CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
3:00 P.M.:
The closing bell of the Stock Exchange rang but the sound was drowned in the fetid pandemonium of massed brokers desperately trying to complete their final transactions.
For Struan’s, the day had been disastrous. Huge amounts of stock had been shoved onto the market to be bought tentatively, then hurled back again as rumors fed on more rumors and more stock was offered. The share price plummeted from 24.70 to 17.50 and there were still 300,000 shares on offer in the sell column. All bank shares were down, the market was reeling. Everyone expected the Ho-Pak to fail tomorrow—only Sir Luis Basilio suspending trading in bank shares at noon had saved the bank from going under then.
“Jesus Christ, what a stinker!” someone said. “Screwed by the sodding bell.”
“Look at the tai-pan!” another burst out. “Christ almighty, you’d think it was just another day and not the death knell of the Noble House!”
“He’s got balls has our Ian, no doubt about that. Look at that smile on him. Christ, his stock goes from 24.70 to 17.50 in one day when it’s never been below 25 since the poor bugger went public and it’s as though nothing’s happened. Tomorrow Gornt has to get control!”
“I agree—or the bank.”
“The Vic? No, they’ve troubles of their own,” another said, joining the excited, sweating group.
“Holy mackerel, you really think Gornt will do it? Gornt tai-pan of the new Noble House?”
“Can’t imagine it!” another shouted over the din.
“Better get used to it, old boy. But I agree, you’d never know Ian’s world’s crashing about his testicles …”
“About bloody time!” someone else called out.
“Oh come on, the tai-pan’s a good fellow, Gornt’s an arrogant bastard.”
“They’re both bastards!” another said.
“Oh I don’t know, But I agree Ian’s cold all right. Ian’s as cold as charity and that’s pretty chilly….”
“But not as cold as poor old Willy, he’s dead poor bastard!”
“Willy? Willy who?” someone asked amid the laughter. “Eh?”
“Oh for chrissake, Charlie, it’s just a ditty, a poem! Willy rhymes with chilly, that’s all. How did you do on the day?”
“I made a pile in commissions.”
“Fantastic. I unloaded 100 percent of all my own shares. I’m liquid now, thank God! It’ll be tough on some of my clients but easy come easy go and they can afford it!”
“I’m still holding 58,000 Struan’s and no takers….”
“Jesusschriiist!”
“What’s up?”
“The Ho-Pak’s finished! They’ve closed their doors.”
“What!”
“Every last bloody branch!”
“Christ almighty are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure and they say the Vic won’t open tomorrow either, that the governor’ll declare tomorrow a bank holiday! I have it on the highest authority, old boy!”
“Good sweet Christ, the Vic’s closing?”
“Oh Christ we’re all ruined….”
“Listen, I’ve just talked to Johnjohn. The run’s spread to them but he says they’ll be all right—not to worry….”
“Thank God!”
“He says there was a riot at Aberdeen half an hour ago when the Ho-Pak branch there failed but Richard Kwang’s just put out a press release. He’s ‘temporarily closed’ all their branches except Head Office in Central. There’s no need to worry, he’s got plenty of money and …”
“Lying bastard!”
“… and anyone with Ho-Pak funds has to go there with their passbook and they’ll get paid.”
“What about their shares? When they liquidate how much do you think they’ll pay? Ten cents on the dollar?”
“God knows! But thousands are going to lose their knickers in this crash!”
“Hey, tai-pan! Are you going to let your stock plummet or are you going to buy?”
“The Noble House’s strong as it ever was, old boy,” Dunross said easily. “My advice to you is to buy!”
“How long can you wait, tai-pan?”
“We’ll weather this slight problem, don’t worry.” Dunross continued to push through the crowd, heading for the exit, Linc Bartlett and Casey following, questions being fired at him. Most of them he dismissed with a pleasantry, a few he answered, then Gornt was in front of him and the two of them were in the middle of a great silence.
“Ah, Quillan, how did you do on the day?” he asked politely.
“Very good, thank you, Ian, very good. My partners and I are 3 or 4 million ahead.”
“Of course. One doesn’t mount an attack on Struan’s lightly—of course one must have very substantial financial backing.” Gornt smiled. “Fortunately, Struan’s’re roundly detested by lots of good people and have been for a century or more. I’m delighted to tell you I’ve just acquired another 300,000 shares for sale first thing. That should just about bring your house atumbling down.”
“We’re not Humpty-Dumpty. We’re the Noble House.”
“Until tomorrow. Yes. Or perhaps the next day. Monday at the latest.” Gornt looked back at Bartlett. “Tuesday for dinner is still on?”
“Yes.”
Dunross smiled. “Quillan, a man can get burned selling short in such a volatile market.” He turned to Bartlett and Casey and said pleasantly, “Don’t you agree?”
“It sure as hell isn’t like our New York exchange,” Bartlett replied to a general laugh. “What’s happening here today’d blow our whole economy to hell. Eh Casey?”
“Yes,” Casey replied uneasily, feeling Gornt’s scrutiny. “Hello,” she said, glancing at him.
“We’re honored to have you here,” Gornt said with great charm. “May I compliment you on your courage last night—both of you.”
“I did nothing special,” Bartlett said.
“Nor did I,” Casey said uncomfortably, very aware she was the only woman in the room and now the center of so much attention. “If it hadn’t been for Linc and Ian … for the tai-pan and you and the others, I’d’ve panicked.”
“Ah, but you didn’t. Your dive was perfection,” Gornt said, to cheers.
She said nothing but she was warmed by that thought, not for the first time. Somehow life had been different since she had taken off her clothes without thinking. Gavallan had called this morning to ask how she was. So had others. At the exchange she had felt the looks strongly. There had been lots of compliments. Many from strangers. She felt that Dunross and Gornt and Bartlett remembered because she had not failed them. Or herself. Yes, she thought, you gained great face before all the men. And increased the jealousy of all their women. Curious.
“Are you selling short, Mr. Bartlett?” Gornt was saying.
“Not personally,” Bartlett told him with a small smile. “Not yet.”
“You should,” Gornt said agreeably. “There’s a great deal of money to be made in a falling market, as I’m sure you know. A great deal of money will change hands with control of Struan’s.” He put his eyes back onto Casey, excited by her courage and her body and by the thought that she would be coming sailing on Sunday alone. “And you, Ciranoush, are you in the market?” he asked.
Casey heard her name and the way he said it. A thrill took her. Beware, she cautioned herself. This man’s dangerous. Yes. And so is Dunross and so is Linc.
Which?
I think I want all three of them, she thought, heat rushing into her.
The day had been exciting and grand from the first moment when Dunross had phoned her so solicitously. Then getting up, feeling no ill effects from the fire or the emetics of Dr. Tooley. Then working away happily all morning on all the cables and telexes and phone calls to the States, tidying business problems of Par-Con’s far-flung conglomerate, cementing a merger that had been on their agenda for months, selling off another company very profitably to acquire one that would further enhance Par-Con’s stab into Asia—whomever they were in business with. Then, unexpectedly, being invited for lunch by Linc.… Dear handsome confident attractive Linc, she thought, remembering the lunch they had had atop the Victoria and Albert in the great, green dining room overlooking the harbor, Linc so attentive, Hong Kong Island and the sea roads obscured by the driving rain. Half a grapefruit, a small salad, Perrier, all perfectly served, just what she wanted. Then coffee.
“How about going to the Stock Exchange, Casey? Say 2:30?” he had said. “Ian invited us.”
“I’ve still got lots to do, Linc, an—”
“But that place is something else and the things those guys get away with’s unbelievable. Insider trading’s a way of life here and quite legal. Jesus, it’s fantastic—wonderful—a great system! What they do here legally every day’d get you twenty years in the States.”
“That doesn’t make it right, Linc.”
“No, but this is Hong Kong and their rules please them and it is their country and they support themselves and their government only creams off 15 percent tax,” he had said. “I tell you, Casey, if you want drop dead money it’s here for the taking.”
“Let’s hope! You go, Linc, I’ve really got a pile of stuff to get through.”
“It can wait. Today might be the clincher. We should be in at the kill.”
“Gornt’s going to win?”
“Sure, unless Ian gets massive financing. I hear the Victoria won’t support him. And Orlin won’t renew his loan, just as I forecast!”
“Gornt told you?”
“Just before lunch—but everyone knows everything in this place. Never known anything like it.”
“Then maybe Ian knows you put up the 2 million to start Gornt off.”
“Maybe. It doesn’t matter, so long as they don’t know Par-Con’s on the way to become the new Noble House. How ’bout Tai-pan Bartlett?”
Casey remembered his sudden grin and the warmth flooding out at her and she felt it now, standing on the floor of the Stock Exchange, watching him, crowds of men around her, only three important—Quillan, Ian and Linc—the most vital and exciting of all the men she had ever met. She smiled back at them equally, then said to Gornt, “No, I’m not in the market, not personally. I don’t like gambling—the cost of my money comes too high.”
Someone muttered, “What a rotten thing to say!”
Gornt paid no attention and kept his eyes on her. “Wise, very wise. Of course, sometimes there’s a sure thing, sometimes you can make a killing.” He looked at Dunross who was watching with his curious smile. “Figuratively, of course.”
“Of course. Well, Quillan, see you tomorrow.”
“Hey, Mr. Bartlett,” someone called out, “have you made a deal with Struan’s or not?”
“Yes,” another said, “and what does Raider Bartlett think of a raid Hong Kong style?”
Another silence fell. Bartlett shrugged. “A raid is a raid wherever,” he said carefully, “and I’d say this one’s mounted and launched. But you never know you’ve won until you’ve won and all the votes are counted. I agree with Mr. Dunross. You can get burned.” He grinned again, his eyes dancing. “I also agree with Mr. Gornt. Sometimes you can make a killing, figuratively.”
There was another burst of laughter. Dunross used it to push through to the door. Bartlett and Casey followed. At his chauffeured Rolls below, Dunross said, “Come on, get in—sorry, I’ve got to hurry, but the car’ll take you home.”
“No, that’s all right, we’ll take a cab….”
“No, get in. In this rain you’ll have to wait half an hour.”
“The ferry’ll do fine, tai-pan,” Casey said. “He can drop us there.” They got in and drove off, the traffic snarled.
“What’re you going to do about Gornt?” Bartlett asked.
Dunross laughed and Casey and Bartlett tried to gauge the strength of it. “I’m going to wait,” he said. “It’s an old Chinese custom: Patience. Everything comes to him who waits. Thanks for keeping mum about our deal. You handled that rather well.”
“You’ll announce tomorrow after the market closes, as planned?” Bartlett asked.
“I’d like to leave my options open. I know this market, you don’t. Perhaps tomorrow.” Dunross looked at them both clearly. “Perhaps not until Tuesday when we’ve actually signed. I presume we still have a deal? Until Tuesday at midnight?”
“Sure,” Casey said.
“Can the announcement time be left to me? I’ll tell you beforehand but I may need the timing to … to maneuver.”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you. Of course, if we’re down the pipe then, it’s no deal. I understand quite clearly.”
“Gornt can get control?” Casey asked. Both of them saw the change in the Scotsman’s eyes. The smile was still there but it was only on the surface.
“No, not actually, but of course with enough stock he can force his way immediately onto the board and appoint other directors. Once on the board he will be party to most of our secrets and he’ll disrupt and destroy.” Dunross glanced back at Casey. “His purpose is to destroy.”
“Because of the past?”
“Partially.” Dunross smiled, but this time they saw a deep-seated tiredness within it. “The stakes are high, face is involved, huge face, and this’s Hong Kong. Here the strong survive and the weak perish but en route the government doesn’t steal from you, or protect you. If you don’t want to be free and don’t like our rules, or lack of them, don’t come. You’ve come for profit, heya?” He watched Bartlett. “And profit you will have, one way or another.”
“Yes,” Bartlett agreed blandly, and Casey wondered how much Dunross knew about the arrangement with Gornt. The thought disquieted her.
“Profit’s our motive, yes,” she said. “But not to destroy.”
“That’s wise,” he said. “It’s better to create than to destroy. Oh, by the way, Jacques asked if you’d both like to dine with him tonight, 8:30-ish. I can’t, I’ve an official do with the governor but I might see you for a drink later.”
“Thanks, but I can’t tonight,” Bartlett said easily, not feeling easy at the sudden thought of Orlanda. “How about you, Casey?”
“No, no thanks. I’ve a stack to get through, tai-pan, maybe we could take a rain check?” she asked him happily and thought that he was wise to be close-mouthed and Linc Bartlett equally wise to cool it with Struan’s for a while. Yes, she told herself, her mind diverted, and it’ll be lovely to have dinner with Linc, just the two of us, like lunch. Maybe we can even take in a movie.
Dunross went into his office.
“Oh … oh hello, tai-pan,” Claudia said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kirk are in the downstairs reception room. Bill Foster’s resignation’s in your in tray.”
“Good. Claudia, make sure I see Linbar before he goes.” He was watching her carefully and though she was consummate at hiding her feelings, he could sense her fear. He sensed it in the whole building. Everyone pretended otherwise but confidence was tottering. “Without confidence in the general,” Sun Tzu had written, “no battle can be won by however many troops and with however many weapons.”
Uneasily Dunross rethought his plan and position. He knew he had very few moves, that the only true defense was attack and he could not attack without massive funds. This morning when he had met Lando Mata, he had got only a reluctant perhaps. “… I told you I have to consult with Tightfist Tung first. I’ve left messages but I just can’t get hold of him.”
“He’s in Macao?”
“Yes, yes I think so. He said he was arriving today but I don’t know on which ferry. I really don’t know, tai-pan. If he’s not on the last inbound, I’ll go back to Macao and see him at once—if he’s available. I’ll call you this evening, the moment I’ve talked to him. By the way, have you reconsidered either of our offers?”
“Yes. I can’t sell you control of Struan’s. And I can’t leave Struan’s and run the gambling in Macao.”
“With our money you’ll smash Gornt, you co—”
“I can’t pass over control.”
“Perhaps we could combine both offers. We support you against Gornt in return for control of Struan’s and you run our gambling syndicate, secretly if you wish. Yes, it could be secret….”
Dunross shifted in his easy chair, certain that Lando Mata and Tightfist were using the trap that he was in to further their own interests. Just like Bartlett and Casey, he thought without anger. Now that’s an interesting woman. Beautiful, courageous and loyal—to Bartlett. I wonder if she knows he breakfasted with Orlanda this morning, then visited her flat. I wonder if they know I know about the 2 million from Switzerland. Bartlett’s smart, very smart, and making all the correct moves, but he’s wide open to attack because he’s predictable and his jugular’s an Asian girl. Perhaps Orlanda, perhaps not, but certainly a youth-filled Golden Skin. Quillan was clever to bait the trap with her. Yes. Orlanda’s a perfect bait, he thought, then put his mind back to Lando Mata and his millions. To get those millions I’d have to break my Holy Oath and that I will not do.
“What calls do I have, Claudia?” he asked, a sudden ice shaft in his stomach. Mata and Tightfist had been his ace, the only one left.
She hesitated, glanced at the list. “Hiro Toda called from Tokyo, person to person. Please return the call when you’ve a moment. Alastair Struan the same from Edinburgh.… David MacStruan from Toronto … your father from Ayr … old Sir Ross Struan from Nice …”
“Uncle Trussler from London,” he said, interrupting her, “Uncle Kelly from Dublin … Cousin Cooper from Atlanta, cous—”
“From New York,” Claudia said.
“From New York. Bad news travels fast,” he told her calmly.
“Yes. Then there was …” Her eyes filled with tears. “What’re we going to do?”
“Absolutely not cry,” he said, knowing that a large proportion of her savings was in Struan stock.
“Yes! Oh yes.” She sniffed and used a handkerchief, sad for him but thanking the gods she had had the foresight to sell at the top of the market and not buy when the Head of the House of Chen had whispered for all the clan to buy heavily. “Ayeeyah, tai-pan, sorry, so sorry, please excuse me … yes. But it’s very bad, isn’t it?”
“Och aye, lassie,” he said, aping a broad Scots accent, “but only when you’re deaded. Isn’t that what the old tai-pan used to say?” The old tai-pan was Sir Ross Struan, Alastair’s father, the first tai-pan he could remember. “Go on with the calls.”
“Cousin Kern from Houston and Cousin Deeks from Sydney. That’s the last of the family.”
“That’s all of them.” Dunross exhaled. Control of the Noble House rested with those families. Each had blocks of shares that had been handed down to them, though by House law he alone voted all the stock—while he was tai-pan. The family holdings of the Dunrosses, descended from Dirk Struan’s daughter Winifred, were 10 percent; the Struans from Robb Struan, Dirk’s half-brother, 5 percent; the Trusslers and Kellys from Culum and Hag Struan’s youngest daughter, each 5 percent; the Coopers, Kerns and Derbys, descended from the American trader, Jeff Cooper of Cooper-Tillman, Dirk’s lifetime friend who had married Hag Struan’s eldest daughter, each 5 percent; the MacStruans, believed illegitimate from Dirk, 2½ percent; and the Chens 7½ percent. The bulk of the stock, 50 percent, the personal property and legacy of Hag Struan, was left in a perpetual trust, to be voted by the tai-pan “whoever he or she may be, and the profit therefrom shall be divided yearly, 50 percent to the tai-pan, the remainder in proportion to family holdings—but only if the tai-pan so decides,” she had written in her firm, bold hand. “If he decides to withhold profit from my shares from the family for any reason he may, then that increment shall go into the tai-pan’s private fund for whatever use he deems fit. But let all following tai-pans beware: the Noble House shall pass from safe Hand to safe Hand and the clans from safe Harbor to safe Harbor as the tai-pan himself decreed or I shall add my curse, before God, to his, on him or her who fails us….”
Dunross felt a chill go through him as he remembered the first time he had read her will—as dominating as the legacy of Dirk Struan. Why are we so possessed by these two? he asked himself again. Why can’t we be done with the past, why should we be at the beck and call of ghosts, not very good ghosts at that?
I’m not, he told himself firmly. I’m only trying to measure up to their standards.
He looked back at Claudia, matronly, tough and very together but now scared, scared for the first time. He had known her all his life and she had served old Sir Ross, then his father, then Alastair, and now himself with a fanatical loyalty, as had Phillip Chen.
Ah Phillip, poor Phillip.
“Did Phillip call?” he asked.
“Yes, tai-pan. And Dianne. She called four times.”
“Who else?”
“A dozen or more. The more important ones are Johnjohn at the bank, General Jen from Taiwan, Gavallan père from Paris, Four Finger Wu, Pug—”
“Four Fingers?” Dunross’s hope peaked. “When did he call?”
She referred to her list. “2:56.”
I wonder if the old pirate has changed his mind, Dunross thought, his excitement growing.
Yesterday afternoon late he had gone to Aberdeen to see Wu to seek his help but, as with Lando Mata, he had got only vague promises.
“Listen, Old Friend,” he had told him in halting Haklo, “I’ve never sought a favor from you before.”
“A long line of your tai-pan ancestors have sought plenty favors and made great profits from my ancestors,” the old man had answered, his cunning eyes darting. “Favors? Fornicate all dogs, tai-pan, I have not that amount of money. 20 millions? How could a poor old fisherman like me have that cash?”
“More came out of the Ho-Pak yesterday, old friend.”
“Ayeeyah, fornicate all those who whisper wrong informations! Perhaps I withdrew my money safely but it all has gone, gone to pay for goods, goods I owed money for.”
“I hope not for the White Powder,” he had told him grimly. “The White Powder is terrible joss. Rumor has it you are interested in it. I advise against it as a friend. My ancestors, Old Green-Eyed Devil and Hag Struan of the Evil Eye and Dragon’s Teeth, they both put a curse on those who deal in the White Powder, not on opium but on all White Powders and those who deal in them,” he had said stretching the truth, knowing how superstitious the old man was. “I advise against the Killing Powder. Surely your gold business is more than profitable?”
“I know nothing of White Powder.” The old man had forced a smile, showing his gums and a few twisted teeth. “And I don’t fear curses, even from them!”
“Good,” Dunross had said, knowing it to be a lie. “Meanwhile help me to get credit. 50 million for three days is all I want!”
“I will ask among my friends, tai-pan. Perhaps they can help, perhaps we can help together. But don’t expect water from an empty well. At what interest?”
“High interest, if it’s tomorrow.”
“Not possible, tai-pan.”
“Persuade Tightfist, you’re an associate and old friend.”
“Tightfist is the only fornicating friend of Tightfist,” the old man had said sullenly and nothing Dunross could say would change the old man’s attitudes.
He reached for the phone. “What other calls were there, Claudia?” he asked as he dialed.
“Johnjohn at the bank, Phillip and Dianne … oh I told you about them.… Superintendent Crosse, then every major stockholder we have and every managing director of every subsidiary, most of the Turf Club … Travkin, your trainer, it’s endless….”
“Just a moment, Claudia.” Dunross held onto his anxiety and said into the phone, in Haklo, “This is the tai-pan. Is my Old Friend there?”
“Sure, sure, Mr. Dunross,” the American voice said politely in English. “Thanks for returning the call. He’ll be right with you, sir.”
“Mr. Choy, Mr. Paul Choy?”
“Yes sir.”
“Your uncle told me all about you. Welcome to Hong Kong.”
“I … here he is sir.”
“Thank you.” Dunross concentrated. He had been asking himself why Paul Choy was with Four Fingers now and not busily engaged in worming his way into Gornt’s affairs and why Crosse called and why Johnjohn.
“Tai-pan?”
“Yes, Old Friend. You wanted to speak to me?”
“Yes. Can … can we meet this evening?”
Dunross wanted to shout, Have you changed your mind? But good manners forbade it and Chinese did not like phones, always preferring to meet face-to-face. “Of course. About eight bells, in the middle watch,” he said casually. Near midnight. “As near as I can,” he added, remembering he was to meet Brian Kwok at 10:45 P.M.
“Good. My wharf. There will be a sampan waiting.”
Dunross replaced the phone, his heart thumping. “First Crosse, Claudia, then bring in the Kirks. Then we’ll go through the list. Set up a conference call with my father, Alastair and Sir Ross, make it for five, that’s nine their time and ten in Nice. I’ll call David and the others in the States this evening. No need to wake them in the middle of their night.”
“Yes, tai-pan.” Claudia was already dialing. She got Crosse, handed him the phone and left, closing the door after her.
“Yes, Roger?”
“How many times have you been into China?”
The unexpected question startled Dunross for a moment. “That’s all a matter of record,” he said. “It’s easy for you to check.”
“Yes, Ian, but could you recall now? Please.”
“Four times to Canton, to the fair, every year for the last four years. And once to Peking with a trade commission, last year.”
“Did you ever manage to get outside Canton—or Peking?”
“Why?”
“Did you?”
Dunross hesitated. The Noble House had many associations of long standing in China, and many old and trusted friends. Some were now committed Communists. Some were outwardly communists but inwardly totally Chinese and therefore far-seeing, secretive, cautious and nonpolitical. These men ranged in importance up to one in the Presidium. And all of these men, being Chinese, knew that history repeated itself, that eras could change so quickly and the Emperor of this morning could become the running dog of this afternoon, that dynasty followed dynasty at the whim of the gods, that the first of any dynasty inevitably mounted the Dragon throne with bloodstained hands, that an escape route was always to be sought after—and that certain barbarians were Old Friends and to be trusted.
But he knew most of all that Chinese were a practical people. China needed goods and help. Without goods and help they were defenseless against their historic and only real enemy, Russia.
So many times, because of the special trust in which the Noble House was held, Dunross had been approached officially and unofficially, but always secretly. He had many private potential deals simmering for all kinds of machinery and goods in short supply, including the fleet of jet airliners. Oftentimes he had gone where others could not go. Once he had gone to a meeting in Hangchow, the most beautiful part of China. This was to greet other members of the 49 Club privately, to be wined and dined as honored guests of China. The 49 Club consisted of those companies that had continued to trade with the PRC after 1949, mostly British firms. Britain had recognized Mao Tse-tung’s government as the government of China shortly after Chiang Kai-shek abandoned the Mainland and fled to Taiwan. Even so, relations between the two governments had always been strained. But, by definition, relations between Old Friends were not, unless an Old Friend betrayed a confidence, or cheated.
“Oh I went on a few side trips,” Dunross said airily, not wanting to lie to the chief of SI. “Nothing to write home about. Why?”
“Could you tell me where, please.”
“If you’re more specific, Roger, certainly,” he replied, his voice hard ening. “We’re traders and not politicians and not spies and the Noble House has a special position in Asia. We’ve been here quite a few years and it’s because of traders the Union Jack flies over … used to fly over half the earth. What had you in mind, old chap?”
There was a long pause. “Nothing, nothing in particular. Very well, Ian, I’ll wait till we’ve had the pleasure of reading the papers, then I’ll be specific. Thanks, so sorry to trouble you. ’Bye.”
Dunross stared at the phone, troubled. What does Crosse want to know? he asked himself. Many of the deals he had made and would be making certainly would not conform to official government policy in London, or, even more, in Washington. His short-term and long-term attitude toward China clearly was opposed to theirs. What they would consider contraband he did not.
Well, as long as I’m tai-pan, he told himself firmly, come hell or typhoon, our links with China will remain our links with China and that’s the end of that. Most politicians in London and Washington just won’t realize Chinese are Chinese first and Communist second. And Hong Kong’s vital to the peace of Asia.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jamie Kirk, sir.”
Jamie Kirk was a pedantic little man with a pink face and pink hands and a pleasing Scots accent. His wife was tall, big and American.
“Oh so pleased to m—” Kirk began.
“Yes we are, Mr. Dunross,” his wife boomed good-naturedly over him. “Get to the point, Jamie, honey, Mr. Dunross’s a very busy man and we’ve shopping to do. My husband’s got a package for you, sir.”
“Yes, it’s from Alan Medford G—”
“He knows it’s from Alan Medford Grant, honey,” she said happily, talking over him again. “Give him the package.”
“Oh. Oh yes and there’s a—”
“A letter from him too,” she said. “Mr. Dunross’s very busy so give them to him and we can go shopping.”
“Oh. Yes, well…” Kirk handed Dunross the package. It was about fourteen inches by nine and an inch thick. Brown, nondescript and heavily taped. The envelope was sealed with red sealing wax. Dunross recognized the seal. “Alan said to—”
“To give it to you personally and give you his best wishes,” she said with another laugh. She got up. “You’re so slow, sweetness. Well, thank you, Mr. Dunross, come along, hon—”
She stopped, startled as Dunross held up an imperious hand and said with polite though absolute authority, “What shopping do you want to do, Mrs. Kirk?”
“Eh? Oh. Oh some clothes, er, I want some clothes made and honey needs some shirts an—”
Dunross held up his hand again and punched a button and Claudia was there. “Take Mrs. Kirk to Sandra Lee at once. She’s to take her at once to Lee Foo Tap downstairs and by the Lord God tell him to give Mrs. Kirk the best possible price or I’ll have him deported! Mr. Kirk will join her there in a moment!” He took Mrs. Kirk by the arm and before she knew it she was contentedly out of the room, Claudia solicitously listening to what she wanted to buy.
Kirk sighed in the silence. It was a deep, long-suffering sigh. “I wish I could do that,” he said gloomily, then beamed. “Och aye, tai-pan, you’re everything Alan said you were.”
“Oh? I didn’t do anything. Your wife wanted to go shopping didn’t she?”
“Yes but…” After a pause Kirk added, “Alan said that you should, er, you should read the letter while I’m here. I … I didn’t tell her that. Do you think I should have?”
“No,” Dunross said kindly. “Look, Mr. Kirk, I’m sorry to tell you bad news but I’m afraid AMG was killed in a motorcycle accident last Monday.”
Kirk’s mouth dropped. “What?”
“Sorry to have to tell you but I thought you’d better know.”
Kirk stared at the rain streaks, lost in thought. “How terrible,” he said at length. “Bloody motorbikes, they’re death traps. He was run down?”
“No. He was just found in the road, beside the bike. Sorry.”
“Terrible! Poor old Alan. Dear oh dear! I’m glad you didn’t mention it in front of Frances, she’s, she was fond of him too. I, er, I … perhaps you’d better read this letter then … Frances wasn’t a great friend so I don’t … poor old Alan!” He stared down at his hands. The nails were bitten and disfigured. “Poor old Alan!”
To give Kirk time, Dunross opened the letter. It read: “My dear Mr. Dunross: This will introduce an old school friend, Jamie Kirk, and his wife Frances. The package he brings, please open in private. I wanted it safely in your hands and Jamie agreed to stop over in Hong Kong. He’s to be trusted, as much as one can trust anyone these days. And, please, don’t mind about Frances, she’s a good sort really, good to my old friend and quite well off from previous husbands which gives Jamie the freedom he requires to sit and to think—a rare, very rare privilege these days. By the way, they’re not in my line of work though they know I’m an amateur historian with private means.” Dunross would have smiled but for the fact that he was reading a letter from a dead man. The letter concluded, “Jamie’s a geologist, a marine geologist, one of the best in the world. Ask him about his work, the last years, preferably not with Frances there—not that she’s not party to everything he knows but she does carry on a bit. He has some interesting theories that could perhaps benefit the Noble House and your contingency planning. Kindest regards, AMG.”
Dunross looked up. “AMG says you’re old school friends?”
“Oh yes. Yes, we were at school together. Charterhouse actually. Then I went on to Cambridge, he to Oxford. Yes. We’ve, er, kept in contact over the years, haphazardly, of course. Yes. Have you, er, known him long?”
“About three years. I liked him too. Perhaps you don’t want to talk now?”
“Oh. Oh no, that’s all right. I’m … it’s a shock of course but well, life must go on. Old Alan … he’s a funny sort of laddie isn’t he, with all his papers and books and pipe and ash and carpet slippers.” Kirk sadly steepled his fingers. “I suppose I should say he was. It doesn’t seem right yet to talk about him in the past tense … but I suppose we should. Yes. He always wore carpet slippers. I dinna think I’ve ever been to his chambers when he wasn’t wearing carpet slippers.”
“You mean his flat? I’ve never been there. We always met in my London office though he did come to Ayr once.” Dunross searched his memory. “I don’t remember him wearing carpet slippers there.”
“Ah, yes, he told me about Ayr, Mr. Dunross. Yes, he told me. It was, er, a high point in his life. You’re … you’re very lucky to have such an estate.”
“Castle Avisyard’s not mine, Mr. Kirk, though it’s been in the family for more than a hundred years. Dirk Struan bought it for his wife and family—a country seat so to speak.” As always, Dunross felt a sudden glow at the thought of all that loveliness, gentle rolling hills, lakes, moors, forests, glades, six thousand acres or more, good shooting, good hunting and Scotland at its best. “It’s tradition that the current tai-pan’s always laird of Avisyard—while he’s tai-pan. But, of course, all the families, particularly children of the various families, know it well. Summer holidays … Christmas at Avisyard’s a wonderful tradition. Whole sheep and sides of beef, haggis at New Year, whiskey and huge roaring fires, the pipes sounding. It’s a bonnie place. And a working farm, cattle, milk, butter—and not forgetting the Loch Vey distillery! I wish I could spend more time there—my wife just left today to get things ready for the Christmas vacation. Do you know that part of the world?”
“A wee bit. Mostly I know the Highlands. I know the Highlands better. My family came from Inverness.”
“Ah, then you must visit us when we’re in Ayr, Mr. Kirk. AMG says in his letter you’re a geologist, one of the best in the world?”
“Oh. Oh he’s too kind—was too kind. My, er, my specialty’s marine. Yes. With particular emph—” He stopped abruptly.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, er, nothing, nothing really, but do you think Frances will be all right?”
“Absolutely. Would you like me to tell her about AMG?”
“No. No I can do that later. No, I … I, on second thought I think I’m going to pretend he’s not dead, Mr. Dunross. You need not have told me, then I won’t have to spoil her holiday. Yes. That’s best, don’t you think?” Kirk brightened a little. “Then we can discover the bad news when we get home.”
“Whatever you wish. You were saying? With particular emphasis on?”
“Oh yes … petrology, which is, of course, the broad study of rocks including their interpretation and description. Within petrology my field has been narrowed down more recently to sedimentary rocks. I’ve, er, I’ve been on a research project for the last few years as a consultant on Paleozoic sedimentaries, porous ones. Yes. The study concentrated on the eastern coastal shelf of Scotland. AMG thought you might like to hear about it.”
“Of course.” Dunross curbed his impatience. His eyes were looking at the package on his desk. He wanted to open it and call Johnjohn and do a dozen other pressing things. There was so much to do and he did not yet understand the AMG connection between the Noble House and Kirk. “It sounds very interesting,” he said. “What was the study for?”
“Eh?” Kirk stared at him, startled. “Hydrocarbons.” At Dunross’s blank look he added hastily, “Hydrocarbons are only found in porous sedimentary rocks of the Paleozoic era. Oil, Mr. Dunross, crude oil.”
“Oh! You were exploring for oil?”
“Oh no! It was a research project to determine the possibility of hydrocarbons being present offshore. Off Scotland. I’m happy to say I think they’ll be there abundantly. Not close in but out in the North Sea.” The small man’s pink face became pinker and he mopped his brow. “Yes. Yes, I think there’ll be quite a number of good fields out there.”
Dunross was perplexed, still not seeing the connection. “Well, I know a little about offshore drilling in the Middle East and the Texas Gulf but out in the North Sea? Good God, Mr. Kirk, that sea’s the worst in the world, probably the most fickle in the world, almost always in storm with mountainous seas. How could you drill there? How could you make the rigs safe, how would you supply the rigs, how could you possibly get the oil in bulk ashore, even if you found it? And if you got it ashore, my God, the cost’d be prohibitive.”
“Oh quite right, Mr. Dunross,” Kirk agreed. “Everything you say’s quite right, but then it’s not my job to be commercial, just to find our elusive, supremely valuable hydrocarbons.” He added proudly, “This is the first time we’ve ever thought they could exist there. Of course, it’s still only a theory, my theory—you never know for certain until you drill—but part of my expertise’s in seismic interpretation, that’s the study of waves resulting from induced explosions, and my approach to the latest findings was a wee bitty unorthodox….”
Dunross listened now with only the surface of his brain, still trying to puzzle out why AMG should consider this important. He allowed Kirk to continue for a while then politely brought him back. “You’ve convinced me, Mr. Kirk. I congratulate you. How long are you staying in Hong Kong?”
“Oh. Oh just till Monday. Then, er, then we’re going to New Guinea.”
Dunross concentrated, very concerned. “Where in New Guinea?”
“To a place called Sukanapura, on the north coast, that’s in the new Indonesian part. I’ve been …” Kirk smiled. “Sorry, of course you’d know President Sukarno took over Dutch New Guinea in May.”
“Stolen might be another way of putting it. If it hadn’t been for more ill-advised U.S. pressure, Dutch New Guinea’d still be Dutch and far better off, I think. I don’t believe it’d be a good idea at all for you and Mrs. Kirk to go there for a while. It’s very dicey, the political situation’s very unstable and President Sukarno’s hostile. The insurrection in Sarawak is Indonesian-sponsored and supported—he’s very antagonistic to the West, to all Malaysia, and pro his Marxists. Besides Sukanapura is a hot, rotten, spooky port with lots of disease on top of all the other troubles.”
“Oh you don’t have to worry, I have a Scots constitution, and we’re invited by the government.”
“My point is that, presently, there’s very little government influence.”
“Ah, but there’re some very interesting sedimentaries they want me to look at. You don’t have to worry, Mr. Dunross, we’re geologists, not political. Everything’s arranged—this was the whole purpose of our trip—no need to worry. Well, I should be going.”
“There’s … I’m having a small cocktail party on Saturday from 7:30 to 9:00 P.M.,” he said. “Perhaps you and your wife would like to come? Then we can talk further about New Guinea.”
“Oh, oh that’s awfully kind of you. I, er, we’d love to. Where wo—”
“I’ll send a car for you. Now, perhaps you’d like to join Mrs. Kirk—I won’t mention AMG if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“Oh! Oh yes. Poor Alan. For a moment, discussing sedimentaries, I’d forgotten about him. Curious, isn’t it, how soon one can forget.”
Dunross sent him off with another assistant and closed the door. Carefully he broke the seals of AMG’s package. Inside there was an envelope and an inner package. The envelope was addressed: “Ian Dunross, private and confidential.” Unlike the other letter, which was neatly handwritten, this was typed: “Dear Mr. Dunross, This comes in haste to you through my old friend Jamie. I’ve just had some very disquieting news. There is another very serious security leak somewhere in our system, British or American, and it’s quite clear our adversaries are stepping up their clandestine attacks. Some of this might even spill over onto me, even to you, hence my anxiety. To you because it could be the existence of our highly classified series of papers has been discovered. Should any thing untoward happen to me please call 871–65–65 in Geneva. Ask for Mrs. Riko Gresserhoff. To her, my name is Hans Gresserhoff. Her real name is Riko Anjin. She speaks German, Japanese and English—a little French—and if I’m owed any money please assign it to her. There are certain papers she will give you, some for transmission. Please deliver them personally when convenient. As I said, it’s rare to find someone to trust. I trust you. You’re the only one on earth who knows about her and her real name. Remember, it is vital that neither this letter nor my previous papers go out of your hands to anyone.
“First, to explain about Kirk: Within ten years or so I believe the Arab nations will bury their differences and use the real power they have, not against Israel directly but against the Western world—forcing us into an intolerable position: Do we abandon Israel … or do we starve? They use their oil as a weapon of war.
“If they ever manage to work together, a handful of sheiks and feudal kings in Saudi Arabia, Iran, the Persian Gulf States, Iraq, Libya, can, at their whim, cut off Western and Japanese supplies of the one raw material that is indispensable. They have an even more sophisticated opportunity: to raise the price to unprecedented heights and hold our economies to ransom. Oil is the ultimate weapon for Arabia. Unbeatable so long as we’re dependent on their oil. Hence my immediate interest in Kirk’s theory.
“Nowadays it costs about eight cents American to get one barrel of oil to the surface of an Arabian desert. From the North Sea it would cost seven dollars to bring one barrel ashore, in bulk, to Scotland. If Arabian oil jumped from its present three dollars a barrel on the world market to nine … I’m sure you get the point immediately. At once North Sea becomes immensely possible, and a British national treasure.
“Jamie says the fields are to the north and east of Scotland. The port of Aberdeen would be the logical place to bring it ashore. A wise man would start looking at wharfing, real estate, airfields, in Aberdeen. Don’t worry about bad weather, helicopters will be the connecting links to the rigs. Expensive yes, but viable. Further, if you will accept my forecast that Labour will win the next election because of the Profumo scandal…”
The case had filled the newspapers. Six months before, in March, the Secretary of State for War, John Profumo, had formally denied that he had ever had an affair with a notorious call girl, Christine Keeler, one of several girls who had suddenly sprung to international prominence with their procurer, Stephen Ward—up to that time just a well-known osteopath in London’s high society. Unsubstantiated rumors began to circulate that the girl had also been having an affair with one of the Soviet attachés, a well-known KGB agent, Commander Yevgeny Ivanov, who had been recalled to Russia the previous December. In the uproar that followed, Profumo resigned, and Stephen Ward committed suicide.
“It is curious that the affair was revealed to the press at the perfect time for the Soviets,” Grant continued. “I have no proof, yet, but it’s not just a coincidence in my opinion. Remember it is Soviet doctrine to fragment countries—North Korea and South, East Germany and West, and so on—then to let their indoctrinated underlings do their work for them. So I think the pro-Soviet Socialists will help fragment Britain into England, Scotland, Wales and south and north Ireland (watch Eire and Northern Ireland which is a ready-made arena for Soviet merrymaking).
“Now for my suggested Contingency Plan One for the Noble House: To be circumspect about England and to concentrate on Scotland as a base. North Sea oil would make Scotland abundantly self-sufficient. The population is small, hardy and nationalistic. As an entity, Scotland would be practical now, and defensible—with an abundant exportable oil supply. A strong Scotland could perhaps help tip the scales and help a tottering England … our poor country, Mr. Dunross! I fear greatly for England.
“Perhaps this is another of my farfetched theories. But reconsider Scotland, Aberdeen, in the light of a new North Sea.”
“Ridiculous!” Dunross exploded and he stopped reading for a moment, his mind swept, then cautioned himself, don’t go off at half cock! AMG’s farfetched sometimes, given to exaggeration, he’s a right-wing imperialist who sees fifteen Reds under every bed. But what he says could be possible. If it’s possible, then it must be considered. If there were a vast worldwide oil shortage and we were prepared, we could make a fortune, he told himself, his excitement growing. It’d be easy to buy into Aberdeen now, easy to begin a calculated retreat from London without hurting anything—Edinburgh has all the modern amenities of banking, communications, ports, airfields, that we’d need to operate efficiently. Scotland for the Scots, with abundant oil for export? Completely viable, but not separate, somehow within a strong Britain. But if the city of London, Parliament and Threadneedle Street become left-wing choked …
The hair on the nape of his neck twisted at the thought of Britain being buried under a shroud of left-wing socialism. What about Robin Grey? Or Julian Broadhurst? he asked himself, chilled. Certainly they’d nationalize everything, they’d grab North Sea oil, if any, and put Hong Kong on the block—they’ve already said they would.
With an effort he tabled that thought for later, turned the page and read on. “Next, I think I’ve identified three of your Sevrin moles. The information was expensive—I may need extra money before Christmas—and I am not certain of the accuracy (I’m trying to cross-check at once, realizing the importance to you). The moles are believed to be: Jason Plumm of a company called Asian Properties; Lionel Tuke in the telephone company; and Jacques deVille in Struan’s …”
“Impossible!” Dunross burst out loud. “AMG’s gone mad! Plumm’s as impossible as Jacques, totally absolutely impossible. There’s no way they co—”
His private phone began ringing. Automatically he picked it up. “Yes?”
“This is the overseas operator calling Mr. Dunross.”
“Who’s calling him please?” he snapped.
“Will Mr. Dunross accept a collect call from Sydney, Australia, from a Mr. Duncan Dunross?”
The tai-pan’s heart missed a beat. “Of course! Hello, Duncan … Duncan?”
“Father?”
“Hello, my son, are you all right?”
“Oh yes, sir, absolutely!” he heard his son say and his anxiety fled. “I’m sorry to call you during the working day, Father, but my Monday flight’s overbooked an—”
“Damnit, you have a confirmed booking, laddie. I’ll get p—”
“No, Father, thank you, that’s perfectly all right. Now I’m on an earlier one. I’m on Singapore Airlines Flight 6 which arrives Hong Kong at noon. Don’t bother to meet me, I’ll get a taxi an—”
“Look for the car, Duncan. Lee Choy will be there. But come to the office before you go home, eh?”
“All right. I’ve validated my tickets and everything.”
Dunross heard the pride in his son’s voice and it warmed him. “Good. Well done. By the way, cousin Linbar will be arriving tomorrow on Qantas at 8:00 P.M. your time. He’ll be staying at the house too.” Struan’s had had a company house in Sydney since 1900 and a permanent office there since the eighties. Hag Struan had gone into partnership with an immensely wealthy wheat farmer named Bill Scragger and their company had flourished until the crash of 1929. “Did you have a good holiday?”
“Oh smashing! Smashing, yes, I want to come back next year. I met a smashing girl, Father.”
“Oh?” Half of Dunross wanted to smile, the other half was still locked into the nightmare possibility that Jacques was a traitor, and if traitor and part of Sevrin, was he the one who supplied some of their innermost secrets to Linc Bartlett? No, Jacques couldn’t have. He couldn’t possibly have known about our bank holdings. Who knows about those? Who wou—
“Father?”
“Yes, Duncan?”
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 girlfriend 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 girlfriends 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.
“Hier ist Herr Dunross im Hong Kong. Frau Gresserhoff bitte,” he said in good German.
“Oh!” There was a long pause. “Ich bin Frau Gresserhoff. Tai-pan?”
“Ah so desu! Ohayo gozaimasu. Anata wa Anjin Riko-san?” he asked, his Japenese accent excellent. Good morning. Your name is also Riko Anjin?
“Hai. Hai, dozo. Ah, nihongo wajotzu desu.” Yes. Oh you speak Japanese very well.
“Iye, 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?