CHAPTER FIVE
9:50 A.M.:
The tai-pan came over the rise and barreled down the Peak Road in his E-Type Jaguar, going east toward Magazine Gap. On the winding road there was but a single lane each side with few places to pass and precipitous on most corners. Today the surface was dry and, knowing the way so well, Ian Dunross rode the bends fast and sweetly, hugging the mountainside, his scarlet convertible tight to the inside curve. He did a racing shift down and braked hard as he swooped a bend and came up to an ancient, slow-moving truck. He waited patiently, then, at the perfect moment, swung out onto the wrong side and was past safely before the oncoming car had rounded the blind corner ahead.
Now Dunross was clear for a short stretch and could see that the snaking road ahead was empty. He jammed his foot down and slid some corners, usurping the whole of the road, taking the straightest line, using hand and eye and foot and brake and gearshift in unison, feeling the vast power of the engine and the wheels in all of him. Ahead, suddenly, was an oncoming truck from the far corner and his freedom vanished. He geared down and braked in split-second time, hugging his side, regretting the loss of freedom, then accelerated and was away again into more treacherous bends. Now another truck, this time ladened with passengers, and he waited a few yards behind, knowing there was no place to pass for a while. Then one of the passengers noticed his number plate, 1–1010, and she pointed and they all looked, chattering excitedly one to another, and one of them banged on the cabin of the truck. The driver obligingly squeezed off the road onto the tiny shoulder and flagged him on. Dunross made sure he was safe then passed, waving to them with a grin.
More corners, the speed and the waiting-to-pass and the passing and the danger pleasing him. Then he cut left into Magazine Gap Road, down the hill, the bends trickier, the traffic building up now and slower. He overtook a taxi and jumped three cars very fast and was back in line though still over the speed limit when he saw the traffic motorcycle policemen waiting ahead. He changed down and passed them going the regulation 30 mph. He waved good-naturedly. They waved back.
“You really must slow down, Ian,” his friend, Henry Foxwell, Senior Superintendent of Traffic, had said recently. “You really should.”
“I’ve never had an accident—yet. Or a ticket.”
“Good God, Ian, there’s not a traffic copper on the island who’d dare give you one! You, the tai-pan? Perish the thought. I meant for your own good. Keep that speed devil of yours bottled for Monaco, or your Macao Road Race.”
“Monaco’s professional. I don’t take chances, and I don’t drive that fast anyway.”
“67 mph over Wongniechong isn’t exactly slow, old chap. Admittedly it was 4:23 A.M. on an almost empty road. But it is a 30 mph zone.”
“There’re lots of E-Types in Hong Kong.”
“Yes, I agree. Seven. Scarlet convertibles with a special number plate? With a black canvas roof, racing wheels and tires, that goes like the clappers of hell? It was last Thursday, old chap. Radar and all that. You’d been to … to visit friends. In Sinclair Road I believe.”
Dunross had contained his sudden rage. “Oh?” he said, the surface of his face smiling. “Thursday? I seem to remember I had dinner with John Chen then. At his apartment in Sinclair Towers. But I thought I was home long before 4:23.”
“Oh I’m sure you were. I’m sure the constable got the number plate and color and everything all wrong.” Foxwell clapped him on the back in friendly style. “Even so, slow down a little will you? It’d be so boring if you killed yourself during my term. Wait till I’m transferred back to Special Branch—or the police college, eh? Yes, I’m sure he made a mistake.”
But there was no mistake, Dunross had said to himself. You know it, I know it, and John Chen would know it and so would Wei-wei.
So you fellows know about Wei-wei! That’s interesting.
“Are you fellows watching me?” he had asked bluntly.
“Good God no!” Foxwell had been shocked. “Special Intelligence was watching a villain who’s got a flat at Sinclair Towers. You happened to be seen. You’re very important here, you know that. I happened to pick it up through channels. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
“They say one word to the wise is sufficient, old chap.”
“Yes they do. So perhaps you’d better tell your Intelligence fellows to be more intelligent in future.”
“Fortunately they’re very discreet.”
“Even so I wouldn’t like my movements a matter of record.”
“I’m sure they’re not. Not a matter of record.”
“Good. What villain in Sinclair Towers?”
“One of our important capitalist dogs but suspected secret Commie fellows. Very boring but SI have to earn their daily bread, don’t they?”
“Do I know him?”
“I imagine you know everyone.”
“Shanghainese or Cantonese?”
“What makes you think he’s either?”
“Ah, then he’s European?”
“He’s just a villain, Ian. Sorry, it’s all very hush-hush at the moment.”
“Come on, we own that block. Who? I won’t tell anyone.”
“I know. Sorry old boy, but I can’t. However, I’ve another hypothetical idea for you. Say a hypothetical married VIP had a lady friend whose uncle happened to be the undercover deputy chief of the illegal Kuomintang Secret Police for Hong Kong. Say, hypothetically, the Kuomintang wanted this VIP on their side. Certainly he could be pressured by such a lady. Couldn’t he?”
“Yes,” Dunross had said easily. “If he was stupid.” He already knew about Wei-wei Jen’s uncle and had met him at a number of private parties several times in Taipei. And liked him. No problem there, he had thought, because she’s not my mistress or even a lady friend, however beautiful and desirable. And tempting.
He smiled to himself as he drove in the stream of traffic down Magazine Gap Road then waited in line to circle the roundabout and head down Garden Road toward Central, half a mile below, and to the sea.
Now he could see the soaring modern office block that was Struan’s. It was twenty-two stories high and fronted Connaught Road and the sea, almost opposite the Terminal of the Golden Ferries that plied between Hong Kong and Kowloon. As always, the sight pleased him.
He weaved in and out of heavy traffic where he could, crawled past the Hilton Hotel and the Cricket Ground on his left, then turned into Connaught Road, the sidewalks jammed with pedestrians. He stopped outside his front entrance.
This’s the big day, he thought. The Americans have arrived.
And, with joss, Bartlett’s the noose that’ll strangle Quillan Gornt once and for all time. Christ, if we can pull this off!
“Morning, sir.” The uniformed doorman saluted crisply.
“Morning, Tom.” Dunross eased himself out of the low-slung car and ran up the marble steps, two at a time, toward the huge glass entrance. Another doorman drove the car off to its underground parking and still another opened the glass door for him. He caught the reflection of the Rolls drawing up. Recognizing it, he glanced back. Casey got out and he whistled involuntarily. She carried a briefcase. Her sea-green silk suit was tailored and very conservative, but even so, it hid none of the trim of her figure or the dance to her stride and the sea green enhanced the tawny gold of her hair.
She looked around, feeling his eyes. Her recognition was immediate and she measured him as he measured her and though the instant was short it seemed long to both of them. Long and leisurely.
She moved first and walked toward him. He met her halfway.
“Hello, Mr. Dunross.”
“Hello. We’ve never met, have we?”
“No. But you’re easy to recognize from your photos. I didn’t expect to have the pleasure of meeting you till later. I’m Cas—”
“Yes,” he said and grinned. “I had a deranged call from John Chen last night. Welcome to Hong Kong, Miss Tcholok. It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I hope my being a woman won’t upset things too much.”
“Oh yes it will, very much. But we’ll try to accommodate the problem. Would you and Mr. Bartlett care to be my guests at the races on Saturday? Lunch and all that?”
“I think that would be lovely. But I have to check with Linc—may I confirm this afternoon?”
“Of course.” He looked down at her. She looked back. The doorman still held the door open.
“Well, come along, Miss Tcholok, and let battle commence.”
She glanced at him quickly. “Why should we battle? We’re here to do business.”
“Oh yes, of course. Sorry, it’s just a Sam Ackroyd saying. I’ll explain another time.” He ushered her in and headed for the bank of elevators. The many people already lined up and waiting immediately moved aside for them to get into the first elevator, to Casey’s embarrassment.
“Thanks,” Dunross said, not noticing anything out of the ordinary. He guided her in, pressed 20, the top button, noticing absently that she wore no perfume or jewelry, just a thin gold chain around her neck.
“Why’s the front door at an angle?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“The front entrance seems to be on a slight tilt—it’s not quite straight—I was wondering why.”
“You’re very observant. The answer is fung sui. When the building was put up four years ago, somehow or other we forgot to consult our house fung sui man. He’s like an astrologer, a man who specializes in heaven, earth, water currents and devils, that sort of thing, and makes sure you’re building on the Earth Dragon’s back and not on his head.”
“What?”
“Oh yes. You see every building in the whole of China’s on some part of the Earth Dragon. To be on his back’s perfect, but if you’re on his head it’s very bad, and terrible if you’re on his eyeball. Anyway, when we did get around to asking, our fung sui man said we were on the Dragon’s back—thank God, otherwise we’d’ve had to move—but that devils were getting in the door and this was what was causing all the trouble. He advised me to reposition the door, and so, under his direction we changed the angle and now the devils are all deflected.”
She laughed. “Now tell me the real reason.”
“Fung sui. We had very bad joss here—bad luck—rotten in fact until the door was changed.” His face hardened momentarily then the shadow passed. “The moment we changed the angle, everything became good again.”
“You’re telling me you really believe that? Devils and dragons?”
“I believe none of it. But you learn the hard way when you’re in China that it’s best to act a little Chinese. Never forget that though Hong Kong’s British it’s still China.”
“Did you learn th—”
The elevator stopped and opened on a paneled hallway and a desk and a neat, efficient Chinese receptionist. Her eyes priced Casey’s clothes and jewelry instantly.
Cow, Casey thought, reading her loud and clear, and smiled back as sweetly.
“Morning, tai-pan,” the receptionist said smoothly.
“Mary, this is Miss K. C. Tcholok. Please show her into Mr. Struan’s office.”
“Oh but—” Mary Li tried to cover her shock. “They’re, they’re waiting for a …” She picked up the phone but he stopped her. “Just show her in. Now. No need to announce her.” He turned back to Casey and smiled. “You’re launched. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Yes, thanks. See you.”
“Please follow me, Miss Tchuluck,” Mary Li said and started down the hall, her chong-sam tight and slit high on her thighs, long silk-stockinged legs and saucy walk. Casey watched her for a moment. It must be the cut that makes their walk so blatantly sexual, she thought, amused by such obviousness. She glanced at Dunross and raised an eyebrow.
He grinned. “See you later, Miss Tcholok.”
“Please call me Casey.”
“Perhaps I’d prefer Kamalian Ciranoush.”
She gaped at him. “How do you know my names? I doubt if even Linc remembers.”
“Ah, it pays to have friends in high places, doesn’t it?” he said with a smile. “À bientôt.”
“Oui, merci,” she replied automatically.
He strode for the elevator opposite and pressed the button. The doors opened instantly and closed after him.
Thoughtfully Casey walked after Mary Li who was waiting, ears still tuned for every nuance.
Inside the elevator Dunross took out a key and inserted it into the lock and twisted it. Now the elevator was activated. It serviced the top two floors only. He pressed the lower button. Only three other persons had similar keys: Claudia Chen, his executive-secretary; his personal secretary, Sandra Yi; and his Number One Houseboy, Lim Chu.
The twenty-first floor contained his private offices, and the Inner Court boardroom. The twenty-second, the penthouse, was the tai-pan’s personal suite. And he alone had the key to the last private elevator that connected the basement garage directly with the penthouse.
“Ian,” his predecessor tai-pan, Alastair Struan, had said when he handed over the keys after Phillip Chen had left them, “your privacy’s the most valuable thing you have. That too Dirk Struan laid down in his legacy and how wise he was! Never forget, the private lifts aren’t for luxury or ostentation, any more than the tai-pan’s suite is. They’re there just to give you the measure of secrecy you’ll need, perhaps even a place to hide yourself. You’ll understand better after you’ve read the legacy and been through the tai-pan’s safe. Guard that safe with all you’ve got. You can’t be too careful, there’s lots of secrets there—too many I think sometimes—and some are not so pretty.”
“I hope I won’t fail,” he had said politely, detesting his cousin, his excitement huge that at long last he had the prize he had worked so hard to achieve and gambled so much for.
“You won’t. Not you,” the old man had said tautly. “You’ve been tested, and you’ve wanted the job ever since you could think. Eh?”
“Yes,” Dunross had said. “I’ve tried to train for it. Yes. I’m only surprised you’ve given it to me.”
“You’re being given the ultimate in Struan’s not because of your birthright—that only made you eligible for the Inner Court—but because I think you’re the best we’ve got to follow me, and you’ve been conniving and pushing and shoving for years. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Struan’s needs changing. Let’s have more truth: The Noble House is in a mess. It’s not all your fault, there was the war, then Korea, then Suez—you’ve had bad joss for several years. It’ll take years to make us safe. If Quillan Gornt—or any one of twenty enemies—knew half the truth, knew how far we’re overextended, we’d be drowned in our own useless paper within the week.”
“Our paper’s good—it’s not useless! You’re exaggerating—as usual!”
“It’s worth twenty cents on the dollar because we’ve insufficient capital, not enough cash flow and we’re absolutely in mortal danger.”
“Rubbish!”
“Is it?” Dunross’s voice had sharpened for the first time. “Rothwell-Gornt could swallow us in a month if they knew the value of our present accounts receivable, against our pressing liabilities.”
The old man had just stared at him without answering. Then he said, “It’s a temporary condition. Seasonable and temporary.”
“Rubbish! You know very well you’re giving me the job because I’m the only man who can clean up the mess you leave, you, my father, and your brother.”
“Aye, I’m gambling you can. That’s true enough,” Alastair had flared at him. “Aye. You’ve surely got the right amount of Devil Struan in your blood to serve that master if you’ve a mind.”
“Thank you. I admit I’ll let nothing stand in my way. And since this is a night for truth, I can tell you why you’ve always hated me, why my own father has also hated me.”
“Can you now?”
“Yes. It’s because I survived the war and your son didn’t and your nephew, Linbar, the last of your branch of the Struan’s, is a nice lad but useless. Yes, I survived but my poor brothers didn’t, and that’s still sending my father around the bend. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Alastair Struan had said. “Aye, I’m afraid it is.”
“I’m not afraid it is. I’m not afraid of anything. Granny Dunross saw to that.”
“Heya, tai-pan,” Claudia Chen said brightly as the elevator door opened. She was a jolly, gray-haired Eurasian woman in her midsixties, and she sat behind a huge desk that dominated the twenty-first-floor foyer. She had served the Noble House for forty-two years and succeeding tai-pans, exclusively, for twenty-five of them. “Neh hoh mah?” How’re you?
“Ho ho,” he replied absently. Good. Then in English, “Did Bartlett call?”
“No.” She frowned. “He’s not expected until lunch. Do you want me to try to reach him?”
“No, never mind. What about my call to Foster in Sydney?”
“That’s not through either. Or your call to Mr. MacStruan in Edinburgh. Something’s troubling you?” she asked, having instantly sensed his mood.
“What? Oh, no, nothing.” He threw off his tension and walked past her desk into his office that overlooked the harbor and sat in an easy chair beside the phone. She closed the door and sat down nearby, her notepad ready.
“I was just remembering my D Day,” he said. “The day I took over.”
“Oh. Joss, tai-pan.”
“Yes.”
“Joss,” she repeated, “and a long time ago.”
He laughed. “Long time? It’s forty lifetimes. It’s barely three years but the whole world’s changed and it’s going so fast. What’s the next couple of years going to be like?”
“More of the same, tai-pan. I hear you met Miss Casey Tcholok at our front door.”
“Eh, who told you that?” he asked sharply.
“Great good God, tai-pan, I can’t reveal my sources. But I heard you stared at her and she stared at you. Heya?”
“Nonsense! Who told you about her?”
“Last night I called the hotel to see that everything was all right. The manager told me. Do you know that silly man was going to be ‘overbooked’? Huh, if they share a suite or a bed or don’t, never mind I told him. This is 1963 and the modern age with lots of liberations, and anyway it’s a fine suite with two entrances and separate rooms and most important they’re our guests.” She chortled. “I pulled a little rank … . Ayeeyah, power is a pretty toy.”
“Did you tell young Linbar or the others, about K. C. being female?”
“No. No one. I knew you knew. Barbara Chen told me Master John had already phoned you about Casey Tcholok. What’s she like?”
“Beddable would be one word,” he said and grinned.
“Yes—but what else?”
Dunross thought a moment. “She’s very attractive, very well dressed—though subdued today, for our benefit I imagine. Very confident and very observant—she noticed the front door was out of whack and asked about it.” He picked up an ivory paper knife and toyed with it. “John didn’t like her at all. He said he’d bet she was one of those pathetic American women who’re like California fruit: great to look at, with plenty of body, but no taste whatsoever!”
“Poor Master John, much as he likes America, he does prefer certain, er, aspects of Asia!”
Dunross laughed. “How clever a negotiator she is we’ll soon find out.” He smiled. “I sent her in unannounced.”
“I’ll wager 50 HK at least one of them knew in advance she was a she.”
“Phillip Chen of course—but that old fox wouldn’t tell the others. A hundred says neither Linbar, Jacques or Andrew Gavallan knew.”
“Done,” Claudia said happily. “You can pay me now, tai-pan. I checked very discreetly, this morning.”
“Take it out of petty cash,” he told her sourly.
“So sorry.” She held out her hand. “A bet is a bet, tai-pan.”
Reluctantly he gave her the red one-hundred-dollar note.
“Thank you. Now, a hundred says Casey Tcholok will walk all over Master Linbar, Master Jacques and Andrew Gavallan.”
“What do you know?” he asked her suspiciously. “Eh?”
“A hundred?”
“All right.”
“Excellent!” she said briskly, changing the subject. “What about the dinners for Mr. Bartlett? The golf match and the trip to Taipei? Of course, you can’t take a woman along on those. Shall I cancel them?”
“No. I’ll talk to Bartlett—he’ll understand. I did invite her to Saturday’s races though, with him.”
“Oh, that’s two too many. I’ll cancel the Pangs, they won’t mind. Do you want to sit them together at your table?”
Dunross frowned. “She should be at my table, guest of honor, and sit him next to Penelope, guest of honor.”
“Very well. I’ll call Mrs. Dunross and tell her. Oh and Barbara—Master John’s wife—wants to talk with you.” Claudia sighed and smoothed a crease in her neat dark blue chong-sam. “Master John didn’t come back last night—not that that’s anything out of the ordinary. But it’s 10:10 now and I can’t find him either. It seems he wasn’t at Morning Prayers.”
“Yes, I know. Since he dealt with Bartlett last night I told him to skip them.” Morning Prayers was the jocular way that insiders in Struan’s referred to the daily obligatory 8:00 A.M. meeting with the tai-pan of all managing directors of all Struan’s subsidiaries. “No need for him to come today, there’s nothing for him to do until lunch.” Dunross pointed out of the window at the harbor. “He’s probably on his boat. It’s a great day for a sail.”
“Her temperature’s very high, tai-pan, even for her.”
“Her temperature’s always high, poor bugger! John’s on his boat—or at Mingli’s flat. Did you try her flat?”
She sniffed. “Your father used to say a closed mouth catches no wee beasties. Even so, I suppose I can tell you now, Mingli’s been Number Two Girl Friend for almost two months. The new favorite calls herself Fragrant Flower, and she occupies one of his ‘private flats’ off Aberdeen Main Road.”
“Ah, conveniently near his mooring!”
“Oh very yes. She’s a flower all right, a Fallen Flower from the Good Luck Dragon Dance Hall in Wanchai. But she doesn’t know where Master John is either. He didn’t visit either of them though he had a date with Miss Fallen Flower, so she says, at midnight.”
“How did you find out all this?” he asked, filled with admiration.
“Power, tai-pan—and a network of relations built up over five generations. How else do we survive, heya?” She chuckled. “Of course if you want a little real scandal, John Chen doesn’t know she wasn’t the virgin she and the broker claimed she was when he first pillowed her.”
“Eh?”
“No. He paid the broker …” One of the phones rang and she picked it up and said “Please hold one moment,” clicked on the hold button and continued happily in the same breath, “… 500 cash, U.S. dollars, but all her tears and all the, er, evidence, was a pretend. Poor fellow, but it serves him right, eh, tai-pan? What should a man like him at his age want virginity to nourish the yang for—he’s only forty-two, heya?” She pressed the on connection. “Tai-pan’s office, good morning,” she said attentively.
He watched her. He was amused and bemused, astounded as always at her sources of information, pithy and otherwise, and her delight in knowing secrets. And passing them on. But only to clan members and special insiders.
“Just one moment please.” She clicked the hold button. “Super intendent Armstrong would like to see you. He’s downstairs with Superintendent Kwok. He’s sorry to come without an appointment but could you spare them a moment?”
“Ah, the guns. Our police’re getting more efficient every day,” he said with a grim smile. “I didn’t expect them till after lunch.”
At seven this morning he had had a detailed report from Phillip Chen who had been called by one of the police sergeants who made the raid and was a relation of the Chens.
“You’d better put all our private sources on finding out the who and the why, Phillip,” he had said, very concerned.
“I already have. It’s too much of a coincidence that guns should be on Bartlett’s plane.”
“It could be highly embarrassing if we’re found to be connected with it in any way.”
“Yes.”
He saw Claudia waiting patiently. “Ask Armstrong to give me ten minutes. Bring them up then.”
She dealt with that, then said, “If Superintendent Kwok’s been brought in so soon, it must be more serious than we thought, heya, tai-pan?”
“Special Branch or Special Intelligence has to be involved at once. I’ll bet the FBI and CIA have already been contacted. Brian Kwok’s logical because he’s an old mate of Armstrong’s—and one of the best they’ve got.”
“Yes,” Claudia agreed proudly. “Eeeee what a lovely husband he’d make for someone.”
“Provided she’s a Chen—all that extra power, heya?” It was common knowledge that Brian Kwok was being groomed to be the first Chinese assistant commissioner.
“Of course such power has to be kept in the family.” The phone rang. She answered it. “Yes, I’ll tell him, thank you.” She replaced the phone huffily. “The governor’s equerry—he called to remind you about cocktails at 6:00 P.M.—huh, as if I’d forget!”
Dunross picked up one of the phones and dialed.
“Weyyyy?” came the coarse voice of the amah, the Chinese servant. Hello?
“Chen tai-tai,” he said into the phone, his Cantonese perfect. “Mrs. Chen please, this is Mr. Dunross.”
He waited. “Ah, Barbara, good morning.”
“Oh hello, Ian. Have you heard from John yet? Sorry to bother you,” she said.
“No bother. No, not yet. But the moment I do I’ll get him to call you. He might have gone down to the track early to watch Golden Lady work out. Have you tried the Turf Club?”
“Yes, but they don’t remember him breakfasting there, and the workout’s between 5:00 and 6:00. Damn him! He’s so inconsiderate. Ayeeyah, men!”
“He’s probably out on his boat. He’s got nothing here until lunch and it’s a great day for a sail. You know how he is—have you checked the mooring?”
“I can’t, Ian, not without going there, there’s no phone. I have a hairdressing appointment which I simply can’t break—all Hong Kong will be at your party tonight—I simply can’t go rushing off to Aberdeen.”
“Send one of your chauffeurs,” Dunross said dryly.
“Tang’s off today and I need Wu-chat to drive me around, Ian. I simply can’t send him over to Aberdeen—that could take an hour and I’ve a mah-jong game from two till four.”
“I’ll get John to call you. It’ll be around lunch.”
“I won’t be back till five at the earliest. When I catch up with him he’s going to get what for never mind. Oh well, thanks, sorry to bother you. ’Bye.”
“’Bye.” Dunross put the phone down and sighed. “I feel like a bloody nursemaid.”
“Talk to John’s father, tai-pan,” Claudia Chen said.
“I have. Once. And that’s enough. It’s not all John’s fault. That lady’s enough to drive anyone bonkers.” He grinned. “But I agree her temperature’s gone to the moon—this time it’s going to cost John an emerald ring or at least a mink coat.”
The phone rang again. Claudia picked it up. “Hello, the tai-pan’s office! Yes? Oh!” Her happiness vanished and she hardened. “Just a moment, please.” She punched the hold button. “It’s a person to person from Hiro Toda in Yokohama.”
Dunross knew how she felt about him, knew she hated the Japanese and loathed the Noble House’s connection with them. He could never forgive the Japanese either for what they had done to Asia during the war. To those they had conquered. To the defenseless. Men, women and children. The prison camps and unnecessary deaths. Soldier to soldier he had no quarrel with them. None. War was war.
His own war had been against the Germans. But Claudia’s war had been here in Hong Kong. During the Japanese Occupation, because she was Eurasian, she had not been put into Stanley Prison with all European civilians. She and her sister and brother had tried to help the POWs with food and drugs and money, smuggling it into the camp. The Kampeitai, the Japanese military police, had caught her. Now she could have no children.
“Shall I say you’re out?” she asked.
“No.” Two years before Dunross had committed an enormous amount of capital to Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama for two giant bulk ships to build up the Struan fleet that had been decimated in the war. He had chosen this Japanese shipyard because their product was the finest, their terms the best, they guaranteed delivery and all the things the British shipyards would not, and because he knew it was time to forget. “Hello, Hiro,” he said, liking the man personally. “Nice to hear from you. How’s Japan?”
“Please excuse me for interrupting you, tai-pan. Japan’s fine though hot and humid. No change.”
“How’re my ships coming along?”
“Perfectly, tai-pan. Everything is as we arranged. I just wanted to advise you that I will be coming to Hong Kong on Saturday morning for a business trip. I will be staying for the weekend, then on to Singapore and Sydney, back in time for our closing in Hong Kong. You’ll still be coming to Yokohama for both launchings?”
“Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. What time do you arrive Saturday?”
“At 11:10, Japan Air Lines.”
“I’ll send a car to meet you. What about coming directly to Happy Valley to the races? You could join us for lunch, then my car will take you to the hotel. You’re staying at the Victoria and Albert?”
“This time at the Hilton, Hong Kong side. Tai-pan, please excuse me, I do not wish to put you to any trouble, so sorry.”
“It’s nothing. I’ll have one of my people meet you. Probably Andrew Gavallan.”
“Ah, very good. Then thank you, tai-pan. I look forward to seeing you, so sorry to inconvenience you.”
Dunross put the phone down. I wonder why he called, the real reason? he asked himself. Hiro Toda, managing director of the most go-ahead shipbuilding complex in Japan, never does anything suddenly or unpremeditated.
Dunross thought about the closing of their ship deal and the three payments of 2 million each that were due imminently on September 1, 11 and 15, the balance in ninety days. $12 million U.S. in all that he didn’t have at the moment. Or the charterer’s signed contract that was necessary to support the bank loan that he did not have, yet. “Never mind,” he said easily, “everything’s going to be fine.”
“For them, yes,” Claudia said. “You know I don’t trust them, tai-pan. Any of them.”
“You can’t fault them, Claudia. They’re only trying to do economically what they failed to do militarily.”
“By pricing everyone out of the world markets.”
“They’re working hard, they’re making profits and they’ll bury us, if we let them.” His eyes hardened too. “But after all, Claudia, scratch an Englishman—or a Scot—and find a pirate. If we’re such bloody fools to allow it we deserve to go under—isn’t that what Hong Kong’s all about?”
“Why help the enemy?”
“They were the enemy,” he said kindly. “But that was only for twenty-odd years and our connections there go back a hundred. Weren’t we the first traders into Japan? Didn’t Hag Struan buy us the first plot offered for sale in Yokohama in 1860? Didn’t she order that it be a cornerstone of Struan’s policy to have the China-Japan-Hong Kong triangle?”
“Yes, tai-pan, but don’t you thi—”
“No, Claudia, we’ve dealt with the Todas, the Kasigis, the Toranagas for a hundred years, and right now Toda Shipping’s very important to us.”
The phone rang again. She answered it. “Yes, I’ll phone him back.” Then to Dunross, “It’s the caterers—about your party tonight.”
“What’s the problem?”
“None, tai-pan—they’re moaning. After all, it’s the tai-pan’s twentieth wedding anniversary. All Hong Kong will be there and all Hong Kong better be impressed.” Again the phone rang. She picked it up. “Ahh good! Put him through.… It’s Bill Foster from Sydney.”
Dunross took the phone. “Bill … no, you were top of the list. Have you closed on the Woolara Properties deal yet? … What’s the holdup? … I don’t care about that.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just past noon your time. Call them right now and offer them fifty cents Australian more a share, the offer good till the close of business today. Get on to the bank in Sydney at once and tell them to demand full repayment of all their loans at the close of business today.… I couldn’t care less; they’re thirty days overdue already. I want control of that company now. Without it our new bulk-carrier charter deal will fall apart and we’ll have to begin all over again. And catch the Qantas Flight 543 on Thursday. I’d like you here for a conference.” He put the phone down. “Get Linbar up here as soon as the Tcholok meeting’s over. Book him on Qantas 716 for Sydney on Friday morning.”
“Yes, tai-pan.” She made a note and handed him a list. “Here’re your appointments for today.”
He glanced at it. Four board meetings of some subsidiary companies this morning: Golden Ferry at 10:30, Struan’s Motor Imports of Hong Kong at 11:00, Chong-Li Foods at 11:15 and Kowloon Investments at 11:30. Lunch with Lincoln Bartlett and Miss Casey Tcholok 12:40 to 2:00 P.M. More board meetings this afternoon, Peter Marlowe at 4:00 P.M., Phillip Chen at 4:20, cocktails at 6:00 with the governor, his anniversary party beginning at 8:00, a reminder to call Alastair Struan in Scotland at 11:00, and at least fifteen other people to phone throughout Asia during the day.
“Marlowe?” he asked.
“He’s a writer, staying at the Vic—remember, he wrote for an appointment a week ago. He’s researching a book on Hong Kong.”
“Oh yes—the ex-RAF type.”
“Yes. Would you like him put off?”
“No. Keep everything as arranged, Claudia.” He took out a thin black leather memo-card case from his back pocket and gave her a dozen cards covered with his shorthand. “Here’re some cables and telexes to send off at once and notes for the various board meetings. Get me Jen in Taipei, then Havergill at the bank, then run down the list.”
“Yes, tai-pan. I hear Havergill’s going to retire.”
“Marvelous. Who’s taking over?”
“No one knows yet.”
“Let’s hope it’s Johnjohn. Put your spies to work. A hundred says I find out before you do!”
“Done!”
“Good.” Dunross held out his hand and said sweetly, “You can pay me now. It’s Johnjohn.”
“Eh?” She stared at him.
“We decided it last night—all the directors. I asked them to tell no one until eleven today.”
Reluctantly she took out the hundred-dollar note and offered it.
“Ayeeyah, I was particularly attached to this note.”
“Thank you,” Dunross said and pocketed it. “I’m particularly attached to that one myself.”
There was a knock on the door. “Yes?” he said.
The door was opened by Sandra Yi, his private secretary. “Excuse me, tai-pan, but the market’s up two points and Holdbrook’s on line two.” Alan Holdbrook was head of their in-house stockbroking company.
Dunross punched the line two button. “Claudia, soon as I’m through bring in Armstrong.” She left with Sandra Yi.
“Yes, Alan?”
“Morning, tai-pan. First: There’s a heavy rumor that we’re going to make a bid for control of Asian Properties.”
“That’s probably put out by Jason Plumm to boost his shares before their annual meeting. You know what a canny bastard he is.”
“Our stock’s gone up ten cents, perhaps on the strength of it.”
“Good. Buy me 20,000 at once.”
“On margin?”
“Of course on margin.”
“All right. Second rumor: We’ve closed a multimillion-dollar deal with Par-Con Industries—huge expansion.”
“Pipe dreams,” Dunross said easily, wondering furiously where the leaks were. Only Phillip Chen—and in Edinburgh, Alastair Struan and old Sean MacStruan—was supposed to know about the ploy to smash Asian Properties. And the Par-Con deal was top secret to the Inner Court only.
“Third: someone’s buying large parcels of our stock.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But there’s something smelly going on, tai-pan. The way our stock’s been creeping up the last month … There’s no reason that I know of, except a buyer, or buyers. Same with Rothwell-Gornt. I heard a block of 200,000 was bought offshore.”
“Find out who.”
“Christ, I wish I knew how. The market’s jittery, and very nervous. A lot of Chinese money’s floating around. Lots of little deals going on … a few shares here, a few there, but multiplied by a hundred thousand or so … the market might start to fall apart … or to soar.”
“Good. Then we’ll all make a killing. Give me a call before the market closes. Thanks, Alan.” He put the phone down, feeling the sweat on his back. “Shit,” he said aloud. “What the hell’s going on?”
In the outer office Claudia Chen was going over some papers with Sandra Yi who was her niece on her mother’s side—and smart, very good to look at, twenty-seven with a mind like an abacus. Then she glanced at her watch and said in Cantonese, “Superintendent Brian Kwok’s downstairs, Little Sister, why don’t you fetch him up—in six minutes.”
“Ayeeyah, yes, Elder Sister!” Sandra Yi hastily checked her makeup and swished away. Claudia smiled after her and thought Sandra Yi would be perfect—a perfect choice for Brian Kwok. Happily she sat behind her desk and began to type the telexes. Everything’s done that should be done, she told herself. No, something the tai-pan said … what was it? Ah yes! She dialed her home number.
“Weyyyyy?” said her amah, Ah Sam.
“Listen, Ah Sam,” she said in Cantonese, “isn’t Third Toiletmaid Fung at the Vic your cousin three times removed?”
“Oh yes, Mother,” Ah Sam replied, using the Chinese politeness of servant to mistress. “But she’s four times removed, and from the Fung-tats, not the Fung-sams which is my branch.”
“Never mind that, Ah Sam. You call her and find out all you can about two foreign devils from the Golden Mountain. They’re in Fragrant Spring suite.” Patiently she spelled their names, then added delicately, “I hear they have peculiar pillow habits.”
“Ayeeyah, if anyone can find out, Third Toiletmaid Fung can. Ha! What peculiars?”
“Strange peculiars, Ah Sam. You get on with it, little oily mouth.” She beamed and hung up.
The elevator doors opened and Sandra Yi ushered the two police officers in, then left reluctantly. Brian Kwok watched her go. He was thirty-nine, tall for a Chinese, just over six feet, very handsome, with blue-black hair. Both men wore civilian clothes. Claudia chatted with them politely, but the moment she saw the light on line two go out she ushered them in and closed the door.
“Sorry to come without an appointment,” Armstrong said.
“No sweat, Robert. You look tired.”
“A heavy night. It’s all the villainy that goes on in Hong Kong,” Armstrong said easily. “Nasties abound and saints get crucified.”
Dunross smiled, then glanced across at Kwok. “How’s life treating you, Brian?”
Brian Kwok smiled back. “Very good, thanks, Ian. Stock market’s up—I’ve a few dollars in the bank, my Porsche hasn’t fallen apart yet, and ladies will be ladies.”
“Thank God for that! Are you doing the hill climb on Sunday?”
“If I can get Lulu in shape. She’s missing an offside hydraulic coupling.”
“Have you tried our shop?”
“Yes. No joy, tai-pan. Are you going?”
“Depends. I’ve got to go to Taipei Sunday afternoon—I will if I’ve got time. I entered anyway. How’s SI?”
Brian Kwok grinned. “It beats working for a living.” Special Intelligence was a completely independent department within the elite, semisecret Special Branch responsible for preventing and detecting subversive activities in the Colony. It had its own secret ways, secret funding and overriding powers. And it was responsible to the governor alone.
Dunross leaned back in the chair. “What’s up?”
Armstrong said, “I’m sure you already know. It’s about the guns on Bartlett’s plane.”
“Oh yes, I heard this morning,” he said. “How can I help? Have you any idea why and where they were destined? And by whom? You caught two men?”
Armstrong sighed. “Yes. They were genuine mechanics all right—both ex-Nationalist Air Force trained. No previous record, though they’re suspected of being members of secret triads. Both have been here since the exodus of ’49. By the way, can we keep this all confidential, between the three of us?”
“What about your superiors?”
“I’d like to include them in—but keep it just for your ears only.”
“Why?”
“We have reason to believe the guns were destined for someone in Struan’s.”
“Who?” Dunross asked sharply.
“Confidential?”
“Yes. Who?”
“How much do you know about Lincoln Bartlett and Casey Tcholok?”
“We’ve a detailed dossier on him—not on her. Would you like it? I can give you a copy, providing it too is kept confidential.”
“Of course. That would be very helpful.”
Dunross pressed the intercom.
“Yes sir?” Claudia asked.
“Make a copy of the Bartlett dossier and give it to Superintendent Armstrong on his way out.” Dunross clicked the intercom off.
“We won’t take much more of your time,” Armstrong said. “Do you always dossier potential clients?”
“No. But we like to know who we’re dealing with. If the Bartlett deal goes through it could mean millions to us, to him, a thousand new jobs to Hong Kong—factories here, warehouses, a very big expansion—along with equally big risks to us. Everyone in business does a confidential financial statement—perhaps we’re a bit more thorough. I’ll bet you fifty dollars to a broken hatpin he’s done one on me.”
“No criminal connections mentioned?”
Dunross was startled. “Mafia? That sort of thing? Good God no, nothing. Besides, if the Mafia were trying to come in here they wouldn’t send a mere ten M14 rifles and two thousand rounds and a box of grenades.”
“Your information’s damn good,” Brian Kwok interrupted. “Too damn good. We only unpacked the stuff an hour ago. Who’s your informant?”
“You know there’re no secrets in Hong Kong.”
“Can’t even trust your own coppers these days.”
“The Mafia would surely send in a shipment twenty times that and they’d be handguns, American style. But the Mafia would be bound to fail here, whatever they did. They could never displace our triads. No, it can’t be Mafia—only someone local. Who tipped you about the shipment, Brian?”
“Tokyo Airport Police,” Kwok said. “One of their mechanics was doing a routine inspection—you know how thorough they are. He reported it to his superior, their police phoned us and we said to let it through.”
“In that case get hold of the FBI and the CIA—get them to check back to Honolulu—or Los Angeles.”
“You went through the flight plan too?”
“Of course. That’s obvious. Why someone in Struan’s?”
“Both of the villains said …” Armstrong took out his pad and referred to it. “Our question was, ‘Where were you to take the packages?’ Both answered using different words: ‘To 15 go-down, we were to put the packages in Bay 7 at the back.’” He looked up at Dunross.
“That proves nothing. We’ve the biggest warehouse operation at Kai Tak—just because they take it to one of our go-downs proves nothing—other than they’re smart. We’ve got so much merchandise going through, it’d be easy to send in an alien truck.” Dunross thought a moment. “15’s right at the exit—perfect placing.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll put my security folk on it right n—”
“Would you not, please, just for the moment.”
“Why?”
“Our next question,” Armstrong continued, “was, ‘Who employed you?’ Of course they gave fictitious names and descriptions and denied everything but they’ll be more helpful soon.” He smiled grimly. “One of them did say, however, when one of my sergeants was twisting his ear a little, figuratively speaking of course”—he read from the pad—“‘You leave me alone, I’ve got very important friends!’ ‘You’ve no friends in the world,’ the sergeant said. ‘Maybe, but the Honorable Tsu-yan has and Noble House Chen has.’”
The silence became long and heavy. They waited.
Those God-cursed guns, Dunross thought furiously. But he held his face calm and his wits sharpened. “We’ve a hundred and more Chens working for us, related, unrelated—Chen’s as common a name as Smith.”
“And Tsu-yan?” Brian Kwok asked.
Dunross shrugged. “He’s a director of Struan’s—but he’s also a director of Blacs, the Victoria Bank and forty other companies, one of the richest men in Hong Kong and a name anyone in Asia could pull out of a hat. Like Noble House Chen.”
“Do you know he’s suspected of being very high up in the triad hierarchy—specifically in the Green Pang?” Brian Kwok asked.
“Every important Shanghainese’s equally suspect. Jesus Christ, Brian, you know Chiang Kai-shek was supposed to have given Shanghai to the Green Pang years ago as their exclusive bailiwick if they’d support his northern campaign against the warlords. Isn’t the Green Pang still, more or less, an official Nationalist secret society?”
Brian Kwok said, “Where’d Tsu-yan make his money, Ian? His first fortune?”
“I don’t know. You tell me, Brian.”
“He made it during the Korean War smuggling penicillin, drugs and petrol—mostly penicillin—across the border to the Communists. Before Korea all he owned was a loincloth and a broken-down rickshaw.”
“That’s all hearsay, Brian.”
“Struan’s made a fortune too.”
“Yes. But it would really be very unwise to imply we did it smuggling—publicly or privately,” Dunross said mildly. “Very unwise indeed.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Struan’s began with a little smuggling 120-odd years ago, so rumor has it, but it was an honorable profession and never against British law. We’re law-abiding capitalists and China Traders and have been for years.”
Brian Kwok did not smile. “More hearsay’s that a lot of his penicillin was bad. Very bad.”
“If it was, if that’s the truth, then please go get him, Brian,” Dunross said coldly. “Personally I think that’s another rumor spread by jealous competitors. If it was true he’d be floating in the bay with the others who tried, or he’d be punished like Bad Powder Wong.” He was referring to a Hong Kong smuggler who had sold a vast quantity of adulterated penicillin over the border during the Korean War and invested his fortune in stocks and land in Hong Kong. Within seven years he was very very rich. Then certain triads of Hong Kong were ordered to balance the books. Every week one member of his family vanished, or died. By drowning, car accident, strangulation, poison or knife. No assailant was ever caught. The killing went on for seventeen months and three weeks and then stopped. Only he and one semi-imbecile infant grandson remained alive. They live today, still holed up in the same vast, once luxurious penthouse apartment with one servant and one cook, in terror, guarded night and day, never going out—knowing that no guards or any amount of money could ever prevent the inexorability of his sentence published in a tiny box in a local Chinese newspaper: Bad Powder Wong will be punished, he and all his generations.
Brian Kwok said, “We interviewed that sod once, Robert and I.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Scary. Every door’s double locked and chained, every window nailed up and boarded over with planks—just spy holes here and there. He hasn’t been out since the killing started. The place stank, my God did it stink! All he does is play Chinese checkers with his grandson and watch television.”
“And wait,” Armstrong said. “One day they’ll come for both of them. His grandson must be six or seven now.”
Dunross said, “I think you prove my point. Tsu-yan’s not like him and never was. And what possible use could Tsu-yan have for a few M14’s? If he wanted to, I imagine he could muster half the Nationalist army along with a battalion of tanks.”
“In Taiwan but not in Hong Kong.”
“Has Tsu-yan ever been involved with Bartlett?” Armstrong asked. “In your negotiations?”
“Yes. He was in New York once and in Los Angeles on our behalf. Both times with John Chen. They initialed the agreement between Struan’s and Par-Con Industries which is to be finalized—or abandoned—here this month, and they formally invited Bartlett to Hong Kong on my behalf.”
Armstrong glanced at his Chinese partner. Then he said, “When was this?”
“Four months ago. It’s taken that time for both sides to prepare all the details.”
“John Chen, eh?” Armstrong said. “He certainly could be Noble House Chen.”
“You know John’s not the type,” Dunross said. “There’s no reason why he should be mixed up in such a ploy. It must be just coincidence.”
“There’s another curious coincidence,” Brian Kwok said. “Tsu-yan and John Chen both know an American called Banastasio, at least both have been seen in his company. Does that name mean anything?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“A big-time gambler and suspected racketeer. He’s also supposed to be closely connected with one of the Cosa Nostra families. Vincenzo Banastasio.”
Dunross’s eyes narrowed. “You said, ‘seen in his company.’ Who did the seeing?”
“The FBI.”
The silence thickened a little.
Armstrong reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
Dunross pushed across the silver cigarette box. “Here.”
“Oh, thanks. No, I won’t—I wasn’t thinking. I’ve stopped for the last couple of weeks. It’s a killer.” Then he added, trying to curb the desire, “The FBI passed the info on to us because Tsu-yan and Mr. John Chen are so prominent here. They asked us to keep an eye on them.”
Then Dunross suddenly remembered Foxwell’s remark about a prominent capitalist who was a secret Communist that they were watching in Sinclair Towers. Christ, he thought, Tsu-yan’s got a flat there, and so has John Chen. Surely it’s impossible either’d be mixed up with Communists.
“Of course heroin’s big business,” Armstrong was saying, his voice very hard.
“What does that mean, Robert?”
“The drug racket requires huge amounts of money to finance it. That kind of money can only come from banks or bankers, covertly of course. Tsu-yan’s on the board of a number of banks—so’s Mr. Chen.”
“Robert, you’d better go very slow on that sort of remark,” Dunross grated. “You are drawing very dangerous conclusions without any proof whatsoever. That’s actionable I’d imagine and I won’t have it.”
“You’re right, sorry. I withdraw the coincidence. Even so, the drug trade’s big business, and it’s here in Hong Kong in abundance, mostly for ultimate U.S. consumption. Somehow I’m going to find out who our nasties are.”
“That’s commendable. And you’ll have all the help you want from Struan’s and me. I hate the traffic too.”
“Oh I don’t hate it, tai-pan, or the traffickers. It’s a fact of life. It’s just another business—illegal certainly but still a business. I’ve been given the job of finding out who the tai-pans are. It’s a matter of personal satisfaction, that’s all.”
“If you want help, just ask.”
“Thank you.” Armstrong got up wearily. “Before we go there’re a couple more coincidences for you. When Tsu-yan and Noble House Chen were named this morning we thought we’d like to chat with them right away, but shortly after we ambushed the guns Tsu-yan caught the early flight to Taipei. Curious, eh?”
“He’s back and forth all the time,” Dunross said, his disquiet soaring. Tsu-yan was expected at his party this evening. It would be extraordinary if he did not appear.
Armstrong nodded. “It seems it was a last-minute decision—no reservation, no ticket, no luggage, just a few extra dollars under the counter and someone was bounced off and him on. He was carrying only a briefcase. Strange, eh?”
Brian Kwok said, “We haven’t a hope in hell of extraditing him from Taiwan.”
Dunross studied him then looked back at Armstrong, his eyes steady and the color of sea ice. “You said there were a couple of coincidences. What’s the other?”
“We can’t find John Chen.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He’s not at home, or at his lady friend’s, or at any of his usual haunts. We’ve been watching him and Tsu-yan off and on for months, ever since the FBI tipped us.”
The silence gathered. “You’ve checked his boat?” Dunross asked, sure that they had.
“She’s at her moorings, hasn’t been out since yesterday. His boat-boy hasn’t seen him either.”
“Golf course?”
“No, he’s not there,” Armstrong said. “Nor at the racetrack. He wasn’t at the workout, though he was expected, his trainer said. He’s gone, vanished, scarpered.”