well, but a case is perfect. Call me if there's any change in your flight. You did very well to get it organized yourself, very good. Oh by the way, Mama and Glenna went to London today, with Aunt Kathy, so you'll have to go back to school alone an—"
"Oh jolly good, Father," his son said happily. "After all, I'm a man now and almost at university!"
"Yes, yes you are." A small sweet sadness touched Dunross as he sat in his high chair, AMG's letter in his hand but forgotten. "Are you all right for money?"
"Oh yes. I hardly spent anything on the station except for a beer or two. Father, don't tell Mother about my girl."
"All right. Or Adryon," he said and at once his chest tightened at the thought of Martin Haply together with Adryon and how they went off hand-in-hand. "You should tell Adryon yourself."
"Oh super, I'd forgotten her. How is she?"
"She's in good shape," Dunross said, ordering himself to be adult, wise, and not to worry and it was all quite normal for boys and girls to be boys and girls. Yes, but Christ it's difficult if you're the father. "Well, Duncan, see you Monday! Thanks for calling."
"Oh yes, and Father, Sheila drove me up to Sydney. She … she's staying the weekend with friends and going to see me off! Tonight we're going to a movie, Lawrence of Arabia, have you seen it?"
"Yes, it's just come to Hong Kong, you'll enjoy that."
"Oh super! Well, good-bye, Father, have to run . . . love you!"
"Love you," he said but the connection was already dead.
How lucky I am with my family, my wife and kids, Dunross thought, and at once added, Please God let nothing happen to them!
With an effort he looked back at the letter. It's impossible for Jason Plumm or Jacques to be Communist spies, he told himself. Nothing they've ever said or done would indicate that. Lionel Tuke? No, not him either. I only know him casually. He's an ugly, unpopular fellow who keeps to himself but he's on the cricket team, a member of the Turf Club and he's been out here since the thirties.
Wasn't he even interned at Stanley between '42 and '45? Maybe him, but the other two? Impossible!
I'm sorry AMG's dead. I'd call him right now about Jacques and . . .
First finish the letter, then consider the parts, he ordered himself. Be correct, be efficient. Good God! Duncan and an eighteen-year-old sheila! Thank God it wasn't Tom Scragger's youngest. How old is Priscilla now? Fourteen, pretty, built much older. Girls seem to mature early Down Under.
He exhaled. I wonder if I should do for Duncan what Chen-chen did for me.
The letter continued, ". . . As I've said, I'm not completely sure but my source is usually impeccable.
"I'm sorry to say the espionage war has hotted up since we uncovered and caught the spies Blake, Vassal—the Admiralty cipher clerk—and Philby, Burgess and Maclean all defected. They've all been seen in Moscow by the way. Expect spying to increase radically in Asia. (We were able to peg First Secretary Skripov of the Soviet Embassy in Canberra, Australia, and order him out of the country in February. This broke his Australian ring which was, I believe, tied to your Sevrin and further involved in Borneo and Indonesia.)
"The free world is abundantly infiltrated now. MI-5 and MI-6 are tainted. Even the CIA. While we've been naive and trusting, our opponents realized early that the future balance would depend on economic power as well as military power, and so they set out to acquire—steal—our industrial secrets.
"Curiously our free-world media fail dismally to point out that all Soviet advances are based originally on one of our stolen inventions or techniques, that without our grain they starve, and without our vast and ever-growing financial assistance and credits to buy our grains and technology they cannot fuel and refuel their whole military-industrial infrastructure which keeps their empire and people enthralled.
"I recommend you use your contacts in China to cement them to you further. The Soviets increasingly view China as their number one enemy. Equally strangely, they no longer seem to have that paranoiac fear of the U.S. which is, without doubt, now the strongest military and economic power in the world. China, which is economically and militarily weak, except in numbers of available soldiers, really presents no military threat to them. Even so China petrifies them.
"One reason is the five thousand miles of border they share. Another is national guilt over the vast areas of historic Chinese territory Soviet Russia has swallowed over the centuries; another is the knowledge that the Chinese are a patient people with long memories. One day the Chinese will take back their lands. They have always taken back their lands when it was militarily feasible to do so. I've pointed out many times that the cornerstone of Soviet (Imperialist) politics is to isolate and fragment China to keep her weak. Their great bugaboo is a tripartite alliance between China, Japan and the U.S. Your Noble House should work to promote that. (Also a Common Market among the U.S., Mexico and Canada, totally essential, in my opinion, to a stable American continent.) Where else but through Hong Kong—and therefore your hands— will all the inward wealth to China go?
"Last, back to Sevrin: I have taken a major risk and approached our most priceless asset in the inner core of the KGB's ultra-secret Department 5. I have just heard back today that the identity of Arthur, Sevrin's leader, is Classification One, beyond even his grasp. The only clue he could give was that the man was English and one of his initials is R. Not much to go on I'm afraid.
"I look forward to seeing you. Remember, my papers must never pass into the hands of anyone else. Regards, AMG."
Dunross committed the Geneva phone number to memory, encoded it in his address book and lit a match. He watched the airmail paper curl and begin to burn.
R. Robert Ralph Richard Robin Rod Roy Rex Rupert Red Rodney and always back to Roger. And Robert. Robert Armstrong or Roger Crosse or—or who?
Holy Christ, Dunross thought, feeling weak.
"Geneva 871-65-65, station to station," he said into his private phone. Tiredness engulfed him. His sleep last night had been disturbed, his dreams dragging him back to war, back to his flaming cockpit, the smell of burning in his nostrils, then waking, chilled, listening to the rain, soon to get up silently, Penn sleeping soundly, the Great House quiet except for old Ah Tat who, as always, had his tea made. Then to the track and chased all day, his enemies closing in and nothing but bad news. Poor old John Chen, he thought, then made the effort to push his weariness away. Perhaps
I can kip for an hour between five and six. I'll need all my wits tonight.
The operator made the connections and he heard the number ringing.
"Ja?" the gentle voice said.
"Hierist Herr Dunross im Hong Kong. Frau Gresserhoff bine," he said in good German.
"Oh!" There was a long pause. "Ich bin Frau Gresserhoff. Tai-pan?"
"Ah so desu! Ohayo gozaimasu. Anata wa An/in Riko-san?" he asked, his Japanese accent excellent. Good morning. Your name is also Riko Anjin?
"HaL Hai, dozo. Ah, nihongo wajotzu desu. " Yes. Oh you speak Japanese very well.
"lye, sukoshi, gomen nasai. " No, sorry, only a little. As part of his training, he had spent two years in their Tokyo office. "Ah, so sorry," he continued in Japanese, "but I'm calling about Mr. Gresserhoff. Have you heard?"
"Yes." He could hear the sadness. "Yes. I heard on Monday."
"I've just received a letter from him. He said you have some, some things for me?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes, tai-pan. Yes I have."
"Would it be possible for you to bring them here? So sorry, but I cannot come to you."
"Yes. Yes of course," she said hesitantly, her Japanese soft and pleasing. "When should I come?"
"As soon as possible. If you go to our office on Avenue Bern in a couple of hours, say at noon, there will be tickets and money for you. I believe there's a Swissair connection that leaves this afternoon —if that were possible."
Again the hesitation. He waited patiently. AMG's letter writhed in the ashtray as it burned. "Yes," she said. "That would be possible."
"I'll make all the arrangements for you. Would you like someone to travel with you?"
"No, no thank you," she said, her voice so quiet that he had to cup one hand over his ear to hear better. "Please excuse me for causing all this trouble. I can make the arrangements."
"Truly, it's no trouble," he said, pleased that his Japanese was flowing and colloquial. "Please go to my office at noon. … By the way, the weather here is warm and wet. Ah, so sorry, please excuse me for asking but is your passport Swiss or Japanese, and under what name would you travel?"
An even longer pause. "I would … I think I should … It would be Swiss, my travel name should be Riko Gresserhoff."
"Thank you Mrs. Gresserhoff. I look forward to seeing you. Kiyoskette, " he ended. Have a safe journey.
Thoughtfully he put the phone back onto its cradle. The last of AMG's letter twisted and died with a thread of smoke. Carefully he crumbled the ashes into powder.
Now what about Jacques?
46
5:45 P.M. :
Jacques deVille plodded up the marble stairs of the Mandarin Hotel to the mezzanine floor, packed with people having late tea.
He took off his raincoat and went through the crowds, feeling very old. He had just talked to his wife, Susanne, in Nice. The specialist from Paris had made another examination of Avril and thought that her internal injuries might not be as bad as first thought.
"He says we have to be patient," Susanne had told him in her gushing Parisienne French. "But Mother of God, how can we be? The poor child's distraught and losing her mind. She keeps saying, 'But I was the driver, it was me, Mumma, me, but for me my Borge would be alive, but for me. …" I fear for her, cheri!" "Does she know yet that her . . . about her inside?" "No, not yet. The doctor says not to tell her until he's sure." Susanne had begun to cry.
In agony he had calmed her as best he could and said he would call her back in an hour. For a while he had considered what he should do, then he had made arrangements and had left his office and come here.
The public phone booth near the newsstand was occupied so he bought an afternoon paper and glanced at the headlines. Twenty killed in resettlement mud slides above Aberdeen . . . Rain to continue … Will Saturday's Great Race Day be canceled? . .. JFK warns Soviets not to interfere in Vietnam … Atom Test Ban Treaty signed in Moscow by Dean Rusk, Andrei Gromyko and Sir Alec Douglas-Home, rejected by France and China . . . Malayan Communists step up offensive . . . Kennedy's second son, born prematurely, dies . . . Manhunt for the British Great Train Robbers continues . . . Profumo scandal damages Conservative Party . . .
"Excuse me, sir, are you waiting for the phone?" an American woman asked from behind him.
"Oh, oh yes, thank you, sorry! I didn't see that it was empty." He went into the booth, closed the door, put in the coin and dialed. The ringing tone began. He felt his anxiety rising.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Lop-sing please," he said, not sure of the voice yet.
"There's no Mr. Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number."
"I want to leave a message," he said, relieved to recognize Sus-lev's voice.
"You have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."
When the code was completed correctly, he began, "Sorry to c—"
"What is your number?" interrupted him harshly.
Jacques gave it at once.
"Is it a phone booth?"
"Yes." Immediately the phone clicked off. As he hung up he felt a sudden sweat on his hands. Suslev's number was only to be used in an emergency but this was an emergency. He stared at the phone.
"Excuse me, sir," the American woman called out through the glass doors. "Can I use the phone? I won't be a moment."
"Oh! Oh I'm—I won't be a second," Jacques said, momentarily flustered. He saw that three Chinese were waiting impatiently behind her now. They stared at him balefully. "I'm . . . I'll just be a second." He reclosed the door, sweat on his back. He waited and waited and waited and then the phone rang. "Hello?"
"What's the emergency?"
"I … I just heard from Nice." Carefully Jacques told Suslev about his conversation with his wife without mentioning any names. "I'm going there at once on the evening flight—and I thought I'd better tell you personally so the—"
"No, this evening's too soon. Book tomorrow, on the evening flight."
Jacques felt his world collapse. "But I talked to the tai-pan a few minutes ago and he said it was all right for me to go tonight. I'm booked. I can be back in three days, she really sounded awful on the phone. Don't you th—"
"No!" Suslev told him more sharply. "I will call you tonight as arranged. This could all have waited till then. Don't use this number again unless there's a real emergency!"
Jacques opened his mouth to answer hotly but the phone was already dead. He had heard the anger. But this is an emergency, he told himself, enraged, beginning to redial. Susanne needs me there and so does Avril. And the tai-pan was all for it.
"Good idea, Jacques," Dunross had said at once. "Take all the time you need. Andrew can cover for you."
And now . . . Merde, what do I do? Suslev's not my keeper!
Isn't he?
DeVille stopped dialing, his sweat chilling, and hung up.
"Are you finished, sir?" the American woman called out with her insistent smile. She was in her fifties, her hair fashionably blue. "There's a line waiting."
"Oh … oh yes, sorry." He fought the door open.
"You forgot your paper, sir," she said politely.
"Oh, oh thank you." Jacques deVille reached back for it and came out in misery. At once all the Chinese, three men and a woman, surged forward, elbowing him and the American lady out of the way. A heavyset matron got to the door first and slammed it shut behind her, the others crowding to be next.
"Hey … it was my turn," the American woman began angrily but they paid no attention to her except to curse her and her antecedents openly and with great vulgarity.
Suslev was standing in the sleazy Kowloon apartment that was one of Arthur's safe houses, his heart still thumping from the suddenness of the call. There was a damp, musky, soiled smell of ancient cooking in the room and he stared down at the phone, furious with Jacques deVille. Stupid motherless turd. Jacques is becoming a liability. Tonight I'll tell Arthur what should be done with him. The sooner the better! Yes, and the sooner you calm down yourself the better, he cautioned himself. Angry people make mistakes. Put away your anger!
With an effort, he did just that and went out onto the dim, paint-peeled landing, locking the door behind him. Another key unlocked Ginny Fu's door next to his.
"You want vodka?" she asked with her saucy smile.
"Yes." He grinned back, pleased to look at her. She was sitting cross-legged on the old sofa and wore only a smile. They had been kissing when his phone had rung the first time. There were two phones in her apartment. Hers and the other one, the secret one in the cupboard that only he used and answered. Arthur had told him it was safe, bootlegged, unlisted and impossible to bug. Even so, Suslev only used the other apartment and its phone for emergencies.
Matyeryebyets, Jacques, he thought, still edgy from the sudden shrilling of his private phone.
"Drink, tovarich," Ginny said, offering the glass. "Then drink me, heya?"
He grinned back, took the vodka and ran an appreciative hand over her cute little rump. "Ginny, golubushka, you're a good girl."
"You bet! I best girl for you." She reached up and fondled his earlobe. "We jig-jig heya?"
"Why not?" He drank the fiery liquid sparingly, wanting it to last. Her tiny nimble fingers were undoing his shirt. He stopped her for a moment and kissed her, she welcoming his kiss and returning it equally. "Wait till clothes off, heya?" she chuckled.
"Next week I go, eh?" he said, holding her in his bear hug. "How about you coming too, eh? The holiday I've always promised you?"
"Oh? Oh truly?" Her smile was immense. "Wen? Wen? You no tease?"
"You can come with me. We'll stop in Manila, our first stop's Manila, then north and back here in a month."
"Oh a real month … oh Gregy!" She hugged him with all her might. "I make best ship's captain girl all China!"
"Yes, yes you will."
"Wen go … wen we go?"
"Next week. I'll tell you when."
"Good. Tomorrow I go get passport th—"
"No, no passport, Ginny. They'll never give it to you. Those viblyadoks'\\ stop you. They won't ever let you come with me … oh no, golubushka, those dirty police will never let you come with me."
"Then wat I do, heya?"
"I'll smuggle you aboard in a chest!" His laugh was rich. "Or perhaps on a magic carpet. Eh?"
She peered up at him, her dark eyes wide and brimming and anxious. "True you take me? True? One month on your ship, heya?"
"At least a month. But don't tell anyone. The police watch me all the time and if they know, you won't be able to come with me. Understand?"
"All gods bear witness not tell a weevil, not even my mother," Ginny swore vehemently, then hugged him again with the vastness of her happiness. "Eeeee, I get huge face as captain's lady!" Another hug and then she let her fingers stray and he jerked involuntarily. She laughed and began to undress him again. "I give you best time, best."
She used her fingers and her lips expertly, probing and touching and withdrawing and moving against him, concentrating on her task until he cried out and became one with the gods in the Clouds and the Rain. Her hands and lips stayed on him, not leaving while the last tiny fraction of pleasure remained. Then she ceased and curled against him and listened to the deepness of his breathing, very contented that she had done her job well. She, herself, she had not experienced the Clouds and the Rain though she had pretended to several times, to increase his pleasure. Only twice in all the times that they had pillowed had she reached the zenith and both times she had been very drunk and not really sure if she had or if she had not. It was only with Third Nighttime Sandwich Cook Tok at the Victoria and Albert that she would zenith every time. All gods bless my joss, she thought happily. With one month holiday and the extra money Gregor will give me, and, with joss, one more year with him, we'll have enough money to open our own restaurant and I can have sons and grandsons and become one with the gods. Oh how lucky I am!
She was tired now for she had had to work hard, so she curled more comfortably against him, closed her eyes, liking him, thankful to the gods that they had helped her to overcome her distaste for his size and his white, toadlike skin and his rancid body smell. Thank all gods, she thought happily as she wafted into sleep.
Suslev was not sleeping. He was just drifting, his mind and his body at peace. The day had been good and a little very bad. After meeting with Crosse at the racetrack he had returned to his ship, appalled that there could be a security leak from the Ivanov. He had encoded Crosse's information about Operation Dry Run and all the other things and sent it off in the privacy of his cabin. Incoming messages told him that Voranski would not be replaced until the next visit of the Sovetsky Ivanov, that the special psychochemical expert, Koronski, was available to arrive from Bangkok at twelve hours' notice, and that he, Suslev, was to assume direction of Sevrin and liaise with Arthur directly. "Do not fail to obtain copies of the AMG files."
He remembered how a chill had gone through him at that "do not fail." So few failures, so many successes, but only the failures remembered. Where was the security leak aboard? Who read the AMG file apart from me? Only Dimitri Metkin, my second-in-command. It could not be him. The leak must be from elsewhere.
How far to trust Crosse?
Not far, but that man's clearly the most priceless asset we have in the capitalistic camp of Asia and must be protected at all costs.
The feel of Ginny against him was pleasing. She was breathing softly, a tiny jerk from time to time, her breast rising and falling. His eyes went through the doorway to the old-fashioned clock that stood in a niche of one of the untidy kitchen shelves among all the half-used bottles and tins and containers. The kitchen was in an alcove off the living room. Here in the only bedroom, the bed was huge and almost filled the room. He had bought it for her when he had begun with her two, almost three years ago. It was a good bed, clean, soft but not too soft, a welcome change from his bunk aboard.
And Ginny, she was welcome too. Pliant, easygoing, no trouble. Her blue-black hair was cut short and straight across her high forehead, the way he liked it—such a contrast to Vertinskaya, his mistress in Vladivostok, her with her sloe, hazel eyes, long wavy dark brown hair and the temper of a wildcat, her mother a true Princess Zergeyev and her father an insignificant half-caste Chinese shopkeeper who had bought the mother at an auction when she was thirteen. She had been on one of the cattle trucks of children fleeing Russia after the holocaust of '17.
Liberation, not holocaust, he told himself happily. Ah, but it's good to bed the daughter of a Princess Zergeyev when you're the grandson of a peasant off Zergeyev lands.
Thinking of the Zergeyevs reminded him of Alexi Travkin. He smiled to himself. Poor Travkin, such a fool! Would they really release the Princess Nestorova, his wife, to Hong Kong at Christmas? I doubt it. Perhaps they will and then poor Travkin will die of shock to see that little old hag of the snows, toothless, wrinkled and arthritic. Better to spare him that agony, he thought compassionately. Travkin's Russian and not a bad man.
Again he looked at the clock. Now it read 6:20. He smiled to himself. Nothing to do for a few hours but sleep and eat and think and plan. Then the oh so careful meeting with the English MP and, late tonight, seeing Arthur again. He chuckled. It amused him very much to know secrets Arthur did not know. But then Arthur holds back secrets too, he thought without anger. Perhaps he already knows about the MPs. He's smart, very smart, and doesn't trust me either.
That's the great law: Never trust another—man, woman or child —if you want to stay alive and safe and out of enemy clutches.
I'm safe because I know people, know how to keep a closed mouth and know how to further State policy purely as part of my own life plan.
So many wonderful plans to effect. So many exciting coups to precipitate and be part of. And then there's Sevrin . . .
Again he chuckled and Ginny stirred. "Go to sleep, little princess," he whispered soothingly as to a child. "Go to sleep."
Obediently she did not truly awaken, just brushed her hair out of her eyes and snuggled more comfortably.
Suslev let his eyes close, her body sweet against him. He let his arm rest across her loins. The rain had lessened during the afternoon. Now he noticed it had stopped. He yawned as he went into sleep, knowing the storm had not yet ended its work.
47
6:25 P.M.:
Robert Armstrong drained his beer. "Another," he called out Wearily, feigning drunkenness. He was in the Good Luck Girlfriend, a crowded, noisy Wanchai bar on the waterfront, filled with American sailors from the nuclear carrier. Chinese hostesses plied the customers with drink and accepted banter and touch and watered drinks in return at high cost. Occasionally one of them would order a real whiskey and show it to her partner to prove that this was a good bar and they were not being cheated.
Above the bar were rooms but it was not wise for sailors to go to them. Not all of the girls were clean or careful, not from choice just from ignorance. And, late at night, you could be rolled though only the very drunk were robbed. After all, there was no need: sailors were ready to spend everything they had.
"You want jig-jig?" the overpainted child asked him.
Dew neh loh moh on all your ancestors, he wanted to tell her. You should be home in bed with some schoolbooks. But he did not say it. That would do no good. In all probability her parents had gratefully arranged this job for her so that all the family could survive just a little better. "You want drink?" he said instead, hiding that he could speak Cantonese.
"Scottish, Scottish," the child called out imperiously.
"Why not get tea and I'll give you the money anyway," he said sourly.
"Fornicate all gods and the mothers of gods I not a cheater!" Haughtily the child offered the grimy glass the waiter had slapped down. It did contain cheap but real whiskey. She drained it without a grimace. "Waiter! Another Scottish and another beer! You drink, I drink, then we jig-jig."
Armstrong looked at her. "What's your name?"
"Lily. Lily Chop. Twenty-five dollars short time."
"How old are you?"
"Old. How old you?"
"Nineteen."
"Huh, coppers always lie!"
"How'd you know I'm a copper?"
"Boss tell me. Only twenty dollar, heya?"
"Who's the boss? Which one's he?"
"She. Behind the bar. She mama-sa«. "
Armstrong peered through the smoke. The woman was lean and scrawny and in her fifties, sweating and working hard, keeping up a running vulgar banter with the sailors as she filled the orders. "How'd she know I was a copper?"
Again Lily shrugged. "Listen, she tell me keep you happy or I out in street. We go upstairs now, heya? On house, no twenty dollar." The child got up. He could see her fear now.
"Sit down," he ordered.
She sat, even more afraid. "If I not pleeze she throw m—"
"You please me." Armstrong sighed. It was an old ploy. If you went, you paid, if you didn't go, you paid and the boss always sent a young one. He passed over fifty dollars. "Here. Go and give it to the mama-sen with my thanks. Tell her I can't jig-jig now because I've got my monthly! Honorable Red's with me."
Lily gawked at him then cackled like an old woman. "Eeeee, fornicate all gods that's a good one!" She went off, hard put to walk on her high heels, her brassy chong-sam slit very high, showing her thin, very thin legs and buttocks.
Armstrong finished his beer, paid his bill and got to his feet. At once his table was claimed and he pushed through the sweating, shouting sailors for the door.
"You welcome anytime," the mama-san called out as he passed her.
"Sure," he called back without malice.
The rain was just a thin drizzle now and the day growing dark. On the street were many more raucous sailors, all of them American —British sailors had been ordered out of this area for the first few days by their captains. His skin felt wet and hot under his raincoat. In a moment he left Gloucester Road and the waterfront and strolled through the crowds up O'Brien Road, splashing through the puddles, the city smelling good and clean and washed. At the corner he turned into Lochart Road and at length found the alley he sought. It was busy, as usual, with street stalls and shops and scrawny dogs, chickens packed into cages, dried fried ducks and meats hanging from hooks, vegetables and fruits. Just inside the mouth of the alley was a small stall with stools under a canvas overhang to keep off the drizzle. He nodded at the owner, chose a shadowed corner, ordered a bowl of Singapore noodles—fine, lightly fried vermicelli-like noodles, dry, with chili and spices and chopped shrimps and fresh vegetables—and began to wait.
Brian Kwok.
Always back to Brian Kwok.
And always back to the 40,000 in used notes that he had found in his desk drawer, the one he always kept locked.
Concentrate, he told himself, or you'll slip. You'll make a mistake. You can't afford a mistake!
He was weary and felt an overpowering dirtiness that soap and hot water would not cleanse away. With an effort he forced his eyes to seek his prey, his ears to hear the street sounds, and his nose to enjoy the food.
He had just finished the bowl when he saw the American sailor. The man was thin and wore glasses and he towered over the Chinese pedestrians even though he walked with a slight stoop. His arm was around a street girl. She held an umbrella over them and was tugging at him.
"No, not this way, baby," she pleaded. "My room other way .. . unnerstan'?"
"Sure, honey, but first we go this way then we'll go your way. Huh? Come on, darlin'."
Armstrong hunched deeper into the shadows. He watched them approach, wondering if this was the one. The man's accent was Southern and sweet-sounding and he was in his late twenties. As he strolled along the busy street he looked this way and that, seeking his bearings. Then Armstrong saw him spot the tailor's shop on one corner of the alley that was called Pop-ting's Handmade Suits, and, opposite it, a small, open-faced restaurant lit with bare bulbs and with a crudely written sign nailed to a post: WELCOME TO AMERICAN SAILORS. The bold column of Chinese characters over the door read: "A Thousand Years' Health to Mao Tse-tung Restaurant."
"C'mon, honey," the sailor said, brightening. "Let's have a beer here."
"No good place, baby, better come my bar, heya? Belt—"
"Goddamnit we're having a beer here." He went into the open shop and sat at one of the plastic tables, bulky in his raincoat. Sullenly she followed. "Beer. Two beers! San Miguel, huh? You savvy huh?"
From where he sat, Armstrong could see them both clearly. One of the tables was filled with four coolies who noisily sucked noodles and soup into their mouths. They glanced at the sailor and the girl briefly. One made an obscene remark and the others laughed. The girl blushed, turning her back to them. The sailor hummed as he looked around carefully, sipping his beer, then stood up. "I gotta use the can." Unerringly he went to the back through the flyblown string curtain, the counterman watching him sourly. Armstrong sighed and relaxed. The trap was sprung.
In a moment the sailor returned. "C'mon," he said, "let's get outta here." He drained his glass, paid, and they went off arm in arm again the way they had come.
"You want more S'pore noodles?" the stall keeper asked Armstrong rudely, his hostile eyes just slits in his high-boned face.
"No thanks. Just another beer."
"No beer."
"Fornicate you and all your line," Armstrong hissed in perfect gutter Cantonese. "Am I a fool from the Golden Mountain? No, I'm a guest in your fornicating restaurant. Get me a fornicating beer or I'll have my men slit your Secret Sack and feed those peanuts you call your treasure to the nearest dog!"
The man said nothing. Sullenly he went to the next street stall and got a San Miguel and brought it back and set it on the counter, opening it. The other diners were still gaping at Armstrong. Abruptly he hawked loudly and spat and put his cold blue eyes on the man nearest him. He saw him shiver and look away. Uneasily the others went back to their bowls too, uncomfortable to be in the presence of a barbarian policeman who had the bad manners to swear so colloquially in their tongue.
Armstrong eased more comfortably on the stool, then let his eyes range the road and the alley, waiting patiently.
He did not have long to wait before he saw the small, squat chunky European coming up the alley, keeping to the side, stopping and peering into the storefront of a cheap shoe shop behind the street stalls that crowded the narrow roadway.
Ah, he's a professional, Armstrong thought, very pleased, knowing the man was using the glass as a mirror to case the restaurant. The man took his time. He wore a shapeless plastic raincoat and hat and appeared nondescript. His body was hidden for a moment as a coolie swayed past him with huge bundles on either end of the bamboo pole on his shoulders. Armstrong noticed his knotted calves, varicose-veined, as he watched the feet of the other man. They moved and he walked out of the alley, covered by the coolie, and did not stop, just continued up the road.
He's very good, the policeman thought admiringly, still having him in sight. This bugger's done this before. Must be KGB to be this smart. Well, it won't be long now, my fine fellow, before you're hooked, he told himself without rancor, as a fisherman would seeing a fat trout teasing the bait.
The man was shop-watching again. Come along, little fish.
The man was acting just like a trout. He made several passes and went away and came back but always very carefully and without attracting attention. At last he went into the open-faced restaurant and sat down and ordered a beer. Armstrong sighed again, happy now.
It seemed to take the man an interminable time before he, too, got up, asked where the toilet was, walked through the few diners and went under the bead curtain. In time he reappeared and went for his table. At once the four coolie diners fell on him from behind, pinioning his arms and holding him helpless, while another strapped a stiff high collar around his neck. Other diners, real customers, and not undercover SI police, gaped, one dropped his chopsticks, a couple fled and the others froze.
Armstrong got up from his stool leisurely and walked over. He saw the tough-looking Chinese behind the counter take off his apron. "Shut up, you bastard," the fellow said in Russian to the man who cursed and struggled impotently. "Evening, Superintendent," he added to Armstrong with a sly grin. His name was Malcolm Sun, he was a senior agent, SI, and ranking Chinese on this 16/2. It was he who had organized the intercept and had paid off the cook who usually worked this shift and had taken his place.
"Evening, Malcolm. You did very well." Armstrong turned his attention to the enemy agent. "What's your name?" he asked pleasantly.
"Who you? Let me go… let go!" the man said in heavily accented English.
"All yours, Malcolm," Armstrong said.
At once, Sun said in Russian, "Listen you mother-eater, we know you're off the Ivanov, we know you're a courier and you've just picked up a drop from the American off the nuclear carrier. We've already got the bastard in custody and you'd bet—"
"Lies! You've made a mistake," the man blustered in Russian. "1 know nothing of any American. Let me go!"
"What's your name?"
"You've made a mistake. Let me go!" A crowd of gaping, gawking onlookers was now surrounding the store.
Malcolm Sun turned to Armstrong. "He's a ripe one, sir. Doesn't understand very good Russian. I'm afraid we'll have to take him in," he said with a twisted smile.
"Sergeant, get the Black Maria."
"Yes sir." Another agent went off quickly as Armstrong went closer. The Russian was gray-haired, a squat man with small, angry eyes. He was held perfectly with no chance of escape and no chance to put a hand into a pocket or into his mouth to destroy evidence, or himself.
Armstrong searched him expertly. No manual or roll of film. "Where did you put it?" he asked.
"I no understand!"
The man's hatred did not bother Armstrong. He bore him no malice, the man was just a target who had been trapped. I wonder who shopped this poor bugger who's frightened to death, rightly, who's now ruined with the KGB and with his own people forever and might as well be a dead man. I wonder why it's our coup and not old Rosemont's and his CIA boys? How is it we're the ones who knew about the drop and not the Yanks? How is it Crosse got to know about this? All Crosse had told him was the where and the how and that the drop was going to be made by a sailor from the carrier and intercepted by someone off the Ivanov.
"You're in charge, Robert, and please, don't make a balls up."
"I won't. But please get someone else for Brian K—"
"For the last time, Robert, you're doing the Kwok interrogation and you're seconded to SI until I release you. And if you bitch once more I'll have you out of the force, out of Hong Kong, out of your pension and I hardly need remind you Si's reach is very long. I doubt if you'd work again, unless you go criminal, and then God help you. Is that finally clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Brian will be ready for you at six tomorrow morning."
Armstrong shivered. How impossibly lucky we were to catch him! If Spectacles Wu hadn't come from Ning-tok—-if the old amah hadn't talked to the Werewolf—if the run on the bank—Christ, so many ifs. But then that's how you catch a fish, a big fish. Pure, bloody, unadulterated luck most times. Jesus Christ, Brian Kwok! You poor bugger!
He shivered again.
"You all right, sir?" Malcolm Sun asked.
"Yes." Armstrong looked back at the Russian. "Where did you put the film, the roll of film?"
The man stared back at him defiantly. "Don't understand!"
Armstrong sighed. "You do, too well." The big black van came through the gawking crowd and stopped. More Sis got out. "Put him in and don't let go of him," Armstrong said to those holding him. The crowd watched and chattered and jeered as the man was frog-marched into the van. Armstrong and Sun got in after him and closed the door.
"Off you go, driver," Armstrong ordered.
"Yes sir." The driver let in his clutch easing through the crowds and joined the snarled traffic heading for Central HQ.
"All right, Malcolm. You can begin."
The Chinese agent took out a razor-sharp knife. The Soviet man blanched.
"What's your name?" Armstrong asked, sitting on a bench opposite him.
Malcolm Sun repeated the question in Russian.
"D . . . Dimitri Metkin," the man muttered, still held viselike by the four men and unable to move a finger or a toe. "Seaman, first class."
"Liar," Armstrong said easily. "Go ahead, Malcolm."
Malcolm Sun put the knife under the man's left eye and the man almost fainted. "That comes later, spy," Sun said in Russian with a chilling smile. Expertly, with a deliberate malevolent viciousness, Sun rapidly sliced the raincoat away. Armstrong searched it very carefully as Sun used the knife deftly to cut away the man's seaman's jersey and the rest of his clothes until he was naked. The knife had not cut or even nicked him once. A careful search and re-search revealed nothing. Nor his shoes, the heels or the soles.
"Unless it's a microdot transfer and we've missed it so far, it must be in him," Armstrong said.
At once the men holding the Russian bent him over and Sun got out the surgical gloves and surgical salve and probed deeply. The man flinched and moaned and tears of pain seeped from his eyes.
"Dew neh loh moh," Sun said happily. His fingers drew out a small tube of cellophane wrapping.
"Don't let go of him!" Armstrong rapped.
When he was sure the man was secure he peered at the cylindrical package. Inside he could see the double-ended circles of a film cartridge. "Looks like a Minolta," he said absently.
Using some tissues he wrapped the cellophane carefully and sat down opposite the man again. "Mr. Metkin, you're charged under the Official Secrets Act for taking part in an espionage act against Her Majesty's Government and her allies. Anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you. Now, sir," he continued gently, "you're caught. We're all Special Intelligence and not subject to normal laws, any more than your own KGB is. We don't want to hurt you but we can hold you forever if we want, in solitary if we want. We would like a little cooperation. Just the answers to a few questions. If you refuse we will extract the information we require. We use a lot of your KGB techniques and we can, sometimes, go a little better." He saw a flash of terror behind the man's eyes but something told him this man would be hard to crack.
"What's your real name? Your official KGB name?"
The man stared at him.
"What's your KGB rank?"
The man still stared.
Armstrong sighed. "I can let my Chinese friends have at you, old chum, if you prefer. They really don't like you at all. Your Soviet armies ran all over Malcolm Sun's village in Manchuria and wiped it out and his family. Sorry, but I really must have your official KGB name, your rank on the Sovetsky Ivanov and official position."
Another hostile silence.
Armstrong shrugged. "Go ahead, Malcolm."
Sun reached up and jerked the ugly-looking crowbar from its clip and as the four men turned Metkin roughly onto his stomach and spread-eagled him, Sun inserted the tip. The man screamed. "Wait . . . wait . . ." he gasped in guttural English, "wait . . . I'm Dimitri . . ." Another scream. "Nicoli Leonov, major, political commis-saaaar …"
"That's enough, Malcolm," Armstrong said, astonished by the importance of their catch.
"But sir . . ."
"That's enough," Armstrong said harshly, deliberately protective as Sun was deliberately hostile and angrily slammed the crowbar back into its clips. "Pull him up," he ordered, sorry for the man, the indignity of it. But he had never known the trick to fail to produce a real name and rank, if done at once. It was a trick because they would never probe deeply and the first scream was always from panic and not from pain. Unless the enemy agent broke at once they would always stop and then, at headquarters, put him through a proper monitored interrogation. Torture wasn't necessary though some zealots used it against orders. This is a dangerous profession, he thought grimly. KGB methods are rougher, and Chinese have a different attitude to life and death, victor and vanquished, pain and pleasure—and the value of a scream.
"Don't take it badly, Major Leonov," he said kindly when the others had pulled him up and sat him back on the bench, still holding him tightly. "We don't want to harm you—or let you harm yourself."
Metkin spat at him and began to curse, tears of terror and rage and frustration running down his face. Armstrong nodded at Malcolm Sun who took out the prepared pad and held it firmly over Metkin's nose and mouth.
The heavy, sick-sweet stench of chloroform filled the stuffy atmosphere. Metkin struggled impotently for a moment, then subsided. Armstrong checked his eyes and his pulse to make sure he was not feigning unconsciousness. "You can let him go now," he told them. "You all did very well. I'll see a commendation goes on all your records. Malcolm, we'd better take good care of him. He might suicide."
"Yes." Sun sat back with the others in the swaying van. It was grinding along in the heavy traffic irritatingly, stopping and starting. Later he said what was in all their minds. "Dimitri Metkin, alias Nicoli Leonov, major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. What's a big fish like that doing on a small job like this?"
48
7:05 P.M. :
Line Bartlett chose his tie carefully. He was wearing a pale blue shin and light tan suit and the tie was tan with a red stripe. A beer was open on the chest of drawers, the can pearled from the cold. All day he had debated with himself whether he should call for Orlanda or not call for her, whether he should tell Casey or not tell Casey.
The day had been fine for him. First, breakfast with Orlanda and then out to Kai Tak to check his airplane and make sure he could use it, for the flight with Dunross to Taipei. Lunch with Casey, then the excitement of the exchange. After the exchange had closed he and Casey had caught the ferry to Kowloon. Canvas storm shades lashed against the rain shut out the view and made the deck claustrophobic and the crossing not pleasant. But it was pleasant with Casey, his awareness of her heightened by the knowledge of Orlanda, and the dilemma.
"lan's had it, hasn't he, Line?"
"I'd think so, sure. But he's smart, the battle's not over yet, only the first attack."
"How can he get back? His stock's at bargain prices."
"Compared to last week, sure, but we don't know his earning ratio. This exchange's like a yo-yo—you said so yourself—and dangerous. Ian was right in that."
"I'll bet he knows about the 2 million you put up with Gornt."
"Maybe. It's nothing he wouldn't do if he had the chance. You meeting Seymour and Charlie Forrester?"
"Yes. The Pan Am flight's on time and I've a limo coming. I'll leave soon as we get back. You think they'll want dinner?"
"No. They'll be jet-lagged to hell." He had grinned. "I hope." Both Seymour Steigler III, their attorney, and Charlie Forrester, the head of their foam division, were socially very hard going. "What time's their flight in?"
"4:50. We'll be back around six."
At six they had had a meeting with Seymour Steigler—Forrester was unwell and had gone straight to bed.
Their attorney was a New Yorker, a handsome man with wavy black-gray hair and dark eyes and dark rings under his eyes. "Casey filled me in on the details, Line," he said. "Looks like we're in great shape."
By prior arrangement, Bartlett and Casey had laid out the whole deal to their attorney, excluding the secret arrangement with Dunross about his ships.
"There're a couple of clauses I'd want in, to protect us, Line," Steigler said.
"All right. But I don't want the deal renegotiated. We want a wrap by Tuesday, just as we've laid it out."
"What about Rothwell-Gornt? Best I should feel them out, huh? We can kite Struan's."
"No," Casey had said. "You leave Gornt and Dunross alone, Seymour." They had not told Steigler about Bartlett's private deal with Gornt either. "Hong Kong's more complicated than we thought. Best leave it as it is."
"That's right," Bartlett said. "Leave Gornt and Dunross to Casey and me. You just deal with their attorneys."
"What're they like?"
"English. Very proper," Casey said. "I met with John Dawson at noon—he's their senior partner. Dunross was supposed to be there but he sent Jacques deVille instead. He's one of Struan's directors, deals with all their corporate affairs, and some financing. Jacques is very good but Dunross runs everything and decides everything. That's the bottom line."
"How about getting this, er, Dawson on the phone right now? I'll meet with him over breakfast, say here at eight."
Bartlett and Casey had laughed. "No way, Seymour!" she had said. "It'll be a leisurely in by ten and a two-hour lunch. They eat and drink like there's no tomorrow, and everything's the 'old boy' bit."
"Then I'll meet him after lunch when he's mellow and maybe we can teach him a trick or two," Seymour Steigler had said, his eyes hardening. He stifled a yawn. "I've got to call New York before I hit the sack. Hey, I've got all the papers on the GXR merger an—"
"I'll take those, Seymour," Casey said.
"And I bought the 200,000 block of Rothwell-Gornt at 23.50-what're they today?"
"21."
"Jesus, Line, you're down 300 grand," Casey said, perturbed. "Why not sell and buy back? If and when."
"No. We'll hold the stock." Bartlett was not worried about the Rothwell stock loss for he was well ahead on his share of Gornt's selling-short ploy. "Why don't you quit for the night, Seymour? If you're up we'll have breakfast—the three of us—say about eight?"
"Good idea. Casey, you'll fix me with Dawson?"
"First thing. They'll see you in the morning sometime. The tai-pan . . . Ian Dunross's told them our deal's top priority."
"It should be," Steigler said. "Our down payment gets Dunross off the hook."
"If he survives," Casey said.
"Here today, gone tomorrow so let's enjoy!"
It was one of Steigler's standard sayings and the phrase was still ringing in Bartlett's head. Here today, gone tomorrow . . . like the fire last night. That could've been bad. I could've bashed my head in the way that poor bastard Pennyworth did. You never know when it's your turn, your accident, your bullet or your act of God. From outside or inside. Like Dad! Jesus—bronzed and healthy, hardly sick a day in his life, then the doc says he's got the big C and in three months he's wasted away and stinking and dying in great pain.
Bartlett felt a sudden sweat on his forehead. It had been a bad time then, during his divorce, burying his father, his mother distraught and everything falling apart. Then finalizing the divorce. The settlement had been vicious but he had just managed to retain control of the companies, to pay her off without having to sell out. He was still paying even though she'd remarried—along with an escalating maintenance for his children as well as future settlements —every cent still hurting, not the money itself but the unfairness of California law, the attorney in for a third until death us do part, screwed by my attorney and hers. One day I'll have vengeance on them, Bartlett grimly promised himself again. On them and all the other goddamn parasites. With an effort he thrust them aside. For today. Here today, gone tomorrow, so let's enjoy, he repeated as he sipped his beer, tied his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. Without vanity. He liked living within himself and he had made his peace with himself, knowing who he was and what he was about. The war had helped him do that. And surviving the divorce, surviving her, finding out about her and living with it—Casey the only decent thing that whole year.
Casey.
What about Casey?
Our rules are quite clear, always have been. She set them: If I have a date or she has a date, we have dates and no questions and no recriminations.
Then why is it I'm all uptight now that I've decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?
He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.
There was a half-hearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. "Missee," the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.
"Oh hi, Casey," Bartlett said. "I was just going to phone you."
"Hi, Line," she called out and then said, "Dohjeh," in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. "Got some stuff for you." She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting gray pants and flat gray shoes with a gray silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. "The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It's all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There's a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M. in L.A.—that gives us plenty of time to get back. I've ask—"
"Turn down bed, Master?" Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.
Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. "Urn ho, " she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. "Chaz'er, dohjeh. " No thank you, please do it later.
Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. "Wat?"
Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. "Turn down bed, heya? Now heya?" he asked in bad English.
Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, "Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later."
Nighttime Song beamed, having made her lose face. "Yes, Mis-see." He closed the door with just enough of a slam to make his point.
"Asshole," she muttered. "He had to understand me, I know I said it right, Line. Why is it they insist on not understanding? I tried it on my maid and all she said was Va?' too." She laughed in spite of herself as she aped the coarse guttural, "Wat you say, heya?"
Bartlett laughed. "They're just ornery. But where'd you learn Chinese?"
"It's Cantonese. I got a teacher—fitted in an hour this morning —thought I should at least be able to say, Hi, Good morning, Give me the bill please . . . ordinary things. Goddamn but it's complicated. All the tones. In Cantonese there are seven tones—seven ways of saying the same word. You ask for the check, it's mai dan, but if you say it just a little wrong, it means fried eggs, they're mai dan too, and one'll get you fifty the waiter'll bring you the fried eggs just to put you down." She sipped her martini and added an extra olive. "I needed that. You want another beer?"
Bartlett shook his head. "This's fine." He had read all the telexes.
Casey sat on the sofa and opened her notepad. "Vincenzo Banas-tasio's secretary phoned and asked me to confirm his suite for Saturday an—"
"I didn't know he was due in Hong Kong. You?"
"I think I remember him saying something about going to Asia the last time we saw him … at the track last month—at Del Mar —the time John Chen was there. Terrible about John, isn't it?"
"I hope they get those Werewolves. Bastards to murder him and put that sign on him like that."
"I wrote a condolence note for us to his father and to his wife Dianne—you remember we met her at lan's and at Aberdeen-Jesus, that seems like a million years ago."
"Yes." Bartlett frowned. "I still don't remember Vincenzo saying anything. He staying here?"
"No, he wants to be Hong Kong side. I confirmed the booking at the Hilton by phone and I'll do it in person tomorrow. He's on JAL's Saturday morning flight from Tokyo." Casey peered at him over her glasses. "You want me to schedule a meeting?"
"How long's he staying?"
"Over the weekend. A few days. You know how vague he is. How about Saturday after the races? We'll be Hong Kong side and it's an easy walk from Happy Valley if we can't get a ride."
Bartlett was going to say, Let's make it Sunday, but then he remembered Taipei on Sunday. "Sure, Saturday after the races." Then he saw her look. "What?"
"I was just wondering what Banastasio's about."
"When he bought 4 percent of our Par-Con stock," he said, "we ran it through Seymour, the SEC and a few others and they're all satisfied his money was clean. He's never been arrested or charged, though there're a lot of rumors. He's never given us any trouble, never wanted in on any board, never turns up for any shareholder meetings, always gives me his proxy, and he came through with the money when we needed it." He stared at her. "So?"
"So nothing, Line. You know my opinion of him. I agree we can't take the stock back. He bought it free and clear and asked first, and we sure as hell needed his money and put it to great use." She adjusted her glasses and made a note. "I'll fix the meeting and be polite as always. Next: Our company account at the Victoria Bank's operating. I put in 25,000 and here's your checkbook. We've established a revolving fund and First Central's ready to transfer the initial 7 million to the account whenever we say so. There's a confirm telex there. I also opened a personal account for you at the same bank—here's your checkbook with another 25 grand—-20 in an HK treasury bill on a daily rollover." She grinned. "That should buy a couple of bowls of chop suey and a good piece of jade though 1 hear the phonies are hard to tell from the real ones."
"No jade." Bartlett wanted to look at his watch but he did not, just sipped his beer. "Next?"
"Next: Clive Bersky called and asked a favor."
"You told him to blow it out of his muffler?"
She laughed. Clive Bersky was chief executive of their branch of the First Central of New York. He was very meticulous, pedantic and drove Bartlett crazy with his need for perfect documentation. "He asks that if the Struan deal goes through, we put our funds through the . . ." She referred to her pad. ". . . the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank here."
"Why them?"
"I don't know. I'm checking them out. We've a date for a drink with the local chief exec at eight. The First Central's just bought his bank—it's got branches here, Singapore, Tokyo."
"You deal with him, Casey."
"Sure. I can drink and run. You want to eat afterwards? We could go down to the Escoffier or up to the Seven Dragons or maybe walk up Nathan Road for some Chinese chow. Somewhere close—the weatherman says more rain's expected."
"Thanks but not tonight. I'm going Hong Kong side."
"Oh? Wh—" Casey stopped. "Fine. When are you leaving?"
"About now. No hurry." Bartlett saw the same easy smile on her face as her eyes went down the list but he was sure she had instantly realized where he was going and suddenly he was furious. He kept his voice calm. "What else do you have?"
"Nothing that won't wait," she said in the same nice voice. "I've an early meeting with Captain Jannelli about your Taipei trip-Armstrong's office sent over the documentation temporarily lifting the impounding on the airplane. All you have to do is sign the form agreeing to come back to H.K. I put Tuesday on it. Is that right?"
"Sure. Tuesday's D Day."
She got up. "That's it for tonight, Line. I'll deal with the banker and the rest of this stuff." She finished her martini and put the glass back on the mirrored cabinet. "Hey that tie, Line! Your blue one'd go better. See you at breakfast." She blew him her usual kiss and walked off as she usually did and closed the door with her usual, "Sweet dreams, Line!"
"Why the hell'm I so goddamn mad?" he muttered angrily, out loud. "Casey's done nothing. Son of a bitch!" Unaware, he had crushed his empty beer can. Son of a bitch! Now what? Do I forget it and go or what?
Casey was walking up the corridor toward her own room, seething. I'll bet my life he's going out with that goddamn tramp. I should've drowned her while I had the chance.
Then she noticed that Nighttime Song had opened her door for her and was holding it wide with a smile she read as a smirk.
"Andyoucanblowitoutofyourasstoo!" she snarled at him before she could stop herself, then slammed the door and threw her papers and pad on the bed and was about to cry. "You're not to cry," she ordered herself out loud, tears on the words. "No goddamn man is going to get you down no way. No way!" She stared down at her fingers, which were trembling with the rage that possessed her.
"Oh shit on all men!"
49
7:40 P.M. :
"Excuse me, your Excellency, you're wanted on the phone."
"Thank you, John." Sir Geoffrey Allison turned back to Dunross and the others. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?"
They were in Government House, the governor's official residence above Central, the French doors open to the cool of the evening, the air fresh and washed, trees and shrubs dripping nicely, and the governor walked across the crowded anteroom where pre-dinner cocktails and snacks were being served, very pleased with the way the evening had gone so far. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There was banter and good conversation, some laughter and no friction yet between the Hong Kong tai-pans and the MPs. At his request, Dunross had gone out of his way to soothe Grey and Broadhurst, and even Grey seemed to have mellowed.
The aide closed the door of his study, leaving him alone with the telephone. The study was dark green and pleasing, with blue flock wallpaper, fine Persian carpets from his two-year sojourn in the Teheran embassy, cherished crystal and silver and more showcases with fine Chinese porcelains. "Hello?"
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Crosse said.
"Oh hello, Roger." The governor felt his chest tighten. "No bother," he said.
"Two rather good pieces of information, sir. Somewhat important. I wonder if I might drop by?"
Sir Geoffrey glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantel over the fireplace. "Dinner's served in fifteen minutes, Roger. Where are you now?"
"Just three minutes away from you, sir. I won't delay your dinner. But, if you prefer, I could make it afterwards."
"Come now, I could use some good news. With this whole banking affair and the stock market… Use the garden door if you wish. John will meet you."
"Thank you, sir." The phone clicked off. By custom, the head of SI had a key to the iron garden gate which was set into the high surrounding walls.
In exactly three minutes Crosse was crossing the terrace, walking lightly. The ground was very wet. He dried his feet carefully before he came through the French windows. "We've caught a rather big fish, sir, an enemy agent, caught him with his hands in the honey pot," he said softly. "He's a major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. We caught him in the middle of an espionage act with an American computer expert off the nuclear carrier."
The governor's face had gone red. "That blasted Ivanov/ Good God, Roger, a major? Have you any idea of the diplomatic and political storm this will precipitate with the USSR, the U.S. and London?"
"Yes sir. That's why I thought I'd better consult at once."
"What the devil was the fellow doing?"
Crosse gave him the broad facts. He ended, "Both of them are sedated now and very safe."
"What was on the film?"
"It was blank, sir, fogged. Wh—"
"What?"
"Yes. Of course both men denied any espionage was involved. The sailor denied there was a drop, denied everything, said he'd won the $2,000 U.S. we found on him playing poker. Childish to lie once you're caught, childish to make things difficult, we always get the truth eventually. I thought we'd either missed the real film or it was a microdot transfer. We re-searched their clothing and I ordered immediate emetics and stool examinations. Major … the KGB agent passed the real negative film an hour ago." Crosse offered the big manila envelope. "These're eight-by-ten prints, sir, frame by frame."
The governor did not open the envelope. "What are they of? In general?"
"One set shows part of the ship's radar guidance system manual." Crosse hesitated. "The other set's a photocopy of a complete manifest of the carrier's arsenal, ammunition, missiles and warheads. Quantities, qualities, their numbers and where stored in the ship."
"Jesus Christ! Including nuclear warheads? No, please don't answer that." Sir Geoffrey stared at Crosse. After a pause he said, "Well, Roger, it's marvelous that the information didn't get into enemy hands. You're to be congratulated. Our American friends will be equally relieved, and they'll owe you a number of very great favors. Good God, in expert hands that knowledge would lay bare the ship's entire strike capability!"
"Yes sir." Crosse smiled thinly.
Sir Geoffrey studied him.
"But what to do about this major of yours?"
"I would send the major to London with a special escort by RAF transport at once. I think they should do the debriefing there even though we're better equipped, more practiced, and more efficient here. My worry is that his superiors will surely know within an hour or so and might attempt to rescue him or to render him useless. They might even use extreme diplomatic pressure to force us to release him to the Ivanov. Besides, when the PRC and Nationalists hear we've caught such an official, they might try to acquire him themselves."
"What about the American sailor?"
"It might be politic to turn him over to the CIA at once, with the negative of the film and these—they're the only prints I made. I developed and made them myself for obvious security reasons. I suspect Rosemont would be the best person."
"Ah yes, Rosemont. He's here now."
"Yes sir."
Sir Geoffrey's eyes hardened. "You have copies of all my guest lists, Roger?"
"No sir. Half an hour ago I called the consulate to find out where he was. They told me."
Sir Geoffrey looked back at him under his shaggy eyebrows, disbelieving him, sure that the chief of SI did know whom he invited and when. Never mind, he thought testily, that's his job. And I'll bet a golden guinea to a doughnut that these prints aren't the only copies Roger made, for he knows our Admiralty would love to see them too and it's his duty to provide them. "Could this have any connection with the AMG business?"
"No. No not at all," Crosse said and the governor thought he heard the momentary nutter in Crosse's voice. "I don't think there's any connection."
Sir Geoffrey got out of the tall chair and paced for a moment, his mind sifting possibilities. Roger's right. Chinese Intelligence on both sides of the bamboo fence are bound to find out quickly, as every one of our Chinese police has PRC or Nationalist sympathies. So it's far better to have the spy out of reach. Then no one will be tempted—at least, not here. "I think I should chat with the minister at once."
"Perhaps, under the circumstances, sir, you could inform the minister what I've done about the major—sending him to London under es—" "He's already gone?"
"No sir. But it's well within my authority to expedite that—if you agree."
Thoughtfully Sir Geoffrey glanced again at the clock. At length he said with a small smile, "Very well. It's lunchtime now in London, I'll inform him in an hour or so. Is that sufficient time?" "Oh yes, thank you, sir. Everything's arranged." "I presumed it was."
"I'll breathe a lot easier when the fellow's en route home, sir. Thank you." "Yes. And the sailor?"
"Perhaps you could ask the minister to approve our handing him over to Rosemont, sir."
There were a dozen questions Sir Geoffrey would like to have asked but he asked none of them. From long experience he knew he was not a good liar, so the less he knew the better. "Very well. Now, what's the second piece of 'good* news. I trust this will be better."
"We've caught the mole, sir." "Ah! Good. Excellent! Very good. Who?" "Senior Superintendent Kwok." "Impossible!"
Crosse kept the pleasure off his face. "I agree, sir. Even so, Superintendent Kwok's a Communist mole and spy for the PRC." Crosse related how Brian Kwok's cover had been penetrated. "I suggest Superintendent Armstrong should get a commendation— also Spectacles Wu. I'm taking him into SI, sir."
Sir Geoffrey was staring out of the window, stunned. "Bless my soul! Young Brian! Why? He would have been an assistant commissioner in a year or two. … I suppose there's no mistake?"
"No sir. As I said, the proof is irrefutable. Of course, we don't know the how or the why yet but we soon will."
Sir Geoffrey heard the finality and he saw the thin, hard face and cold eyes and he felt very sorry for Brian Kwok, whom he had liked for many years. "Keep me advised about him. Perhaps we can discover what makes a man like that do such a thing. Good God, such a charming chap and a first-class cricketer too. Yes, keep me advised."
"Certainly, sir." Crosse got up. "Interesting. I could never understand why he was always so anti-American—it was his only flaw. Now it's obvious. I should have spotted that. Sorry sir, and sorry to interrupt your evening."
"You're to be congratulated, Roger. If the Soviet agent's being sent to London perhaps Brian Kwok should go too? The same reasons would apply to him?"
"No sir. No I don't think so. We can deal with Kwok here much quicker and better. We're the ones who need to know what he knows—London wouldn't understand. Kwok's a threat to Hong Kong, not to Britain. He's a PRC asset—the other man's Soviet. The two don't parallel."
Sir Geoffrey sighed heavily, knowing Crosse was right. "I agree. This has really been a quite dreadful day, Roger. First the bank runs, then the stock market … the deaths last night, poor Sir Charles Pennyworth and Toxe's wife . . . and this morning the Aberdeen mud-slide deaths … the Noble House's tottering … it looks as though this storm front's developing into a blasted typhoon which will probably wreck Saturday's racing . . . and now all your news, an American sailor betrays his country and ship and honor for a paltry $2,000?"
Crosse smiled his thin smile again. "Perhaps $2,000 wasn't paltry to him."
We live in terrible times, Sir Geoffrey was going to say, but he knew it was not the times. It was merely that people were people, that greed pride lust avarice jealousy gluttony anger and the bigger lust for power or money ruled people and would rule them forever. Most of them.
"Thank you for coming, Roger. Again, you're to be congratulated. I will so inform the minister. Good night."
He watched Crosse walk off, tall, confident and deadly. When the iron door in the high wall had been bolted behind him by his aide,
Sir Geoffrey Allison allowed the real unasked question to surface once more.
Who's the mole in my police?
AMG's paper was quite clear. The traitor's a Soviet asset, not from the PRC. Brian Kwok has been flushed out by chance. Why didn't Roger point out the obvious?
Sir Geoffrey shuddered. If Brian could be a mole anyone could. Anyone.
50
8:17 P.M. :
Almost before he took his finger off the bell the door swung open.
"Oh, Line," Orlanda said breathlessly, her happiness spilling over, "I'd given you up. Please come in!"
"Sorry to be late," Bartlett said, taken aback by her beauty and marvelous warmth. "The traffic's snarled to hell and the ferries jammed and I couldn't get to a phone."
"You're here so you're not late, not at all. I was just afraid that .. ." Then she added in a rush, "I was afraid you wouldn't come back tonight and then I'd've been shattered. There, I've said it and all my defenses are down but I'm so happy to see you I don't care." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him a swift happy kiss, took his arm and shut the door behind them.
Her perfume was delicate and barely there but he felt it as a physical presence. The dress she wore was knee-length white chiffon that sighed as she moved, close at the wrists and neck. It showed but somehow didn't quite show her golden skin. "I'm so happy you're here," she said again and took his umbrella and put it into a rack.
"So am I."
The room was prettier by night, mostly candlelit, the tall glass doors of the terrace open to the air. They were just below the overcast and the city sprawled down the mountain to the sea, the lights misting from time to time as whiskers of the low clouds passed by. Sea level was seven hundred feet below. Kowloon was dim and the harbor dim but he knew the ships were there and he could see the huge carrier at the wharf, her great angled deck floodlit, the needle-nosed jets floodlit, her battle-gray bridge reaching for the sky —the Stars and Stripes hanging damp and listless.
"Hey," he said, leaning on the terrace railing, "what a great night, Orlanda."
"Oh yes, yes it is. Come and sit down."
"I'd rather look at the view, if it's okay."
"Of course, anything you want's fine, anything. That suit's great on you, Line, and I love your tie." She said it happily, wanting to compliment him even though she did not think the tie matched too well. Never mind, she thought, he's just not color conscious like Quillan, and needs helping. I'll do what Quillan taught me to do, not criticize but go out and buy one I like and give it to him. If he likes it, marvelous, if not never mind, for what does it matter—he's the one who's wearing it. Blue, blue would match Line's eyes and go better with that shirt. "You dress very well."
"Thanks, so do you." He was remembering what Casey had said about his tie and how furious he had been with her tonight all the way across the ferry, all the time waiting for a cab, and the old woman who had trod on his foot shoving past to usurp his cab but he had foiled her and cursed her back.
It was only now that his rage-temperature had vanished. It was Orlanda's pleasure at seeing me that did it, he told himself. It's years since Casey lit up like a Christmas tree or said anything when I … the hdl with that. I'm not going to worry about Casey tonight. "The view's fantastic and you're as pretty as a picture!"
She laughed. "So're you and . . . oh your drink, sorry …" She whirled away for the kitchen, her skirt flying. "I don't know why but you make me feel like a schoolgirl," she called out. In a moment she came back. On the tray was an earthenware pot of pate and rounds of fresh toast and a bottle of iced beer. "I hope this's right."
It was Anweiser. "How did you know my brand?"
"You told me this morning, don't you remember?" Her warmth flooded over again at his obvious pleasure. "Also that you like drinking it out of the bottle."
He took it and grinned at her. "Is that going to be in the article too?"
"No. No, I've decided not to write about you."
He saw her sudden seriousness. "Why?"
She was pouring herself a glass of white wine. "I decided I could never do you justice in an article so I won't write one. Besides, I don't think you'd like that hanging over you." Her hand went to her heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die, no article, everything private. No article, no journalism, I swear by the Madonna," she added, meaning it.
"Hey, no need to be dramatic!"
She was leaning with her back against the railing, an eighty-foot drop to the concrete below. He saw the sincerity in her face and he believed her completely. He was relieved. The article had been the only flaw, the only danger point for him—that and her being a journalist. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, deliberately lightly. "Sealed with a kiss. Thanks."
"Yes."
They watched the view for a moment.
"Is the rain over for good?"
"I hope not, Line. We need a good series of storms to fill the reservoirs. Keeping clean's so hard and we still only get water one day in four." She smiled mischievously as a child would. "Last night during the torrent I stripped and bathed here. It was fantastic. The rain was even heavy enough to wash my hair."
The thought of her naked, here, in the night, touched him. "You'd better be careful," he said. "The railing's not that high. I wouldn't want you to slip."
"Strange, I'm frightened to death of the sea but heights don't bother me a bit. You certainly saved my life."
"C'mon! You would have made it without me."
"Perhaps, but you certainly saved my face. Without you there I would surely have disgraced myself. So thanks for my face."
"And that's more important than life out here, isn't it?"
"Sometimes, yes, yes it is. Why do you say that?"
"I was just thinking about Dunross and Quillan Gornt. Those two're having at each other, mostly over face."
"Yes. You're right, of course." She added thoughtfully, "They're both fine men, in one way, both devils in another."
"How do you mean?"
"They're both ruthless, both very very strong, very hard, adept and … and well conversed with life." As she talked she heaped one of the rounds of toast with pate and offered it to him, her nails long and perfect. "The Chinese have a saying: 'Chan ts'ao, chu ken'— when pulling weeds make sure you get rid of the roots. The roots of those two go deep in Asia, very deep, too deep. It would be hard to get rid of those roots." She sipped her wine and smiled a little smile. "And probably not a good idea, not for Hong Kong. Some more pate?"
"Please. It's wonderful. You make it?" "Yes. It's an old English recipe." "Why wouldn't it be good for Hong Kong?" "Oh, perhaps because they balance each other. If one destroys the other—oh I don't mean just Quillan or Dunross, I mean the hongs themselves, the companies, Struan's and Rothwell-Gornt. If one eats up the other, perhaps the remaining one would be too strong, there would certainly be no competition, then perhaps the tai-pan would become too greedy, perhaps he'd decide to dump Hong Kong." She smiled hesitantly. "Sorry … I'm talking too much. It's just an idea. Another beer?"
"Sure, in a moment, thanks, but that's an interesting thought." Yes, Bartlett was thinking, and one that hadn't occurred to me— or to Casey. Are those two necessary to each other? And Casey and I? Are we necessary to each other? He saw her watching him and he smiled back. "Orlanda, it's no secret I'm thinking about making a deal with one of them. If you were me, which one would you go with?" "Neither," she said at once and laughed. "Why?"
"You're not British, not one of the 'old boys,' not a hereditary member of any of the clubs, and however much your money and power here, it's the Old Boy network that will finally decide what is to be." She took his empty bottle and went and brought another. "You think I couldn't make a go of it?" "Oh I didn't mean that, Line. You asked about Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt, about going into business with one of them. If you do, they'll be the winners in the end." "They're that smart?"
"No. But they're Asian, they belong here. Here the saying is, 'T'ien hsia wu ya i pan hei'—aU crows under heaven are black— meaning that all the tai-pans are the same and they'll all stick together to destroy the outsider."
"So neither Ian nor Quillan would welcome a partner?" She hesitated. "I think I'm getting out of my depth, Line. I don't know about business things. It's just that I've never heard of an American who's come here and made it big."
"What about Biltzmann, Superfoods and their takeover of H.K. General Stores? "
"Biltzmann's a joke. Everyone hates him and hopes he'll fall on his face, even Pug . . . Pugmire. Quillan's sure he will. No, even Cooper and Tillman didn't make it. They were Yankee traders in the first days, Line, opium traders—they were even under Dirk Struan's protection. They're even related, the Struans and the Coopers. Hag Struan married her eldest daughter, Emma, to old Jeff Cooper; Old Hook Nose was his nickname when he was in his dotage. The story is that the marriage was payment for his helping her destroy Tyler Brock. Have you heard about them, Line? The Brocks, Sir Morgan and his father Tyler, and the Hag?"
"Peter Marlowe told us some of the stories."
"If you want to know about the real Hong Kong, you should talk to Auntie Bright Eyes—that's Sarah Chen, Phillip Chen's maiden aunt! She's a great character, Line, and sharp as a needle. She says she's eighty-eight. I think she's older. Her father was Sir Gordon Chen, Dirk Struan's illegitimate son by his mistress Kai-Sung, and her mother was the famous beauty Karen Yuan."
"Who's she?"
"Karen Yuan was Robb Struan's granddaughter. Robb was Dirk's half-brother and he had a mistress called Yau Ming Soo with whom he had a daughter Isobel. Isobel married John Yuan, an illegitimate son of Jeff Cooper. John Yuan became a well-known pirate and opium smuggler, and Isobel died quite notorious as an enormous gambler who had lost two of her husbands' fortunes playing mah-jong. So it was Isobel and John's daughter, Karen, who married Sir Gordon Chen—actually she was his second wife, more like a concubine really, though it was a perfectly legal marriage. Here, even today, if you're Chinese you can legally have as many wives as you like."
"That's convenient!"
"For a man!" Orlanda smiled. "So this tiny branch of the Yuans are Cooper descendents—the T'Chungs and Chens are from Dirk Struan, the Sungs, Tups and Tongs from Aristotle Quance the painter—here in Hong Kong it's the custom for the children to take the name of their mother, usually an insignificant girl who was sold to the pillow by her parents."
"By the parents?"
"Almost always," she told him casually. " 'T'ung t'ien yu ming'