CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

1:45 P.M.:

A roar of excitement went up from fifty thousand throats as the seven entries for the first race, jockeys up, came up the ramp out from under the stands to prance and skitter to the owners’ paddock where trainers and owners waited. The owners and their wives were dressed in their very best, many of the wives laden and over-minked, Mai-ling Kwang and Dianne Chen among them, conscious of the envious stares of the multitude craning to see the horses—and them.

Either side of the soggy grass paddock and winner’s circle, the packed mass of the crowds went down to the white sparkling rails and the perfectly kept turf of the encircling track. The winning post was opposite and beside it, on the other side of the track, was the huge totalizator that would carry the names of the horses and jockeys and odds, race by race. The totalizator was owned and operated by the Turf Club, as was the course. There were no legal bookmakers here or outside or any legal off-course betting places. This was the only legal form of betting in the Colony.

The sky was dark and forbidding. Earlier there had been a few sprinkles but now the air was clear.

Behind the paddock and winner’s circle, on this level, were the jockeys’ changing rooms and the offices of the officials—food concessions and the first banks of betting windows. Above them were the stands, four terraced tiers, each cantilevered floor with its own bank of betting windows. The first tier was for nonvoting members, next for voting members, and the two top floors set aside for the private boxes and radio room. Each box had its own private kitchen. Each of the ten annually elected stewards had a box and then there were some permanent ones: first his Excellency the governor, patron of the club; then the commander-in-chief; one each for Blacs and the Victoria. And last, Struan’s. Struan’s was in the best position, exactly opposite the winning post.

“Why’s that, tai-pan?” Casey asked.

“Because Dirk Struan began the Turf Club, set the rules, brought out a famous racing expert, Sir Roger Blore, to be the first secretary of the club. He put up all the money for the first meeting, money for the stands, money to import the first batch of horses from India and helped persuade the first plenipotentiary, Sir William Longstaff, to deed the land to the Turf Club in perpetuity.”

“Come now, tai-pan,” Donald McBride, the track steward for this meeting, said jovially, “tell it as it happened, eh? You say Dirk ‘helped persuade’? Didn’t Dirk just ‘order’ Longstaff to do it?”

Dunross laughed with the others still seated at the table he had hosted, Casey, Hiro Toda and McBride, who had just arrived to visit. There was a bar and three round tables in the box, each seating twelve comfortably. “I prefer my version,” he said. “In any event, Casey, the legend is that Dirk was voted this position by popular acclaim when the first stands were built.”

“That’s not true either, Casey,” Willie Tusk called out from the next table. “Didn’t old Tyler Brock demand the position as the right of Brock and Sons? Didn’t he challenge Dirk to put up the position on a race, man to man, at the first meeting?”

“No, that’s just a story.”

“Did those two race, tai-pan?” Casey asked.

“They were going to. But the typhoon came too soon, so they say. In any event Culum refused to budge so here we are. This’s ours while the course exists.”

“And quite right too,” McBride said, with his happy smile. “The Noble House deserves the best. Since the very first stewards were elected, Miss Casey, the tai-pan of Struan’s has always been a steward. Always. By popular acclaim. Well, I must be off.” He glanced at his watch, smiled at Dunross. With great formality he said, “Permission to start the first race, tai-pan?”

Dunross grinned back at him. “Permission granted.” McBride hurried off.

Casey stared at Dunross. “They have to ask your permission to begin?”

“It’s just a custom.” Dunross shrugged. “I suppose it’s a good idea for someone to say, ‘All right, let’s begin,’ isn’t it? I’m afraid that unlike Sir Geoffrey, the governors of Hong Kong in the past haven’t been known for their punctuality. Besides, tradition is not a bad thing at all—gives you a sense of continuity, of belonging—and protection.” He finished his coffee. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I must do a few things.”

“Have fun!” She watched him go, liking him even more than last night. Just then Peter Marlowe came in and Dunross stopped a moment. “Oh hello, Peter, good to see you. How’s Fleur?”

“Getting better, thank you, tai-pan.”

“Come on in! Help yourself to a drink—I’ll be back in a moment. Put your money on number five, Excellent Day, in the first! See you later.”

“Thanks, tai-pan.”

Casey beckoned to Peter Marlowe but he did not see her. His eyes had fixed on Grey who was with Julian Broadhurst out on the balcony, haranguing some of the others. She saw his face close and her heart leaped, remembering their hostility, so she called out, “Peter! Hi, come and sit down.”

His eyes unglazed. “Oh! Oh hello,” he said.

“Come sit down. Fleur’s going to be fine.”

“She certainly appreciated your going to see her.”

“It was a pleasure. Are the kids okay?”

“Oh yes. You?”

“Fantastic. This is the only way to go to a race!” Lunch in the Struan box for the thirty-six guests had been a lavish buffet of hot Chinese foods or, if they preferred, hot steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables, with plates of smoked salmon, hors d’oeuvres and cold cuts, cheeses and pastries of all kinds and as a topper, a meringue sculpture of the Struan Building—all prepared in their own kitchen. Champagne, with the best red and white wines, liqueurs. “I’m gonna have to diet for fifty years.”

“Not you. How goes it?”

She felt his probing eyes. “Fine. Why?”

“Nothing.” He glanced off at Grey again, then turned his attention to the others.

“May I introduce Peter Marlowe? Hiro Toda of Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama. Peter’s a novelist-screenwriter from Hollywood.” Then all at once his book rushed into her mind and Changi and three and a half years as a prisoner of war and she waited for the explosion. There was a hesitation between both men. Toda politely offered his business card and Peter Marlowe gave his in return, equally politely. He hesitated a moment then put out his hand. “How’re you?”

The Japanese shook it. “This’s an honor, Mr. Marlowe.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not often one meets a famous author.”

“I’m not, no, not at all.”

“You’re too modest. I liked your book very much. Yes.”

“You’ve read it?” Peter Marlowe stared at him. “Really?” He sat and looked at Toda, who was much shorter than he, lithe and well built, more handsome and well dressed in a blue suit, a camera hanging on his chair, his eyes equally level, the two men of an age. “Where did you find it?”

“In Tokyo. We have many English bookshops. Please excuse me, I read the paperback, not the hardback. There was no hardback on sale. Your novel was very illuminating.”

“Oh?” Peter Marlowe took out his cigarettes and offered them. Toda took one.

Casey said, “Smoking’s not good for you, you both know that!”

They smiled at her. “We’ll give them up for Lent,” Peter Marlowe said.

“Sure.”

Peter Marlowe looked back at Toda. “You were army?”

“No, Mr. Marlowe. Navy. Destroyers. I was at the Battle of the Coral Sea in ’42, then at Midway, sub-lieutenant, later at Guadalcanal. I was sunk twice but lucky. Yes, I was lucky, apparently more lucky than you.”

“We’re both alive, both in one piece, more or less.”

“More or less, Mr. Marlowe. I agree. War is a curious way of life.” Toda puffed his cigarette. “Sometime, if it would please you and not hurt, I would like to talk about your Changi, about its lessons and our wars. Please?”

“Sure.”

“I’m here for a few days,” Toda said. “At the Mandarin, back next week. A lunch, or dinner perhaps?”

“Thank you. I’ll call. If not this time perhaps next. One day I’ll be in Tokyo.”

After a pause the Japanese said, “We need not discuss your Changi, if you wish. I would like to know you better. England and Japan have much in common. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I should place my bet.” He bowed politely and walked off. Casey sipped her coffee.

“Was that very hard for you? Being polite?”

“Oh no, Casey. No, it wasn’t, not at all. Now we’re equal, he and I, any Japanese. The Japanese—and Koreans—I hated were the ones with bayonets and bullets when I had none.” She saw him wipe the sweat off, noticing his twisted smile. “’Mahlu, I wasn’t ready to meet one here.”

“’Mahlu? What’s that, Cantonese?”

“Malayan. It means ‘ashamed.’” He smiled to himself. It was a contraction of puki mahlu. Mahlu ashamed, puki a Golden Gulley. Malays grant feelings to that part of a woman: hunger, sadness, kindness, rapaciousness, hesitancy, shame, anger—anything and everything.

“No need to be ashamed, Peter,” she said, not understanding. “I’m astonished you’d talk to any of them after all that POW horror. Oh I really liked the book. Isn’t it marvelous that he’d read it too?”

“Yes. That threw me.”

“May I ask you one question?”

“What?”

“You said Changi was genesis. What did you mean?”

He sighed. “Changi changed everyone, changed values permanently. For instance, it gave you a dullness about death—we saw too much of it to have the same sort of meaning to outsiders, to normal people. We’re a generation of dinosaurs, we the few who survived. I suppose anyone who goes to war, any war, sees life with different eyes if they end up in one piece.”

“What do you see?”

“A lot of bull that’s worshipped as the be-all and end-all of existence. So much of ‘normal, civilized’ life is bull that you can’t imagine it. For us ex-Changi-ites—we’re lucky, we’re cleansed, we know what life is really all about. What frightens you, doesn’t frighten me, what frightens me, you’d laugh at.”

“Like what?”

He grinned at her. “That’s enough about me and my karma. I’ve a hot tip for th—” He stopped and stared off. “Good sweet Christ who’s that?”

Casey laughed. “Riko Gresserhoff. She’s Japanese.”

“Which one’s Mr. Gresserhoff?”

“She’s a widow.”

“Hallelujah!” They watched her go across the room, out onto the terrace.

“Don’t you dare, Peter!”

His voice became Olympian. “I’m a writer! It’s a matter of research!”

“Baloney!”

“You’re right.”

“Peter, they say all first novels are autobiographical. Who were you in the book?”

“The hero of course.”

“The King? The American trader?”

“Oh no. Not him. And that’s quite enough of my past. Let’s talk about you. You sure you’re all right?” His eyes held hers, willing the truth out of her.

“What?”

“There was a rumor that you were in tears last night.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sure?”

She looked back at him, knowing he saw inside of her. “Of course. I’m fine.” A hesitation. “Sometime, sometime I might need a favor.”

“Oh?” He frowned. “I’m in McBride’s box, two down the hall. It’s quite okay to visit if you want.” He glanced off at Riko. His pleasure faded. Now she was talking to Robin Grey and Julian Broadhurst, the Labour MPs. “Guess it’s not my day,” he muttered. “I’ll be back later, got to bet. See you, Casey.”

“What’s your hot tip?”

“Number seven, Winner’s Delight.”

Winner’s Delight, an outsider, won handily by half a length over the favorite, Excellent Day. Hugely pleased with herself, Casey joined the line in front of the winner’s pay window clutching her winning tickets, well aware of the envious stares of others who walked along the corridor outside the boxes. Agonized betters were already putting down their money at other windows for the second race that was the first leg of the double quinella. To win a quinella they had to forecast the first and second runners in any order. The double quinella put the second race together with the fifth that was today’s big race. The double quinella payout would be huge, the odds against forecasting four horses immense. The minimum bet was 5 HK. There was no maximum. “Why’s that, Linc?” she had asked just before the race, craning over the balcony watching the horses in the gate, all Hong Kong yan with their binoculars focused.

“Look at the tote.” The electronic numbers were flashing and changing as money went onto different horses, narrowing the odds, to freeze just before the off. “Look at the total money invested on this race, Casey! It’s better than three and a half million Hong Kong. That’s almost a dollar for every man woman and child in Hong Kong and it’s only the first race. This’s gotta be the richest track in the world! These guys are gambling crazy.”

A vast roar went up as the starters’ gate opened. She had looked at him and smiled. “You okay?”

“Sure. You?”

“Oh yes.”

Yes I am, she thought again, waiting her turn to collect her money. I’m a winner! She laughed out loud.

“Oh hello, Casey! Ah, you won too?”

“Oh! Oh hello, Quillan, yes I did.” She moved out of her place back to Gornt, the others in the line all strangers to her. “I only had 10 on her but yes I won.”

“The amount doesn’t matter, it’s the winning.” Gornt smiled. “I like your hat.”

“Thank you.” Curious, she thought, both Quillan and Ian had mentioned it immediately. Damn Linc!

“It’s very lucky to pick the first winner, first time at the track.”

“Oh I didn’t. It was a tip. Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe.”

“Ah yes. Marlowe.” She saw his eyes change slightly. “You’re still on for tomorrow?”

“Oh. Oh yes. Is it weather permitting?”

“Even if it’s raining. Lunch anyway.”

“Great. The dock at ten sharp. Which’s your box?” She noticed an instant change which he tried to hide.

“I don’t have one. I’m not a steward. Yet. I’m a fairly permanent guest at the Blacs box and from time to time I borrow the whole place for a party. It’s down the corridor. Would you care to come by? Blacs is an excellent bank an—”

“Ah but not as good as the Vic,” Johnjohn called out good-naturedly as he passed. “Don’t believe a word he says, Casey. Congratulations! Good joss to get the first. See you both later.”

Casey watched him thoughtfully. Then she said, “What about all the bank runs, Quillan? No one seems to care—it’s as though they’re not happening, the stock market’s not crashing, and there’s no pending doom.”

Gornt laughed, conscious of the ears that were tuned to their conversation. “Today is race day, a rarity, and tomorrow will take care of tomorrow. Joss! The stock market opens 10:00 A.M. Monday and next week will decide a lot of fates. Meanwhile every Chinese who could get his money out, has it in his fist, here today. Casey, it’s your turn.”

She collected her money. 15 to one. 150 HK. “Hallelujah!” Gornt collected a vast bundle of red notes, 15,000. “Hey, fantastic!”

“Worst race I’ve ever seen,” a sour American voice said. “Hell, it was fantastic they didn’t bust the jockey and disallow the win.”

“Oh hello, Mr. Biltzmann, Mr. Pugmire.” Casey remembered them from the night of the fire. “Bust who?”

Biltzmann stood in the place line. “Stateside there’d be an objection a mile wide. Coming into the straight out of the last bend you could see Excellent Day’s jockey pull the bejesus out of her. It was a fix—he wasn’t trying.”

Those in the know, the very few, smiled to themselves. The whisper in the jockeys’ rooms and trainers’ rooms had been that Excellent Day wasn’t to win but Winner’s Delight would.

“Come now, Mr. Biltzmann,” Dunross said. Unnoticed, he’d heard the exchange as he was passing and had stopped. “If the jockey wasn’t trying, or if there was any tampering, the stewards would be on to it at once.”

“Maybe it’s okay for amateurs, Ian, and this little track but on any professional track at home, Excellent Day’s jockey’d be banned for the rest of his life. I had my glasses on him all the time.” Biltzmann sourly collected his place winnings and stomped off.

Dunross said quietly, “Pug, did you see the jockey do anything untoward? I didn’t watch the race myself.”

“No, no I didn’t.”

“Anyone?” Those nearby shook their heads.

“Seemed all right to me,” someone said. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“None of the stewards queried anything.” Then Dunross noticed the large roll of notes in Gornt’s hand. He looked up at him. “Quillan?”

“No. But I must tell you frankly I find that berk’s manner appalling. I hardly think he’d be a proper addition to the Turf Club.” Just then he saw Robin Grey go past to place a bet and smiled at a sudden thought. “Excuse me, will you?” He nodded politely and walked off. Casey saw Dunross watching the roll of notes that Gornt put into a pocket and was inwardly aghast at the momentary look on his face.

“Could Biltzmann … could he’ve been correct?” she asked nervously.

“Of course.” Dunross put his full attention on her. “Fixing happens everywhere. That’s really not the point. There’s been no objection from any of the stewards or jockeys or trainers.” His eyes were slate gray. The small vein in his forehead was pulsating. “That’s not the real point at issue.” No, he was thinking. It’s a matter of bloody manners. Even so, calm yourself. You have to be very cool and very calm and very collected this weekend.

All day he had had nothing but trouble. The only bright moment had been Riko Anjin Gresserhoff. But then AMG’s last letter had once more filled him with gloom. It was still in his pocket and it had told him that if by chance he had not destroyed the original files, to heat a dozen specified pages that were spread throughout, the secret information written in invisible ink on these pages to be passed privately to the prime minister or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, personally—and a copy given to Riko Anjin in a sealed envelope.

If I do that then I have to admit the files I gave him were false, he thought, weary of AMG, espionage and his instructions. Goddamnit, Murtagh doesn’t arrive till later, Sir Geoffrey can’t call London till 4:00 P.M. about Tiptop and Brian Kwok and, Christ Jesus, now some rude bastard calls us all amateurs … which we are. I’ll bet a hundred to a bent hatpin Quillan knew before the race.

At a sudden thought he said casually, “How did you pick the winner, Casey? With the proverbial pin?”

“Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe.” Her face changed. “Oh! Do you think he heard it was fixed?”

“If I thought that for a moment, the race would have been set aside. There’s nothing I can do now. Biltzmann …” Suddenly he gasped as the idea hit him in all its glory.

“What’s the matter?”

Dunross took her arm and led her aside. “To get your drop dead money are you prepared to gamble?” he asked softly.

“Sure, sure, Ian, if it’s legal. But gamble what?” she asked, her innate caution uppermost.

“Everything you’ve got in the bank, your house in Laurel Canyon, your stock in Par-Con against 2 to 4 million within thirty days. How about it?”

Her heart was thumping, his obvious excitement sweeping her. “Okay,” she said and then wished she hadn’t said it, her stomach fluttering. “Jesus!”

“Good. Stay here a second. I’ll go and find Bartlett.”

“Wait! Is he part of this? What is this, Ian?”

He beamed. “A modest business opportunity. Yes, Bartlett’s essential. Does that make you change your mind?”

“No,” she told him uneasily, “but I said I wanted to get my … my stake outside of Par-Con.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Wait here.” Dunross hurried back into his box, found Bartlett and brought him back, led the way down the bustling corridor to the Struan kitchen, greeting people here and there. The kitchen was small, busy and sparkling. The staff paid no attention to them. A door opened into a tiny private room, carefully soundproofed. Four chairs, a table and phone. “My father had this constructed during his tenure—lots of business is done at the races. Sit down please. Now”—he looked at Bartlett—“I’ve a business proposal for you, for you and Casey as individuals, outside of our Par-Con deal, nothing to do with the Par-Con–Struan proposal. Are you interested?”

“Sure. This a Hong Kong scam?”

“Do you mind?” Dunross beamed. “It’s an honest-to-God Hong Kong business proposal.”

“Okay, let’s have it.”

“Before I lay it out there are ground rules: It’s my game, you two’re bystanders but you’re in for 49 percent of the profits, to be shared equally between you two. Okay?”

“What’s the full game plan, Ian?” Bartlett asked cautiously.

“Next: You put up $2 million U.S. by Monday 9:00 A.M. into a Swiss bank of my choosing.”

Bartlett’s eyes narrowed. “Against what?”

“Against 49 percent of the profit.”

“What profit?”

“You put up $2 million for Gornt, no paper, no chop, no nothing except against potential profit.”

Bartlett grinned. “How long have you known about that?”

Dunross smiled back. “I told you, there’re no secrets here. Are you in?” Dunross saw Bartlett glance at Casey and he held his breath.

“Casey, you know what this’s all about?”

“No, Linc.” Casey turned to Dunross. “What is the scam, Ian?”

“First I want to know if I get the 2 million advance free and clear—if you go for this scheme.”

“What’s the profit potential?” Casey asked.

“$4 to $12 million. Tax free.”

Casey blanched. “Tax free?”

“Free of any Hong Kong taxes and we can help you avoid States taxes if you want.”

“What’s … what’s the payout period?” Bartlett asked.

“The profit’ll be set in thirty days. The payout will take five to six months.”

“The $4 to $12 million’s the total, or our share only?”

“Your share.”

“That’s a lot of profit for something completely, twenty-four-carat legal.”

There was a great silence. Dunross waited, willing them onward.

“$2 million cash?” Bartlett said. “No security, no nothing?”

“No. But after I’ve laid it out you can put up or pass.”

“What’s Gornt to do with this?”

“Absolutely nothing. This venture has nothing to do with Gornt, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con, your interest in them or us or the Par-Con deal. This is totally outside, whatever happens—my word on that. And my word before God, that I’ll never tell him you’ve put up this $2 million, that you two are my partners and in for a piece—or, by the way, that I know about the three of you selling me short.” He smiled. “That was a very good idea by the way.”

“The deal’s swung by my $2 million?”

“No. Greased. I haven’t $2 million U.S. cash as you know, otherwise you wouldn’t be invited in.”

“Why us, Ian? You could raise 2 mill from one of your friends here, easy, if it’s so good.”

“Yes. But I choose to sweeten the lure to you two. By the way, you are held to Tuesday at midnight.” Dunross said it flat. Then his voice changed and the others felt the glee. “But with this—this business venture—I can dramatize how much superior we are to Rothwell-Gornt, how much more exciting it’ll be being associated with us than him. You’re a gambler, so am I. Raider Bartlett they call you and I’m tai-pan of the Noble House. You gambled a paltry $2 million with Gornt, with no chop, why not with me?”

Bartlett glanced at Casey. She gave him neither a yes or a no though he knew the lure had her in spades.

“Since you’re setting the rules, Ian, answer me this: I put up the $2 million. Why should we share equally, Casey and I?”

“I remember what you said over dinner about drop dead money. You’ve got yours, she hasn’t. This could be a device to get her hers.”

“Why’re you so concerned over Casey? You trying to divide and rule?”

“If that’s possible then you shouldn’t be in a very special partnership and business relationship. She’s your right arm, you told me. She’s clearly very important to you and to Par-Con so she’s entitled to share.”

“What does she risk?”

“She’ll put up her house, her savings, her Par-Con stock—that’s everything she has—alongside yours. She’ll sign it all over for a half share. Right?”

Casey nodded, numb. “Sure.”

Sharply Bartlett glanced at Casey. “I thought you said you knew nothing about this?”

She looked at him. “Couple of minutes ago, Ian asked if I’d gamble my all to get some drop dead money, big money.” She gulped and added, “I said okay and already wish I hadn’t.”

Bartlett thought a moment. “Casey, blunt: You want in or you want out?”

“In.”

“Okay.” Then Bartlett beamed. “Okay, tai-pan, now who do we have to kill?”

Nine Carat Chu, who was a sometime gold coolie for the Victoria Bank and also the father of two sons and two daughters—Lily Su who was Havergill’s occasional friend and Wisteria who was John Chen’s mistress, whose joss was to be trampled to death outside the Ho-Pak at Aberdeen—waited his turn at the betting window.

“Yes, old man?” the impatient teller said.

He pulled out a roll of money. It was all the money he had and all the money he could borrow, leaving only enough for three inhalations of the White Powder that he would need to see him through his night shift tonight. “The double quinella, by all the gods! Eight and five in the second race, seven and one in the fifth.”

The teller methodically counted out the crumpled bills. 728 HK. He pressed the buttons of those numbers and checked the first ticket. It was correct: five and eight—second race; seven and one—fifth race. Carefully he counted 145 tickets, each of 5 HK, the minimum bet, and gave them to him with 3 HK change. “Hurry up, by all the gods,” the next in line called out. “Are your fingers in your Black Hole?”

“Be patient!” the old man muttered, feeling faint, “this is serious business!” Carefully he checked his tickets. The first, three random ones and the last were correct, and the number of tickets correct, so he gave up his place and pushed his way out of the press into the air. Once in the air he felt a little better, still nauseated but better. He had walked all the way from his night shift of work at the construction site of the new high-rise up above Kotewall Road in Mid Levels to save the fare.

Again he checked his tickets. Eight and five in this race and seven and one in the fifth, the big race. Good, he thought, putting them carefully into his pocket. I’ve done the best I can. Now it is up to the gods.

His chest was hurting him very much so he fought through the crowd to the toilet and there he lit a match and inhaled the smoke from the bubbling White Powder. In time he felt better and went outside again. The second race was already on. Beside himself with anxiety he pushed and shoved his way to the rails, careless of the curses that followed him. The horses were rounding the far bend, galloping toward him into the last straight for the winning post, now past in a thundering blur as he strained his rheumy old eyes to find his numbers.

“Who’s leading?” he gasped but no one paid any attention to him, just shouted their own choice on to victory in a growing seething roar that was all possessing, then vanished as the winner won.

“Who won?” Nine Carat Chu gasped, his head exploding.

“Who cares!” someone said with a stream of curses. “It wasn’t mine! All gods piss on that jockey forever!”

“I can’t read the tote, who won?”

“It was a photo finish, old fool, can’t you see! There were three horses bunched together. Fornicate all photo finishes! We must wait.”

“But the numbers.… What are the numbers?”

“Five and eight and four, Lucky Court, my horse! Come on you son of a whore’s left tit! Four and eight for the quinella by all the gods!”

They waited. And waited. The old man thought he would faint so he put his mind on to better things, like his conversation with Noble House Chen this morning. Three times he had called and each time a servant had answered and hung up. It was only when he had said “Werewolf” that Noble House Chen himself had come to the phone.

“Please excuse me for mentioning the terrible slayers of your son,” he had said. “It wasn’t me, Honored Sir, oh no. I am just the father of your late honorable son’s mistress, Wisteria Su, to whom he has written his undying love in the letter that was printed in all the newspapers.”

“Eh? Liar! All lies. Do you think I’m a fool to be squeezed by any dogmeat caller? Who are you?”

“My name is Hsi-men Su,” he had said, the lie coming easily. “There are two more letters, Honorable Chen. I thought you might wish to have them back even though they’re all we have from my poor dead daughter and your poor dead son who I considered like my own son over all the months that he an—”

“More lies! The mealy-mouthed strumpet never had any letters from my son! Our deadly police put forgers in jail, oh yes! Am I a peasant-headed monkey from the Outer Provinces? Beware! Now I suppose you’ll produce an infant that you’ll claim my son sired? Eh? Eh?”

Nine Carat Chu almost dropped the phone. He had discussed and arranged that very ploy with his wife and his sons and Lily. It had been easy to find a relation who would lend a babe in arms for a fee.

“Eh,” he spluttered in shock, “am I a liar? Me who fairly, for modest cash, gave his only virgin daughter to be your son’s whore and only love.” He used the English words carefully, his daughter Lily having coached him for hours so that he could say it properly. “By all the gods we’ve protected your great name at no charge! When we went to claim my poor daughter’s body we did not tell the deadly police who desire, oh ko, yes, who desire to find out who the writer was to trap the Werewolves! All gods curse those evil sons of whores! Haven’t four Chinese papers already offered rewards for the name of the writer, heya? It is only fair I offer the letters to you before collecting the newspapers’ reward, heya?”

Patiently he had listened to the stream of invective that had begun the negotiation. Several times both sides had pretended they were going to put the phone down, but neither side broke off the bargaining. At length it was left that if a photocopy of one of the other letters was sent to Noble House Chen as proof that it and the others were no forgery, then “it might be, Honorable Su, the other letters—and this one—might be worth a very modest amount of Fragrant Grease.”

Nine Carat Chu chortled to himself now. Oh yes, he thought contentedly, Noble House Chen will pay handsomely, particularly when he reads the parts about himself. Oh if those were printed surely it would hold him up to ridicule before all Hong Kong and take his face away forever. Now, how much should I settle f—

A sudden roar surrounded him and he almost fell over. His heart began pounding, his breath short. He held on to the rails and peered at the distant tote. “Who … what are the numbers?” he asked, then screeched over the noise and tugged at his neighbors. “The numbers, tell me the numbers!”

“The winner’s eight, Buccaneer, the gelding of the Noble House. Ayeeyah, can’t you see the tai-pan leading him into the winner’s circle now? Buccaneer’s paying 7 to 1.”

“The second? Who was the second horse?”

“Number five, Winsome Lady, 3 to 1 for a place.… What’s wrong, old man, have you a palsy?”

“No … no …” Weakly Nine Carat Chu groped away. At length he found a small empty patch of concrete and spread his racing form on the wet concrete and sat down, his head on his knees and arms, his mind sweeping him into the ecstasy of winning the first leg. Oh oh oh! And nothing to do now but wait, and if the time of waiting is too long I will use one more of the White Powders, yes, and that will leave me the last to see me through tonight’s work. Now, all gods concentrate! The first leg was won by my own shrewdness. Please concentrate on the fifth! Seven and one! All gods concentrate….

Over by the winner’s circle the stewards and owners and officials clustered. Dunross had intercepted his horse and congratulated the jockey. Buccaneer had run a fine race and now as he led the gelding into the winner’s circle amid another burst of cheering and congratulations he kept his exuberance deliberately open. He wanted to let the world see his pleasure and confidence, very aware that winning this race was an immense omen, over and above the fact of winning. The omen would be doubled and tripled if he won with Noble Star. Two horses in the double quinella would absolutely set Gornt and his allies back on their heels. And if Murtagh works his magic or if Tiptop keeps his bargain to swap the money for Brian Kwok or if Tightfist or Lando or Four Fingers …

“Hey, Mr. Dunross, sir, congratulations!”

Dunross glanced at the crowd on the rails. “Oh hello, Mr. Choy,” he said, recognizing Four Finger Wu’s Seventh Son and supposed nephew. He went closer and shook hands. “Did you have the winner?”

“Yes sir, sure, I’m with the Noble House all the way! We’re on the double quinella, my uncle and me. We just won the first leg five and eight, and we’ve seven and eight in the fifth. He’s got 10,000 riding, me, my whole week’s salary!”

“Then let’s hope we win, Mr. Choy.”

“You can say that again, tai-pan,” the young man said with his easy American familiarity.

Dunross smiled and walked over to Travkin. “Are you sure Johnny Moore can’t ride Noble Star? I don’t want Tom Wong.”

“I told you, tai-pan, Johnny’s sicker than a drunken cossack.”

“I need the win. Noble Star is to win.”

Travkin saw Dunross look at Buccaneer speculatively. “No, tai-pan, please don’t ride Noble Star. The going’s bad, very bad and very dangerous and it’ll get worse as they hack up the turf. Kristos! I suppose that’ll only make you want to ride her more.”

“My future could ride on that race—and the face of the Noble House.”

“I know.” Angrily the gnarled old Russian slapped the switch he carried perpetually against his ancient jodhpurs, shining with use. “And I know you’re better than all the other jockeys but that turf,s danger—”

“I don’t trust anyone in this, Alexi. I can’t afford any mistake.” Dunross dropped his voice. “Was the first race fixed?”

Travkin stared back levelly. “They weren’t doped, tai-pan. Not to my knowledge. The police doctor has put the fear of God into those who might be tempted.”

“Good. But was it fixed?”

“It wasn’t my race, tai-pan. I’m only interested in my horses and my races. I didn’t watch that race.”

“That’s convenient, Alexi. Seems that none of the other trainers did either.”

“Listen, tai-pan. I have a jockey for you. Me. I’ll ride Noble Star.”

Dunross’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at the sky. It was darker than before. There’ll be rain soon, he thought and there’s much to do before the rain. Me or Alexi? Alexi’s legs are good, his hands the best, his experience immense. But he thinks more of the horse than of winning. “I’ll consider it,” he said. “After the fourth race I’ll decide.”

“I’ll win,” the older man said, desperate for the chance to extricate himself from his agreement with Suslev. “I’ll win even if I have to kill Noble Star.”

“No need to do that, Alexi. I’m rather fond of that horse.”

“Tai-pan, listen, perhaps a favor? I’ve a problem. Can I see you tonight or Sunday, Sunday or Monday late, say at Sinclair Towers?”

“Why there?”

“We made our deal there, I’d like to talk there. But if it’s not all right the day after.”

“You’re going to leave us?”

“Oh no, no it’s not that. If you’ve time. Please.”

“All right but it can’t be tonight, or Sunday or Monday, I’m going to Taipei. I could see you Tuesday at 10:00 P.M. How’s that?”

“Fine, Tuesday’s fine yes, thank you.”

“I’ll be down after the next race.”

Alexi watched the tai-pan walk for the elevators. He was near tears, an overwhelming affection for Dunross possessing him.

His eyes went to Suslev who was in the general stands nearby. Trying to appear casual he held up the prearranged number of fingers: one for tonight, two for Sunday, three Monday, four Tuesday. His eyes were very good and he saw Suslev acknowledge the signal. Matyeryebyets, he thought. Betrayer of Mother Russia and all us Russians, you and all your KGB brethren! I curse you in the name of God, for me and all Russians if the truth be known.

Never mind that! I’m going to ride Noble Star, he told himself grimly, one way or another.

Dunross got into the elevator amid more congratulations and much envy. At the top floor Gavallan and Jacques were waiting for him. “Is everything ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gavallan replied. “Gornt’s there, and the others you wanted. What’s cooking?”

“Come along and you’ll see. By the way, Andrew, I’m switching Jacques and David MacStruan. Jacques will take over Canada for a year, David—”

Jacques’s face lit up. “Oh thank you tai-pan. Yes, thanks very much. I’ll make Canada very profitable, I promise.”

“What about the changeover?” Gavallan asked. “Do you want Jacques to go there first or will David come here?”

“He arrives Monday. Jacques, you hand over everything to David, then next week you can both go back together for a couple of weeks. You go via France, eh? Pick up Susanne and Avril, she should be well enough by then. There’s nothing urgent in Canada at the moment—it’s more urgent here.”

“Oh yes, ma foi! Yes, yes thank you, tai-pan.”

Gavallan said thoughtfully, “It’ll be good to see old David.” He liked David MacStruan very much but he was still wondering why the change, and did this mean that Jacques was out of the running to inherit the tai-pan’s mantle and David in and his own position changed, changing or threatened—if there was anything left to inherit after Monday. And what about Kathy?

Joss, he told himself. What is to be will be. Oh goddamn everything!

“You two go on ahead,” Dunross said. “I’ll get Phillip.” He turned into the Chen box. By ancient custom the compradore of the Noble House was automatically a steward. Perhaps for the last year, Dunross thought grimly. If Phillip doesn’t deliver help in the form of Four Finger Wu, Lando Mata, Tightfist or something tangible by Sunday at midnight he’s blackballed.

“Hello, Phillip,” he said, his voice friendly, greeting the other guests in the packed box. “You ready?”

“Oh yes, yes, tai-pan.” Phillip Chen was looking older. “Congratulations on the win.”

“Yes, tai-pan, a marvelous omen—we’re all praying for the fifth!” Dianne Chen called out, trying equally hard to hide her apprehension, Kevin beside her, echoing her.

“Thank you,” Dunross said, sure that Phillip Chen had told her about their meeting. She wore a hat with bird of paradise feathers, and too many jewels.

“Champagne, tai-pan?”

“No thanks, later perhaps. Sorry, Dianne, have to borrow Phillip for a moment or two. Won’t be long.”

Outside in the corridor he stopped a moment. “Any luck, Phillip?”

“I’ve … I’ve talked to all the … all of them. They’re meeting tomorrow morning.”

“Where? Macao?”

“No, here.” Phillip Chen dropped his voice even more. “I’m sorry about … about all the mess my son’s caused … yes, very sorry,” he said, meaning it.

“I accept your apology. If it hadn’t been for your carelessness and treachery, we’d never have become that vulnerable. Christ Jesus, if Gornt gets our balance sheets for the last few years and our interlocking corporate structures, we’re up the creek without a paddle.”

“I … I had a thought, tai-pan, how to extract our—how to extract the House. After the races, could I … a little time, please?”

“You’re coming for drinks tonight? With Dianne?”

“Yes, if … yes please. May I bring Kevin?”

Dunross smiled fleetingly to himself. The heir apparent, officially and so soon. Karma. “Yes. Come along.”

“What’s this all about, tai-pan?”

“You’ll see. Please say nothing, do nothing, just accept—with great confidence—that you’re part of the package, and when I leave follow me, spread the word and good cheer. If we fail, the House of Chen fails first, come hell, high water or typhoon!” He turned into the McBride box. There were more immediate congratulations and many said it was great joss.

“Good God, tai-pan,” McBride said, “if Noble Star wins the fifth, wouldn’t it be marvelous!”

“Pilot Fish will beat Noble Star,” Gornt said confidently. He was at the bar with Jason Plumm getting a drink. “10,000 says he’ll finish ahead of your filly.”

“Taken,” Dunross said at once. There were cheers and hoots of derision from the thirty-odd guests and once more Bartlett and Casey, who had by arrangement with Dunross ostensibly just wandered in a few minutes ago to visit Peter Marlowe, were inwardly staggered at the festive air and Dunross’s high-flying confidence.

“How’re you doing, Dunstan?” Dunross asked. He paid Casey and Bartlett no attention, concentrating on the big florid man who was more florid than usual, a double brandy in his hand.

“Very well, thank you, Ian. Got the first, and Buccaneer—made a bundle on Buccaneer, but blew my damned quinella. Lucky Court let me down.”

The room was the same size as the Struan box but not as well decorated, though equally well filled with many of the Hong Kong elite, some invited here a moment ago by Gavallan and McBride for Dunross. Lando Mata, Holdbrook—Struan’s in-house stockbroker—Sir Luis Basilio—head of the stock exchange—Johnjohn, Havergill, Southerby—chairman of Blacs—Richard Kwang, Pugmire, Biltzmann, Sir Dunstan Barre, young Martin Haply of the China Guardian. And Gornt. Dunross looked at him. “Did you get the winner of the last race too?”

“No. I didn’t fancy any runner. What’s all this about, Ian?” Gornt said, and everyone’s attention soared. “You want to make an announcement?”

“Yes, as a courtesy I thought you should know, along with other VIPs.” Dunross turned to Pugmire. “Pug, the Noble House is formally contesting the American Superfoods takeover of your H.K. General Stores.”

There was a vast silence and everyone stared at him. Pugmire had gone white. “What?”

“We’re offering $5 a share more than Superfoods, we’ll further improve their bid by making it 30 percent cash and 70 percent stock, everything done within thirty days!”

“You’ve gone mad,” Pugmire burst out. Didn’t I sound everyone out first, he wanted to shout, including you? Didn’t you and everyone approve or at least not disapprove? Isn’t that the way it’s done here for God’s sake—private chats at the Club, here at the races, over a private dinner or wherever? “You can’t do that,” he muttered.

“I already have,” Dunross said.

Gornt said harshly, “All you’ve done, Ian, is to make an announcement. How are you going to pay? In thirty or three hundred days.”

Dunross just looked at him. “The bid’s public. We complete in thirty days. Pug, you’ll get the official papers by 9:30 A.M. Monday, with a cash down payment to cement the tender.”

Momentarily he was drowned out as others began talking, asking questions, everyone immediately concerned how this astonishing development would affect them personally. No one had ever contested a prearranged takeover before. Johnjohn and Havergill were furious that this had been done without consultation, and the other banker, Southerby of Blacs, who was merchant-banking the Super foods takeover, was equally upset that he had been caught off balance. But all the bankers, even Richard Kwang, were counting possibilities, for if the stock market was normal and Struan’s stock at its normal level, the Struan’s bid could be very good for both sides. Everyone knew that Struan’s management could revitalize the rich but stagnant hong, and the acquisition would strengthen the Noble House immeasurably, put their end-of-year gross up at least 20 percent and of course increase their dividends. On top of all that, the takeover would keep all the profits in Hong Kong, and not have them trickle away to an outsider. Particularly Biltzmann.

Oh my God, Barre was thinking with vast admiration and not a little envy, for Ian to make the tender here, in public, on a Saturday, with never the breath of a rumor that he was contemplating the unthinkable, with nothing to give you an inkling so that you could have bought in quietly last week at bottom to make a fortune with one phone call, was brilliant. Of course Pug’s General Stores shares will soar first thing on Monday. But how in the hell did Ian and Havergill keep it quiet? Christ I could’ve made a bundle if I’d known, perhaps I still can! The rumors about the Victoria not supporting Struan’s is obviously a lot of cobblers….

Wait a minute. Sir Luis Basilio was thinking, didn’t we buy a huge block of General Stores last week for a nominee buyer? Good God, has the tai-pan outsmarted all of us? But Madonna, wait a minute, what about the run on his stock, what about the market crashing, what about the cash he’ll have to put up to fix the tender, what about…

Even Gornt was counting, his mind flooded with fury that he had not thought of the ploy first. He knew the bid was good, perfect in fact, that he could not top it, not at the moment. But then, Ian can’t complete. There’s no wa—

“Can we go to press on this, tai-pan?” Martin Haply’s incisive Canadian voice cut through the excited uproar.

“Certainly, Mr. Haply.”

“May I ask a few questions?”

“It depends what they are,” Dunross said easily. Looking at the penetrating brown eyes, he was grimly amused. We could use a right rotten young bastard in the family—if he could be trusted with Adryon. “What had you in mind?”

“This’s the first time a takeover’s ever been contested. May I ask why you’re doing it at this time?”

“Struan’s have always been innovative. As to timing, we considered it perfect.”

“Do you consider this Sat—”

Biltzmann interrupted harshly, “We have a deal. It’s set. Dickie?” He whirled on Pugmire. “Eh?”

“It was all set, Mr. Biltzmann,” Dunross said crisply. “But we’re contesting your tender, just as it’s done in the States, according to American rules. I presume you don’t mind a contest? Of course we are amateurs here but we enjoy trying to learn from our peers. Until the stockholders’ meeting nothing’s final, that’s the law isn’t it?”

“Yes, but … but it was set!” The tall gray-haired man turned to Pugmire, hardly able to speak he was so angry. “You said it was all agreed.”

“Well, the directors had agreed,” Pugmire said uneasily, conscious of everyone listening, particularly Haply, one half of him ecstatic with the vastly improved offer, the other furious that he, too, had had no advance warning so he could have bought in heavily. “But, er, but of course it has to be ratified by the stockholders at the Friday meeting. We had no idea there’d be a … Er, Ian, er, Chuck, don’t you think this is hardly the place to dis—”

“I agree,” the tai-pan said. “But at the moment there’s little to discuss. The offer’s made. By the way, Pug, your own deal stands, except that it’s extended from five to seven years, with a seat on Struan’s board for the same period.”

Pugmire’s mouth dropped open. “That’s part of the tender?”

“We’d need your expertise, of course,” Dunross said airily, and everyone knew Pugmire was hooked and landed. “The rest of the package as negotiated by you and Superfoods stands. The papers will be on your desk by 9:30. Perhaps you’ll put our tender to your stockholders on Friday.” He went over to Biltzmann and put out his hand. “Good luck. I presume you’ll be coming back with a counteroffer at once.”

“Well, er, I have to check with head office, Mr., er, tai-pan.” Biltzmann was flushed and angry. “We … we put our best foot forward and … That’s a mighty fine offer you made. Yes. But with the run on your stock, the run on the banks and the market going down, that’s going to be kinda hard to close, isn’t it?”

“Not at all, Mr. Biltzmann,” Dunross said, gambling everything that Bartlett would not renege on the promise of cash, that he would close with Par-Con, extricate himself from Gornt and put his stock back into its rightful place by next weekend. “We can close with no trouble at all.”

Biltzmann’s voice sharpened. “Dickie, I think you’d better consider our bid carefully. It’s good till Tuesday,” he said, confident that by Tuesday Struan’s would be in a shambles. “Now I’ll make me a bet on the next race.” He stalked out. Tension in the box went up several decibels.

Everyone began talking but Haply called out, “Tai-pan, may I ask a question?”

Again attention zeroed. “What is it?”

“I understand it’s customary in takeovers for there to be a down payment, in cash, a measure of good faith. May I ask how much Struan’s is putting up?”

Everyone waited breathlessly, watching Dunross. He held the pause as his eyes raked the faces, enjoying the excitement, knowing everyone wanted him humbled, almost everyone, except … except who? Casey for one, even though she’s in the know. Bartlett? I don’t know, not for certain. Claudia? Oh yes, Claudia was staring at him, white-faced. Donald McBride, Gavallan, even Jacques.

His eyes stopped on Martin Haply. “Perhaps Mr. Pugmire would prefer to have that detail in private,” he said, leading them on. “Eh, Pug?”

Gornt interrupted Pugmire and said, as a challenge, “Ian, since you’ve decided to be unorthodox, why not make it all public? How much you put down measures the value of your tender. Doesn’t it?”

“No. Not really,” Dunross said. He heard the distant muted roar of the off for the third race and was sure, watching the faces, that no one heard it except him. “Oh, very well,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Pug, how about $2 million, U.S., with the papers at 9:30 Monday? In good faith.”

A gasp went through the room. Havergill, Johnjohn, Southerby, Gornt, were aghast. Phillip Chen almost fainted. Involuntarily Havergill began, “Ian, don’t you think we, er, th—”

Dunross wheeled on him. “Oh, don’t you consider it enough, Paul?”

“Oh yes, yes of course, more than enough, but, er …” Havergill’s words trailed off under Dunross’s gaze.

“Oh for a moment…” Dunross stopped, pretending to have a sudden thought. “Oh, you needn’t worry, Paul, I haven’t committed you without your approval of course. I have alternate financing for this deal, external financing,” he continued with his easy charm. “As you know, Japanese banks and many others are anxious to expand into Asia. I thought it better—to keep everything secret and prevent the usual leaks—to finance this externally until I was ready to announce. Fortunately the Noble House has friends all over the world! See you all later!”

He turned and left. Phillip Chen followed. Martin Haply started for the phone and then everyone was talking and saying I don’t believe it, Christ if Ian’s got that sort of external funds …

In the hubbub Havergill asked Johnjohn, “Which Japanese bank?”

“I wish I knew. If Ian’s got finance for this … my God, $2 million U.S.’s twice as much as he needed to offer.”

Southerby, who was alongside them, wiped his palms. “If Ian pulls this off it’ll be worth $10 million U.S. the first year at least.” He smiled sardonically. “Well, Paul, now it looks as though we’re both out of this particular pie.”

“Yes, yes it does, but I just don’t see how Ian could … and to keep it so quiet!”

Southerby bent closer. “Meanwhile,” he asked softly, “more important, what about Tiptop?”

“Nothing, nothing yet. He hasn’t returned my calls, or Johnjohn’s.” Havergill’s eyes fell on Gornt who was now talking privately with Plumm. He turned his back on him. “What will Quillan do now?”

“Buy first thing Monday morning. He has to. Has to now, too dangerous to hold on,” Southerby said.

“I agree,” Sir Luis Basilio added, joining them. “If Ian can toss that sort of cash around, those who’ve been selling him short better watch out. Come to think of it, we’ve been buying General Stores for nominees this last week. Probably Ian, eh? He has to have taken a position, lucky devil!”

“Yes,” Johnjohn muttered. “For the life of me I can’t figure … Good sweet Christ, and now if he wins with Noble Star! With joss like that he could turn his whole mess about, you know what Chinese’re like!”

“Yes,” Gornt said, butting in, startling them. “But thank God we’re not all Chinese. We’ve yet to see the cash.”

“He must have it—must have it,” Johnjohn said. “Matter of face.”

“Ah, face.” Gornt was sardonic. “9:30 A.M., eh? If he’d really been smart he would have said noon, or 3:00 P.M., then we wouldn’t know all day and he could’ve manipulated us all day. As it is now…” Gornt shrugged. “I win either way, millions, if not control.” He glanced across the noisy box, nodded noncommittally to Bartlett and Casey, then turned away.

Bartlett took Casey’s arm and led her on to the balcony. “What do you think?” he asked softly.

“About Gornt?”

“About Dunross.”

“Fantastic! He’s fantastic. ‘Japanese bank’—that was a stunning red herring,” she said excitedly. “He’s put this whole group into a tailspin, you could see that, and if this group, the whole of Hong Kong. You heard what Southerby said?”

“Sure. It looks like we’ve all got it made—if he can squeeze out of Gornt’s trap.”

“Let’s hope.” Then she noticed his smile. “What?”

“You know what we just did, Casey? We just bought the Noble House for the promise of 2 million bucks.”

“How?”

“Ian’s gambling I will put up the 2.”

“That’s no gamble, Linc, that was the deal.”

“Sure. But say I don’t. His whole pack of cards collapses. If he doesn’t get the 2 he’s finished. Yesterday I told Gornt I might jerk the rug Monday morning. Say I withdraw Ian’s 2 before the market opens. Ian’s down the tube.”

She stared at him, appalled. “You wouldn’t?”

“We came here to raid and become the Noble House. Look what Ian did to Biltzmann, what they all did to him. That poor bastard didn’t know what hit him. Pugmire made a deal but reneged to take Ian’s better offer. Right?”

“That’s different.” She looked at him searchingly. “You’re going to renege after making a deal?”

Bartlett smiled a strange smile, looked down at the packed crowds and at the tote. “Maybe. Maybe that depends on who does what to whom over the weekend. Gornt or Dunross, it’s all the same.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Sure, Casey, I know,” he said calmly. “But it’s my $2 million and my game.”

“Yes, and your word and your face! You shook on the deal.”

“Casey, these guys here would eat us for breakfast if they got the chance. You think Dunross wouldn’t sell us out if he had to choose between him and us?”

After a pause she said, “You’re saying a deal’s never a deal, no matter what?”

“You want $4 million tax free?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Say you’re in for 49 percent of the new Par-Con-Gornt company, free and clear. It’s got to be worth that.”

“More,” she said, afraid of this line of talk and for the first time in her life suddenly not sure of Bartlett.

“You want that 49 percent?”

“In return for what, Linc?”

“In return for getting in back of Gornt-Par-Con 100 percent.”

Her stomach felt weak and she looked at him searchingly, trying to read his mind. Normally she could, but not since Orlanda. “Are you offering that?”

He shook his head, his smile the same, his voice the same. “No. Not yet.”

She shivered, afraid she would take the deal if it were really offered. “I’m glad, Raider. I guess, yes, I’m glad.”

“The point’s straight and simple, Casey: Dunross and Gornt play the game to win but for different stakes. Why this box would mean more to both of them than $2 or $4 million. We came here, you and I, to profit and to win.”

They both glanced at the sky as a few raindrops spattered. But it was from the roof overhang and not a new shower. She began to say something, stopped.

“What, Casey?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m going to circulate, see what the reaction is. See you back in our box.”

“What about the fifth?” she asked.

“Wait for the odds. I’ll be back before the start.”

“Have fun!” She followed him with her eyes, out of the door, then turned and leaned on the balcony to hide from him and everyone. She had almost blurted out, Are you going to pull the rug and renege?

Jesus, before Orlanda—before Hong Kong—I’d never have needed to ask that question. Linc would never go back on a deal before. But now, now I’m not sure.

Again she shivered. What about my tears? I’ve never pulled that one before, and what about Murtagh? Should I tell Linc about Murtagh now—or later—because he must be told, certainly before 9:30 Monday. Oh God, I wish we’d never come here.

The patter of rain splashed the stadium and someone said, “Christ, I hope it doesn’t get any worse!” The track was already scarred and muddy and very slippery. Outside the main entrance the road was slicked, puddled, traffic heavy and many late-coming people still hurried through the turnstiles.

Roger Crosse, Sinders and Robert Armstrong got out of the police car and went through the barriers and the checkpoints to the members’ elevator, their blue lapel badges fluttering. Crosse had been a voting member for five years, Armstrong for one. Crosse was also a steward this year. Every year the commissioner of police suggested to the stewards that the police should have their own box and each year the stewards agreed enthusiastically and nothing happened.

In the members’ stand Armstrong lit a cigarette. His face was lined, his eyes tired. The huge, crowded room went half the length of the stands. They went to the bar and ordered drinks, greeting other members. “Who’s that?” Sinders asked.

Armstrong followed his glance. “That’s a little of our local color, Mr. Sinders.” His voice was sardonic. “Her name’s Venus Poon and she’s our top TV starlet.”

Venus Poon was wearing a full-length mink and surrounded by an admiring group of Chinese. “The fellow on her left’s Charles Wang—he’s a film producer, multimillionaire, cinemas, dance halls, nightclubs, bars, girls and a couple of banks in Thailand. The small old man who looks like a bamboo and’s just as tough is Four Finger Wu, one of our local pirates—smuggling’s his life’s work and he’s very good.”

“Yes,” Crosse said. “We almost caught him a couple of days ago. We think he’s into heroin now—of course gold.”

“Who’s the nervous one in the gray suit? The fellow on the outside?”

“That’s Richard Kwang of the Ho-Pak disaster,” Armstrong said. “The banker. He’s her current, or was her current—what’s the word—patron?”

“Interesting.” Sinders concentrated on Venus Poon. Her dress was low-cut and saucy. “Yes, very. And who’s that? Over there—the one with the European.”

“Where? Oh. That’s Orlanda Ramos, Portuguese which usually means Eurasian here. Once she was Quillan Gornt’s mistress. Now, now I don’t know. The man’s Linc Bartlett, the ‘gun-runner.’”

“Ah! She’s unattached?”

“Perhaps.”

“She looks expensive.” Sinders sipped his drink and sighed. “Delectable, but expensive.”

“I’d say very,” Crosse told him distastefully. Orlanda Ramos was with several middle-aged women, all couturier dressed, around Bartlett. “Rather overdone for my taste.”

Sinders glanced at him, surprised. “I haven’t seen so many smashers in years—or so many jewels. Have you ever had a raid here?”

Crosse’s eyes soared. “In the Turf Club? Good God, surely no one’d dare.”

Armstrong smiled his hard smile. “Every copper who does duty here, from the high to the low, spends most of the time trying to work out the perfect heist. The final day’s take must be 15 million at least. It’s baffled us all. Security’s too tight, too clever—Mr. Crosse set it up.”

“Ah!”

Crosse smiled. “Would you like a snack, Edward? Perhaps a sandwich?”

“Good idea. Thank you.”

“Robert?”

“No thank you, sir. If you don’t mind I’ll study the form and see you later.” Armstrong was achingly aware that after the seventh race, they were due to return to HQ, where Brian Kwok was scheduled for another session.

“Robert’s a serious punter, Edward. Robert, do me a favor, show Mr. Sinders the ropes, where to bet, and order him a sandwich. I’d better see if the governor’s free for a moment—I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Glad to,” Armstrong said, hating the idea, the envelope with 40,000 h’eung yau dollars that he had taken from his desk on an impulse now a never-ending fire in his pocket. Christ, do I or don’t I? he asked himself over and over, grimly trying to decide and all the while trying to push away the horror of his friend Brian and the next session—no, no longer his friend but a committed, highly trained foreign asset and enormously valuable catch that they had by a miracle uncovered.

“Robert,” Crosse said, keeping his voice deliberately kind, “you’ve done a very good job today. Very good.”

“Yes,” Sinders agreed. “I’ll see the minister’s aware of your help, and of course the CP.”

Crosse went for the elevator. Wherever he went nervous Chinese eyes followed him. On the top floor he bypassed the governor’s box and went into Plumm’s.

“Hello, Roger!” Plumm greeted him affably. “Drink?”

“Coffee would be fine. How’re things?”

“Lost my shirt so far, though a number of us have the first leg of the quinella. You?”

“I’ve just arrived.”

“Oh, then you missed the drama!” Plumm told Crosse about Dunross’s takeover bid. “Ian’s thrown a monkey wrench into Pug.”

“Or given him a great offer,” someone volunteered.

“True, true.”

Plumm’s box was as packed as all the others. Lots of chatter and laughter, drinks and good food. “Tea’ll be up in half an hour. I’m just going along to the stewards’ committee room, Roger. Would you like to stroll with me?”

The committee room was at the end of the corridor, through guarded swing doors. It was small with a table and twelve chairs, a phone, good windows over the track and a tiny balcony. And empty. At once Plumm’s easygoing facade vanished. “I talked to Suslev.”

“Oh?”

“He’s furious about the raid on the Ivanov last night.”

“I can imagine. That was ordered by London. I wasn’t even told till this morning. Bloody Sinders!”

Plumm became even grimmer. “They couldn’t be onto you, could they?”

“Oh no. It’s routine. Just Special Branch, MI-6 and Sinders flexing their wings. They’re a secretive lot and quite right, nothing to do with SI. Go on.”

“He said if you came that he’d be by a phone booth.” Plumm handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the number. He’ll be there exactly at the off of the next three races. Please call him—he said it was urgent. What the hell was the raid for?”

“Just to frighten all the KGB aboard, to frighten them enough to flush out Sevrin. Pressure. Same as the order for Suslev and the new commissar to appear at HQ on Sunday. It was just to frighten.”

“Suslev’s frightened all right.” A sardonic smile flickered over Plumm’s handsome face. “His sphincter’s out of joint for ten years at least. They’ll all have some explaining to do. When Armstrong ‘happened’ to bust open the radio room, Red One operated and they dutifully and unnecessarily wrecked all their scramble and decoding equipment, along with their classified radar scanners.”

Crosse shrugged. “The Ivanov’s leaving and they’ve got plenty to replace them with. It wasn’t Suslev’s fault, or ours. We can send a report telling Center what happened. If we want.”

Plumm’s eyes narrowed. “If?”

“Rosemont and his CIA thugs picked up a glass in their raid on Sinclair Towers. Suslev’s prints are all over it.”

Plumm went white. “Christ! Now he’s on file?”

“Has to be. He’s in our files as you know, not as KGB, and I think I’ve the only copies of his fingerprints existing. I removed them from his dossier years ago. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before the CIA are onto him, so the sooner he leaves Hong Kong the better.”

“You think we should tell Center?” Plumm asked uneasily. “They’ll throw their book at him for being so careless.”

“We can decide over the weekend. We knew Voranski over a number of years, knew he was to be trusted. But this man?” Crosse left the word hanging, keeping up the pretense that his contact with Suslev was recent, the same as Plumm’s. “After all, isn’t he only a minor KGB officer, a jumped-up courier. He’s not even Voranski’s official replacement and we’ve ourselves to think of.”

“True!” Plumm hardened. “Maybe he’s a real berk. I know I wasn’t followed to Sinclair Towers. And as to the decoded cable—God stone the crows!”

“What?”

“The decoded cable—the one he dropped and Armstrong picked off the Ivanov’s deck. We’ve got to decide about that.”

Crosse turned away to hide his shock and fought for control, appalled that neither Armstrong nor Sinders had mentioned any cable. He pretended to stifle a yawn to cover. “Sorry, I was up most of the night,” he said, making a major effort to keep his voice matter-of-fact. “Did he tell you what was in it?”

“Of course. I insisted.”

Crosse saw Plumm watching him. “Exactly what did he tell you was in it?”

“Oh? You mean he might be lying?” Plumm’s anxiety showed. “It went something like: ‘Inform Arthur that following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay. Second, the meeting with the American is brought forward to Sunday. Third and final: The AMG files continue to be Priority One. Maximum effort must be made by Sevrin to achieve success. Center.’” Plumm licked his lips. “Is it correct?”

“Yes,” Crosse said, gambling, almost wet with relief. He began weighing odds on Armstrong and Sinders. Now why, deliberately, why didn’t they tell me that?

“Terrible, eh?” Plumm said.

“Yes, but not serious.”

“I don’t agree,” Plumm said irritably. “It absolutely ties the KGB to Sevrin, absolutely confirms Arthur’s existence and Sevrin’s existence.”

“Yes, but the AMG files have already done that. Calm down, Jason, we’re quite safe.”

“Are we? There’ve been too many leaks for my liking: Far too many. Perhaps we should close down for a time.”

“We are closed down. It’s only those bloody AMG files that are causing us any grief.”

“Yes. At least that bugger Grant wasn’t completely accurate.”

“You mean about Banastasio?”

“Yes. I still wonder where the hell he fits in.”

“Yes.” In AMG’s intercepted file Banastasio had been named erroneously as Sevrin’s American connection. It was only after the file that Crosse had learned from Rosemont who Banastasio actually was.

“The fellow who met him was Vee Cee Ng,” Crosse said.

Plumm’s eyebrows soared. “Photographer Ng? How does he connect?”

“I don’t know. Shipping, ships, smuggling. He’s into all kinds of shady deals.” Crosse shrugged.

“Could that writer fellow’s theory work? What’s his name? Marlowe. Could the KGB be doing an op in our territory without telling us?”

“Possible. Or it could be an utterly different department, perhaps GRU, instigated in America by the KGB or GRU there. Or just a coincidence.” Crosse was back in control now, the fright of the cable wearing off. He was thinking much clearer. “What’s Suslev want that’s so urgent?”

“Our cooperation. Koronski arrives by the afternoon plane.”

Crosse whistled. “Center?”

“Yes. There was a message this morning. Now that the Ivanov’s equipment is wrecked I’m the go-between.”

“Good. What’s his cover name?”

“Hans Meikker, West German. He’s to stay at the Seven Dragons.” Plumm’s anxiety increased. “Listen, Suslev said Center’s ordered us to prepare to snatch Ian an—”

“They’ve gone mad!” Crosse exploded.

“I agree but Suslev says it’s the only way to find out quickly if the files are counterfeit or not, and if so, where they’re hidden. He claims Koronski can do it. In a chemical debriefing, well, Ian’s memory can be … can be emptied.”

“That’s madness,” Crosse said. “We’re not even sure if the files are counterfeit. That’s a complete supposition for God’s sake!”

“Suslev says Center told him we can blame it on the Werewolves—those buggers snatched John Chen so why wouldn’t they go after the big money, the tai-pan?”

“No. Too dangerous.”

Plumm wiped his hands. “To snatch Ian now’d put the tai-pans and Hong Kong into a furor. It could be a perfect time, Roger.”

“Why?”

“The Noble House would be in total disarray and with all the bank runs and the stock market disaster, Hong Kong’d be down the sewer and that’d send all China into shock. We’d jump the Cause forward ten years and immeasurably assist international communism and the workers of the world. Christ, Roger, aren’t you sick of just sitting and being a messenger? Now we can fulfill Sevrin with hardly any risk. Then we close everything down for a time.”

Crosse lit a cigarette. He had heard the tension in Plumm’s voice. “I’ll think about it,” he said at length. “Leave it for the moment. I’ll call you tonight. Did Suslev say who the American in the cable was?”

“No. He just said it wasn’t anything to do with us.”

Crosse’s voice hardened. “Everything here’s to do with us.”

“I agree.” Plumm watched him. “It could also be a code word, a code for anyone.”

“Possible.”

“I have a wild one for you. Banastasio.”

“Why him?” Crosse asked, having jumped to the same conclusion.

“I don’t know why, but I’ll bet that whole scam, if it is a scam, has to be KGB inspired, or assisted. It’s classic Sun Tzu: using the enemy’s strength against himself—both enemies, the U.S. and China. A strong unified Vietnam’s guaranteed militantly anti-Chinese. Eh?”

“Possible. Yes, it all fits,” Crosse agreed. Except one thing, he thought: Vee Cee Ng. Until Brian Kwok had blurted out, “Vee Cee’s one of us,” he had had no inkling that the man was anything other than a swinging photographer and trader-shipping capitalist. “If Banastasio’s the American, we’ll know.” He finished his cigarette. “Was there anything else?”

“No. Roger, consider Dunross. Please. The Werewolves make it possible.”

“It’s considered.”

“This weekend would be perfect, Roger.”

“I know.”

Orlanda was watching the horses through her high-powered binoculars as they broke out of the starting gate for the fourth race. She stood in a corner of the members’ balcony, Bartlett happily beside her, everyone watching the horses except him. He was watching her, the curve of her breasts under the silk, the angle of her cheekbones and the intensity of her excitement. “Come on, Crossfire,” she muttered, “come on! He’s lying fifth, Linc, oh come on, you beauty, come on …”

He chuckled, Orlanda oblivious. They had arranged to meet here between the third and fourth race. “Are you a voting member?” he had asked her last night.

“Oh no, my darling, I’m just going with friends. Old friends of my family. Another drink?”

“No, no thanks—I’d better go.”

They had kissed and again he had felt her overpowering welcome. It had kept him unsettled and on edge all the way back across the harbor home and most of the night. Much as he tried, he found the wanting of her difficult to contain and to keep in perspective.

You’re hooked, old buddy, he told himself, watching her, the tip of her tongue touching her lips, her eyes concentrating, everything forgotten but her $50 on the nose of the big gray, the favorite.

“Come on … come … oh he’s moving up, Linc … oh he’s second….”

Bartlett looked at the pack galloping now into the last stretch: Crossfire, the big gray well placed to Western Scot, a brown gelding who was slightly in the lead, the going very slow—one horse had fallen in the third race. Now a contender made his dash, Winwell Stag, a gelding belonging to Havergill that Peter Marlowe had tipped to win, and he was coming up strong on the outside with Crossfire and Western Scot neck and neck just ahead, all whips out now in the gathering roar.

“Oh come on come on come on Crossfire … oh he’s won, he’s won!”

Bartlett laughed in the pandemonium as Orlanda’s glee burst out and she hugged him. “Oh Linc, how wonderful!”

In a moment there was another roar as the winning numbers were flashed up on the tote board, confirming their order. Now everyone waited for the final odds. Another great cheer. Crossfire paid 5 to 2.

“That’s not much,” he said.

“Oh but it is it is it is!” Orlanda had never looked prettier to him, her hat cute, much better than Casey’s—he’d noticed it at once and complimented her on it. She moved forward and leaned on the railing and looked down at the winner’s circle. “There’s the owner, Vee Cee Ng, he’s one of our Shanghainese trader-shipping millionaires. My father knew him quite well.” She gave him the glasses.

Bartlett focused. The man leading the garlanded horse into the winner’s circle was expensively dressed, a beaming, well-set Chinese in his fifties. Then Bartlett recognized Havergill leading in his Winwell Stag, second, defeated by a nose. In the paddock he saw Gornt, Plumm, Pugmire and many of the stewards. Dunross was near the rails talking to a smaller man. The governor was walking from group to group with his wife and aide. Bartlett watched them, envying them a little, the owners standing there with their caps and raincoats and shooting sticks and expensive women and girlfriends, greeting one another, all members of the inner club, the powerhouse of Hong Kong, there and in the boxes above. All very British, he thought, all very clever. Will I fit in better than Biltzmann? Sure. Unless they want me out as much as they wanted him out. I’ll be a voting member easy. Ian said as much. Would Orlanda fit there? Of course. As wife or girlfriend, it’s all the same.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “The man talking to Ian?”

“Oh that’s Alexi Travkin, he’s the tai-pan’s trainer….” She stopped as Robert Armstrong came up to them.

“Afternoon, Mr. Bartlett,” he said politely. “Did you back the winner too?”

“No, no I lost this one. May I introduce Miss Ramos, Orlanda Ramos, Superintendent Robert Armstrong, CID.”

“Hello.” She smiled back at Armstrong, and he saw her immediate caution. Why are they all frightened of us, the innocent as well as the guilty? he asked himself, when all we do is try to enforce their laws, try to protect them from villains and the ungodly. It’s because everyone breaks some law, even a little one, every day, most days, because a lot of laws are stupid—like our betting laws here. So everyone’s guilty, even you, pretty lady with the oh so sensual walk and oh so promising smile. For Bartlett. What crime have you committed today, to snare this poor innocent? Sardonically he smiled to himself. Not so innocent in most things. But against someone trained by Quillan Gornt? A beautiful, hungry Eurasian girl with no place to go but down? Ayeeyah! But oh how I’d like to swap places! Yes, you with your guns, money, birds like Casey and this one and meetings with the offal of the world like Banastasio, oh yes—I’d give ten years of my life, more, because today I swear to God I loathe what I have to do, what only I can do for good old England.

“Did you back the favorite too?” she was asking.

“No, no unfortunately.”

“This’s her second winner,” Bartlett said proudly.

“Ah, if you’re on a winning streak, who do you fancy in the fifth?”

“I’ve been trying to decide, Superintendent. I’ve no tips—it’s wide open. What’s yours?”

“Winning Billy’s tipped, I hear. I can’t make up my mind either. Well, good luck.” Armstrong left them, heading for the betting windows. He had put 500 on the third-placed horse, covering his other bets. He always chose a main bet and then he hedged it with others, hoping to come out ahead. Most times he did. This afternoon he was a little behind, but he still hadn’t touched the 40,000.

In the corridor he hesitated. The Snake, Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth, was turning away from one of the crowded winning windows, a roll of money in his hand. “Hello, Robert. How’re you doing?”

“So-so. You’re in the big time again?”

“I try.” The Snake bent closer. “How is everything?”

“Proceeding.” Once more Armstrong felt nauseated at the thought of more of the Red Room, then sitting there, letting Brian Kwok’s mind spill out his most secret secrets, working against the clock that was ticking away—all of them aware that the governor was asking London for permission to trade.

“You’re not looking so good, Robert.”

“I don’t feel so good. Who’s going to win the fifth?”

“I leaned on your friend Clubfoot at the Para. The word is Pilot Fish. He did tip Buccaneer in the first, though with this going anything could happen.”

“Yes. Anything on the Werewolves?”

“Nothing. It’s a dead end. I’m having the whole area combed but with this rain it’s almost hopeless. I did interview Dianne Chen this morning—and John Chen’s wife Barbara. They gave me sweet talk. I’d lay a fiver to a bent hatpin they know more than they’re telling. I had a brief talk with Phillip Chen but he was equally uncooperative. Poor bugger’s pretty shook.” The Snake looked up at him. “By chance did Mary have any clue about John?”

Armstrong looked back at him. “I haven’t had a chance to ask her. Tonight—if they give me any peace.”

“They won’t.” Smyth’s face crinkled with a twisted smile. “Put your 40 on Pilot Fish.”

“What 40?”

“A dickie bird twittered that a certain golden nest egg has flown your coop—to mix metaphors.” The smaller man shrugged. “Don’t worry, Robert, have a flutter. There’s plenty more where that came from. Good luck.” He went away. Armstrong stared after him, hating him.

The bugger’s right though, he thought, his chest hurting. There’s plenty more but once you take the first, what about the second and though you give nothing, admit nothing, guarantee nothing, there will come a time. As sure as God made little apples there’s always a return payment.

Mary. She needs that holiday, needs it so much and there’s the stockbroker’s bill and all the other bills and oh Christ, with this market gone crazy I’m almost wiped out. God curse money—or the lack of it.

40 on a winning quinella’d solve everything. Or do I put it all on Pilot Fish? All or half or none. If it’s all, there’s plenty of time to place bets at other windows.

His feet took him to one of the betting lines. Many recognized him and those who did, feeling their instant internal fear, wished the police had their own box and own windows and did not mix with honest citizens. Four Finger Wu was one of these. Hastily he put 50,000 on a quinella of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass and fled back to the members’ room, gratefully to sip his brandy and soda. Dirty dogmeat police to frighten honest citizens, he thought, waiting for Venus Poon to return. Eeeee, he chortled, her Golden Gulley’s worth every carat of the diamond I promised her last night. Two Clouds and Rain before dawn and a promise of another bout on Sunday when the yang recovers his ju—

A sudden roar from outside diverted his mind. At once he shoved his way through the crowds packing the balcony. The names of the fifth racehorses and their jockeys were coming up on the board, one by one. Pilot Fish, number one, got a full-bellied cheer; then Street Vendor, an outsider, two; Golden Lady, three and a ripple of excitement went through her many backers. When Noble Star, seven, flashed up there was a great roar and when the last, number eight, the favorite, Butterscotch Lass, there was an even greater roar.

Down by the rail Dunross and Travkin were grimly inspecting the turf. It was torn and slippery. The nearer the rail, the worse it was. Above, the sky was blacker and lowering. A sprinkle started and a nervous groan slipped from fifty thousand throats.

“It’s rotten, tai-pan,” Travkin said, “the going’s rotten.”

“It’s the same for everyone.” Dunross let his mind reestimate the odds a last time. If I ride and win, the omen will be immense. If I ride and lose, the omen will be very bad. To be beaten by Pilot Fish would be even worse. I could be hurt easily. I can’t afford … the Noble House can’t afford to be headless today, tomorrow or Monday. If Travkin rides and loses or finishes behind Pilot Fish that would be bad but not as bad. That would be joss.

But I won’t get hurt. I’ll win. I want this race more than anything in the world. I won’t fail. I’m not sure about Alexi. I can win—if the gods are with me. Yes but how much are you prepared to gamble on the gods?

“Eeee, young Ian,” Old Chen-chen had told him many times, “beware of expecting help from the gods, however much you petition them with gold or promises. Gods are gods and gods go out to lunch and sleep and get bored and turn their eyes away. Gods are the same as people: good and bad, lazy and strong, sweet and sour, stupid and wise! Why else are they gods, heya?”

Dunross could feel his heart thumping and could smell the warm, acrid, sweet-sour horse sweat, could sense the mind-blinding, spirit-curdling motioning, hands gripping the whip, bunched in the corner, now into the far straight, now into the last corner, the aching, grand sweet terror of speed, wielding the whip, jamming your heels in, outstretched now, carefully bumping Pilot Fish into the rails, putting him off his stride, and now into the straight, ripping into the straight, Pilot Fish behind, winning post ahead … come on come on … winning….

“We have to decide, tai-pan. It’s time.”

Dunross came back slowly, bile in his mouth. “Yes. You ride,” he said, putting the House before himself.

And now that he had said it he put the rest aside and clapped Travkin warmly on the shoulders. “Win, Alexi, win by God.”

The older man, gnarled and leathery, peered up at him. He nodded once, then walked off to change. As he went he noticed Suslev in the stands watching him through binoculars. A tremor went through him. Suslev had promised that this Christmas Nestorova would come to Hong Kong, she would be allowed to join him in Hong Kong—and stay in Hong Kong—at Christmas. If he cooperated. If he cooperated and did what was asked.

Do you believe that? No. No, not at all, those matyeryebyets are liars and betrayers but maybe this time … Christ Jesus why should I be ordered to meet Dunross at Sinclair Towers by night, late at night? Why? Christ Jesus, what should I do? Don’t think, old man. You’re old and soon you’ll be dead but your first duty is to win. If you win, the tai-pan will do your bidding. If you lose? If you win or lose, how can you live with the shame of betraying the man who befriended you and trusts you?

He went into the jockeys’ room.

Behind him Dunross had turned to glance at the tote. The odds had shortened, the total amount at risk already two and a half million. Butterscotch Lass was 3 to 1, Noble Star 7 to 1, still no jockey listed, Pilot Fish 5 to 1, Golden Lady 7 to 1. Early yet, he thought, and so much time left to gamble. Travkin will shorten the odds. A cold shaft took him. I wonder if there’s a deal going on right now, a deal among the trainers and jockeys? Christ, we all better be watching this one very carefully indeed.

“Ah Ian!”

“Oh hello, sir.” Dunross smiled at Sir Geoffrey who came up to him then looked at Havergill who was with the governor. “Pity about Winwell Stag, Paul, I thought he ran a grand race.”

“Joss,” Havergill said politely. “Who’s riding Noble Star?”

“Travkin.”

The governor’s face lit up. “Ah, very good choice. Yes, he’ll make a good race of it. For a moment, Ian, I was afraid you might be tempted.”

“I was. Still am, sir.” Dunross smiled faintly. “If Alexi gets hit by a bus between now and then, I’m riding her.”

“Well, for the sake of all of us and the Noble House, let’s hope that doesn’t happen. We can’t afford to have you hurt. The going looks terrible.” Another swirl of rain came and passed by. “We’ve been very lucky so far. No bad accidents. If the rain starts in earnest, it might be worthwhile considering abandoning.”

“We’ve already discussed it, sir. We’re running a little late. The race’ll be delayed ten minutes. So long as the weather holds for this race most people will be satisfied.”

Sir Geoffrey watched him. “Oh by the way, Ian, I tried the minister a few minutes ago but I’m afraid he was already in meetings. I left word and he’ll call back the moment he can. It seems the ramifications of this damned Profumo scandal are once more tearing at the very roots of the Conservative government. The press are screaming, quite rightly, in case there have been breaches of security. Until the Commission of Enquiry comes out next month, settling once and for all security aspects and rumors that others in the government are implicated or not, there’ll be no peace.”

“Yes,” Havergill said. “But surely the worst’s over, sir. As to the report, certainly it won’t be adverse.”

“Adverse or not, this scandal will wreck the Conservatives,” Dunross said soberly, remembering AMG’s forecast in the last report.

“Good God, I hope not.” Havergill was aghast. “Those two twits, Grey and Broadhurst, in power amongst all the other Socialist shower? If their press conference was any indication, we might as well all go home.”

“We are home, and it all comes home to roost. Eventually,” Sir Geoffrey said sadly. “Anyway, Ian made the correct decision, not to ride.” He glanced at Havergill and his gaze sharpened. “As I said, Paul, it’s important to make correct decisions. It would be a very poor show if the Ho-Pak’s depositors were wiped out, perhaps just because of poor judgment by Richard Kwang and the lack of a benevolent decision by those who could avoid such a disaster if they wished—perhaps to great profit. Eh?”

“Yes sir.”

Sir Geoffrey nodded and left them.

Dunross said, “What was that about?”

“The governor thinks we should rescue the Ho-Pak,” Havergill said offhandedly.

“Why don’t you?”

“Let’s talk about the General Stores takeover.”

“First let’s finish the Ho-Pak. The governor’s right, it would benefit all of us, Hong Kong—and the bank.”

“You’d be in favor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You’ll approve, you and your block will approve making the takeover?”

“I don’t have a block but certainly I’ll support a reasonable takeover.”

Paul Havergill smiled thinly. “I was thinking of 20 cents on the dollar on Richard’s holdings.”

Dunross whistled. “That’s not much.”

“By Monday night he’ll have zero. He’ll probably settle for that—his holdings would give the bank control. We could easily stand surety for 100 percent of his depositors.”

“He’s got that amount of securities?”

“No, but with the normalization of the market and our judicious management, over a year or two it’s true the acquisition of the Ho-Pak could greatly benefit us. Oh yes. And there’s a desperate need to restore confidence. Such a takeover would help immeasurably.”

“This afternoon would be a perfect announcement time.”

“I agree. Anything on Tiptop?”

Dunross studied him. “Why the sudden change around, Paul? And why discuss it with me?”

“There’s no change around. I’ve considered the Ho-Pak very carefully. The acquisition would be good bank policy.” Havergill watched him. “We’ll give him face and offer him a seat on our board.”

“So the rumors about the Big Bank are true?”

“Not to my knowledge,” the banker said coldly. “As to why discuss it with you? Because you’re a director of the bank, presently the most important one, with substantial influence on the board. That’s a sensible thing to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but.”

Havergill’s eyes became colder. “The interests of the bank have nothing to do with my distaste for you, or your methods. But you were right about Superfoods. You made a good offer at a perfect time and sent a wave of confidence soaring through everyone here. It’s bound to spread over all Hong Kong. It was brilliant timing and now if we follow it up and announce we’ve assumed all the Ho-Pak responsibilities to its depositors, that’s another immense vote of confidence. All we need to do is get back confidence. If Tiptop comes to our assistance with his cash, Monday is boom day for Hong Kong. So first thing on Monday morning, Ian, we buy Struan’s heavily. By Monday evening we’ll assume control. However I’ll make you a deal right now: we’ll put up the 2 million for General Foods in return for half your bank stock.”

“No thanks.”

“We’ll have it all by next weekend. We’ll guarantee that 2 million in any event to cover the takeover and guarantee the overall offer you made to Pug—if you fail to avoid your own takeover.”

“I won’t.”

“Of course. But you don’t mind if I mention it to him and to that nosy little certain Haply?”

“You’re a bastard, aren’t you?”

Havergill’s thin lips twisted with his smile. “This is business—I want your block of bank stock. Your forebears bought it for nothing, practically stole it from the Brocks after smashing them. I want to do the same. And I want control of the Noble House. Of course. Like a great number of others. Probably even your American friend Bartlett if the truth were known. Where’s the 2 million coming from?”

“It’s manna from heaven.”

“We’ll find out sooner or later. We’re your bankers and you owe us rather a lot of money! Will Tiptop bail us out?”

“I can’t be sure but I talked to him last night. He was encouraging. He agreed to come here after lunch but he hasn’t arrived yet. That’s ominous.”

“Yes.” Havergill brushed some drizzle off his nose. “We’ve had a very positive response from the Trade Bank of Moscow.”

“Even you’re not that fat-headed!”

“It’s a last resort, Ian. A serious last resort.”

“You’ll call an immediate board meeting to discuss the Ho-Pak takeover?”

“Good lord, no.” Havergill was sardonic. “You think I’m that much of a fool? If we did that you could table the other directors about an extension of your loan. No, Ian, I propose to ask them individually, like you. With your agreement I have a majority already, the others of course fall into line. I do have your agreement?”

“At 20 cents on the dollar and full payout of investors, yes.”

“I might need leeway to go to 30 cents. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Your word?”

“Oh yes, you have my word.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’ll call a board meeting before Monday’s opening?”

“I agreed to consider it. Only. I’ve considered it and the answer now is no. Hong Kong’s a freebooting society where the weak fail and the strong keep the fruits of their labors.” Havergill smiled and he glanced at the tote. The odds had shortened. 2 to 1 on Butterscotch Lass, well known for liking the wet. Pilot Fish now 3 to 1. While they watched, Travkin’s name flashed up alongside Noble Star and a huge roar accompanied it. “I think the governor was wrong, Ian. You should have ridden. Then I’d’ve put my modest bet on you. Yes. You’d have gone out in a blaze of glory. Yes, you would have won. I’m not sure about Travkin. Good afternoon.” He raised his hat and headed for Richard Kwang who stood with his wife and trainer to one side. “Ah Richard! Can I have a word wi—” He was drowned by a huge roar from the crowd as the first of the eight runners for the fifth race began to trickle out from under the stands. Pilot Fish led the pack, the slight drizzle making his black coat shimmer.

“Yes, Paul?” Richard Kwang asked, following him into an empty space. “I wanted to talk to you but didn’t want to interrupt you with the governor and the tai-pan. Now,” he said with forced joviality, “I’ve a plan. Let’s lump all the Ho-Pak’s securities together and if you’ll lend me 50 mill—”

“No thank you, Richard,” Havergill said crisply. “But we do have a proposal that’s good till five o’clock today. We’ll bail out the Ho-Pak and guarantee all your depositors. In return we’ll buy your personal holdings at par an—”

“Par? That’s a fiftieth of their value!” Richard Kwang screeched. “That’s a fiftieth of their worth—”

“Actually it’s 5 cents on the dollar which is about all their value. Is it a deal?”

“No of course not. Dew neh loh moh, am I a dogmeat madman?” Richard Kwang’s heart was almost bursting. A moment ago he had thought, impossibly, that Havergill was granting him a reprieve from the disaster that by now he was convinced was absolute, however much he pretended otherwise, however much it was not his fault but the work of rumormongers and malicious fools who had led him into inept banking deals. But now he was in the vise. Oh ko! Now he would be squeezed and whatever he did he could not escape the tai-pans. Oh oh oh! Disaster on disaster and now that ungrateful strumpet Venus Poon making me lose face in front of Uncle Four Fingers, Charlie Wang and even Photographer Ng and that even after I delivered to her personally the new mink coat that she trails in the mud so carelessly.

“New?” she had flared this morning. “You claim this miserable secondhand coat is new?”

“Of course!” he had shouted. “Do you think I am a monkey? Of course it’s new. It cost 50,000 cash oh ko!” The 50,000 was an exaggeration but the cash wasn’t and they both were well aware that it would be uncivilized not to exaggerate. The coat had cost him 14,000, through an intermediary, after much bargaining from a quai loh who had fallen on hard times and another 2,000 to the furrier who had overnight shortened and altered it enough to fit and not to be recognized, with a guarantee that the furrier would swear by all the gods that he had sold it under price at 42 even though it was actually worth 63,500.

“Paul,” Richard Kwang said importantly. “The Ho-Pak’s in better shape th—”

“Kindly shut up and listen,” Havergill said overriding him. “The time has come to make a serious decision—for you, not us. You can go under on Monday with nothing … I understand trading’s opening on your stock first thing.”

“But Sir Luis assured me th—”

“I heard it was open for trading, so by Monday night you’ll have no bank, no stock, no horses, no dollymoney to pay for mink coats for Venus P—”

“Eh?” Richard Kwang blanched, aware his wife was standing not twenty paces away, lugubriously watching them. “What mink coat?”

Havergill sighed. “All right, if you’re not interested.” He turned away but the banker caught him by the arm.

“5 cents is ridiculous. 80 is nearer what I can get on the open mar—”

“Perhaps I can go to 7.”

“7?” The banker began cursing, more to give himself time to think than anything. “I’ll agree to a merger. A seat on the bank’s board for ten years at a salary of f—”

“For five years, provided you give me your notarized resignation, undated, in advance, that you always vote exactly as I wish and at a salary equal to other directors’.”

“No resignation in adv—”

“Then so sorry no deal.”

“I agree to that clause,” Richard Kwang said grandly. “Now as to money. I th—”

“No. As to money, so sorry, Richard, I don’t want to enter into a protracted negotiation. The governor, the tai-pan and I agree we should rescue the Ho-Pak. It is decided. I will see you retain face. We guarantee to keep the takeover price secret and are quite prepared to call it a merger—oh by the way, I want to make the announcement at 5:00 P.M., just after the seventh race. Or not at all.” Havergill’s face was grim, but inside he was filled with glee. If it hadn’t been for Dunross’s announcement and the way it was being received he would have never considered doing the same. That bugger’s quite right! It is time to be innovative and who better than us? It’ll stop Southerby in his tracks and make us equal to Blacs at long last. With Struan’s in our pocket next week, by next year …

“57 cents and that’s a steal,” Kwang said.

“I’ll go to 10 cents.”

Richard Kwang wheedled and twisted and almost wept and inside he was ecstatic with the chance of the bail-out. Dew neh loh moh, he wanted to shout, a few minutes ago I wouldn’t be able to pay for Butterscotch Lass’s feed next week let alone the diamond ring and now I’m worth at least $3½ million U.S. and with judicious manipulation much more. “30 by all the gods!”

“11.”

“I’ll have to commit suicide,” he wailed. “My wife will commit suicide, my children will…”

“Your pardon, Lord,” his Chinese trainer said in Cantonese, coming up to him. “The race’s put back ten minutes. Are there any instructions you wa—”

“Can’t you see I’m busy, toad-belly! Go away!” Richard Kwang hissed in Cantonese with more obscenities, then said to Havergill, a final abject plea, “30, Mr. Havergill, and you’ll have saved a poor man and his fam—”

“18 and that’s final!”

“25 and it’s a deal.”

“My dear fellow, so sorry but I must place a bet. 18. Yes or no?”

Richard Kwang kept up a pathetic patter but he was estimating his chances. He had seen the flash of irritation on his opponent’s face. Dirty lump of dogmeat! Is now the time to close? Between now and five o’clock this leper dung could change his mind. If the tai-pan’s got all this new financing perhaps I could … No, no chance. 18’s three times as good as the opening bid! It’s clear you are a clever fellow and a good negotiator, he chortled to himself. Has the time come to close?

He thought of Venus Poon, how she had abused his expensive gift and deliberately brushed her exquisite breasts against Four Fingers’s arm, and tears of rage welled from his eyes.

“Oh oh oh,” he said in an abject whisper, delighted that his stratagem to produce real tears had worked so well. “20, by all the gods, and I’m your slave forever.”

“Good,” Havergill said, very contentedly. “Come to my box at quarter to five. I’ll have a provisional letter of agreement ready for signature—and your undated resignation. At five we’ll announce the merger, and Richard, until that time not a whisper! If the news leaks, the deal is off.”

“Of course.”

Havergill nodded and left and Richard Kwang walked back to his wife.

“What’s going on?”

“Quiet!” he hissed. “I’ve agreed to a merger with the Victoria.”

“At what price for our holdings?”

He lowered his voice even more. “20 cents on the, er, official book value.”

Glee lit her eyes. “Ayeeyah!” she said and quickly dropped her gaze for safety. “You did very well.”

“Of course. And a directorship for five years an—”

“Eeee, our face will be huge!”

“Yes. Now listen, we’ve got until five today to make some private deals on Ho-Pak stock. We must buy in today—at fire-sale prices before every dogmeat gambler steals our rightful profits from us. We can’t do it ourselves or others’ll instantly suspect. Who can we use?”

She thought for a moment. Again her eyes gleamed. “Profitable Choy. Give him 7 percent of anything he makes for us.”

“I’ll offer 5 to begin with, perhaps I can settle for 6½ percent! Excellent! And I’ll also use Smiler Ching, he’s a pauper now. He lost everything. Between the two of them … I’ll meet you back at the box.” Importantly he turned away and went to his trainer and carefully kicked him in the shin. “Oh so sorry,” he said for the benefit of those nearby who might have seen him, then hissed, “Don’t interrupt me when I’m busy, you cheating lump of dogmeat turd! And if you cheat me like you cheated Big Belly Tok I’ll—”

“But I told you about that, Lord,” the man said sourly. “He knew about it too! Wasn’t it his idea? Didn’t you both make a fortune?”

“Oh ko, if my horse doesn’t win this race I’ll ask my Uncle Four Fingers to send his street fighters and mash your Heavenly Orbs!”

A sprinkle of rain swept the paddock and they all looked anxiously at the sky. In the stands and on the balconies above, everyone was equally anxious. The shower turned into a slight drizzle and on the members’ balcony Orlanda quivered, tense with excitement.

“Oh Linc, I’m going to bet now.”

“You’re sure?” he asked with a laugh for she had been agonizing over her decision all afternoon, first Pilot Fish then Noble Star, then a hot tip, the outsider Winning Billy, and back to Butterscotch Lass again. The odds were even on Butterscotch Lass, 3 to 1 on both Pilot Fish and Noble Star—the moment Travkin was announced the money started pouring on—6 to 1 on Golden Lady, the rest hardly in the running. The total amount so far at risk was a staggering 4,700,000 HK. “How much are you going to bet?”

She shut her eyes and said in a rush, “All my winnings and an extra … an extra 100! Won’t be a moment, Linc!”

“Good luck. I’ll see you after the race.”

“Oh yes, sorry, in the excitement I forgot. Have fun!” She gave him a glorious smile and rushed off before he could ask her what she was betting. He had already bet. This race was a quinella, as well as the second leg of the double quinella. 10,000 HK on any combination of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass. That should do it, he thought, his own excitement growing.

He left the balcony and weaved through the tables heading for the elevators that would take him back upstairs. Many people watched him, some greeted him, most envious of the little badges fluttering in his lapel.

“Hi, Linc!”

“Oh hello,” he said to Biltzmann who had intercepted him. “How’s it going?”

“You heard about the foulup? Of course, you were there!” Biltzmann said. “Say, Linc, you got a moment?”

“Sure.” Bartlett followed him down the corridor, conscious of the curious gazes of passersby.

“Listen,” Biltzmann said when they reached a quiet corner, “you’d better watch yourself with these limey bastards. We sure as hell had a deal with General Stores.”

“You going to rebid?” Bartlett asked.

“That’s up to head office, but me, hell, me I’d let this whole goddamn Island drown.”

Bartlett did not reply, aware of glances in their direction.

“Say, Linc!” Biltzmann dropped his voice and bent closer with a twisted grin. “You got something special going with that girl?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The broad. The Eurasian. Orlanda, the one you were talking to.”

Bartlett felt the blood rush into his face but Biltzmann continued, “Mind if I put my two cents in?” He winked. “Make a date. Ask her for a date?”

“It’s … it’s a free country,” Bartlett said, suddenly hating him.

“Thanks. She’s got a great ass.” Biltzmann beamed and came even closer. “How much does she charge?”

Bartlett gasped, totally unprepared. “She’s not a hooker, for chrissake!”

“Didn’t you know? Hey it’s all over town. But Dickie said she was lousy in bed. That a fact?” Biltzmann misread the look on Bartlett’s face. “Oh, you haven’t got there yet? Hell, Linc, all you gotta do’s flash a little of the green st—”

“Listen you son of a bitch,” Bartlett hissed, almost blind with rage, “she’s no hooker and if you talk to her or go near her I’ll stick my fist down your throat. Got it?”

“Listen, take it easy,” the other man gasped. “I didn’—”

“You get the message?”

“Sure sure, no need to …” Biltzmann backed off. “Take it easy. I asked, didn’t I? Dickie …” He stopped, frightened, as Bartlett came closer. “For chrissake it’s not my fault—take it easy, huh?”

“Shut up!” Bartlett contained his rage with an effort, knowing this was not the time or the place to smash Biltzmann. He glanced around but Orlanda had already disappeared. “Get lost, you son of a bitch,” he grated, “and don’t go near her or else!”

“Sure, sure take it easy, okay?” Biltzmann backed off another pace, then turned and fled thankfully. Bartlett hesitated, then went into the men’s room and splashed a little water on his face to calm himself. The tap water, specially connected for the races, was brackish and seemed unclean. In a moment he found his elevator and walked to Dunross’s box. It was teatime. The guests were being served little sandwiches, cakes, cheese and great pots of Indian tea with milk and sugar but he did not notice any of it, numb.

Donald McBride, bustling past, stopped briefly on his way back to his own box. “Ah, Mr. Bartlett, I must tell you how happy we all are that you and Casey are going to be in business here. Pity about Biltzmann but all’s fair in business. Your Casey’s such a charming person. Sorry, got to dash.”

He hurried off. Bartlett hesitated in the doorway.

“Hey, Linc,” Casey called out joyously from the balcony. “You want tea?” As they met halfway her smile faded. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing, Casey.” Bartlett forced a smile. “They at the starting gate?”

“Not yet but any moment now. You sure you’re okay?”

“Of course. What did you bet on?”

“Noble Star, what else? Peter’s tipping Doc Tooley’s outsider, Winning Billy, for a place so I put 50 on him. You don’t look well, Linc. Not your stomach, is it?”

He shook his head, warmed by her concern. “No. I’m fine. You okay?”

“Sure. I’ve been having a wonderful time. Peter’s in great form and Old Tooley’s a gas.” Casey hesitated. “I’m glad it’s not your stomach. Doc Tooley says we should be safe from those lousy Aberdeen bugs, since we haven’t gotten the trots yet. Of course we won’t know for sure for twenty days.”

“Jesus,” Bartlett muttered, trying to force his mind off what Biltzmann had said. “I’d almost forgotten about Aberdeen and the fire and that whole mess. The fire seems a million years ago.”

“To me too. Where did the time go?”

Gavallan was nearby. “It’s Hong Kong,” he said absently.

“How do you mean?”

“It’s a Hong Kong characteristic. If you live here there’s never enough time, whatever your work. Always too much to do. People are always arriving, leaving, friends, business people. There’s always a crisis—flood, fire, mud slide, boom, scandal, business opportunity, funeral, banquet or cocktail party for visiting VIPs—or some disaster.” Gavallan shook off his anxieties. “This’s a small place and you soon get to know most people in your own circle. Then we’re the crossroads of Asia and even if you’re not in Struan’s you’re always on the move, planning, making money, risking money to make more, or you’re off to Taiwan, Bangkok, Singapore, Sydney, Tokyo, London or wherever. It’s the magic of Asia. Look what happened to you both since you got here: poor John Chen was kidnapped and murdered, guns were found on your aircraft, then there was the fire, the stock market mess, the run on our stock, Gornt after us and we after him. And now the banks may close on Monday or if Ian’s right, Monday will be boom time. And we’re in business together….” He smiled wearily. “What do you think of our tender?”

Casey held back her immediate comment and watched Bartlett.

“Great,” Bartlett said, thinking about Orlanda. “You think Ian will be able to turn things around?”

“If anyone can, he can.” Gavallan sighed heavily. “Well, let’s hope, that’s all we can do. Have you put your money on the winner yet?”

Bartlett smiled and Casey felt easier. “Who you backing, Andrew?”

“Noble Star and Winning Billy for the quinella. See you later.” He left them.

“Curious what he was saying about Hong Kong. He’s right. It makes the U.S. seem a million miles away.”

“Yes, but it isn’t, not truly.”

“You want to stay here, Casey?”

She looked at him, wondering what was under the question, what he was really asking her. “That’s up to you, Linc.”

He nodded slowly. “Think I’ll get me some tea.”

“Hey, I’ll do that for you,” she said, then she saw Murtagh standing nervously at the doorway and her heart missed a beat. “You haven’t met our banker, Linc. Let me bring him over.”

She went through the throng. “Hi, Dave.”

“Hi, Casey, have you seen the tai-pan?”

“He’s busy till after the race. Is it yes or no?” she whispered urgently, keeping her back to Bartlett.

“It’s a maybe.” Nervously Murtagh wiped his brow and took off his wet raincoat, his eyes red rimmed. “Couldn’t get a goddamn cab for an hour! Jesus!”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe maybe. I gave them the plan and they told me to haul ass back home because I’d clearly gone mad. Then, after they calmed down, they said they’d get back to me. Those knuckleheads called me at 4:00 A.M., asked me to repeat the whole scheme then S.J. himself came on.” His eyes rolled. “S.J. said I was full of sh—I was loco and hung up on me.”

“But you said ‘maybe.’ What happened next?”

“I called them back and I’ve been on the phone five hours in the last ten trying to explain my brilliance to them since your harebrained scheme blew my mind.” Murtagh suddenly grinned. “Hey, I’ll tell you one thing, Casey. Now S.J. sure as hell knows who Dave Murtagh III is!”

She laughed. “Listen, don’t mention it to anyone here. Anyone. Except the tai-pan, okay?”

He looked at her, pained. “You think I’m about to tell everybody my ass’s chewed to hamburger?”

There was a burst of cheering and someone in the balcony called out, “They’re approaching the gate!”

“Quick,” Casey said, “go put your bundle on the quinella. One and seven. Quick while you’ve time.”

“Which are they?”

“Never mind. You’ve no time.” She gave him a little shove and he rushed off. She collected herself, picked up a cup of tea and joined Bartlett and all the others crowding the balcony.

“Here’s your tea, Linc.”

“Thanks. What did you tell him to bet?”

“One and seven.”

“I did one and eight.”

Another huge roar distracted them. The horses were cantering past and beginning to mill around the gate. They saw Pilot Fish skeetering and weaving, his jockey well up, knees tight, holding on firmly, guiding him to his post position. But the stallion wasn’t ready yet and tossed his mane and neighed. At once the mare and the two fillies, Golden Lady and Noble Star, shivered, nostrils flaring and whinnied back. Pilot Fish brayed stridently, reared and pawed the air and everyone gasped. His jockey, Bluey White, cursed softly, dug his steel-strong hands into his mane, hanging on. “C’mon, sport,” he called out with a curse, gentling him. “Let the sheilas have a look at your dingledangle!”

Travkin on Noble Star was nearby. The filly had got the stallion’s scent and it had unsettled her. Before Travkin could prevent it she twisted and backed and shoved her rump carelessly into Pilot Fish who swerved, startled, to bump the outsider Winning Billy, a bay gelding moving up to his gate. The gelding skeetered, shook his head angrily and whirled away for a few paces, almost trampling Lochinvar, another brown gelding.

“Get that bugger under control, Alexi, for chrissake!”

“Just stay out of my way, ublyudok,” Travkin muttered, his knees conscious of the untoward tremors racing through Noble Star. He sat very high, part of his mount, stirrups short, and he wondered, cursing, if Pilot Fish’s trainer had smeared some of the stallion’s musk onto his chest and flanks to agitate the mare and fillies. It’s an old trick, he thought, very old.

“Come on!” the starter called out, his voice stentorian. “Gentlemen, get your mounts into their stalls!”

Several were already there, Butterscotch Lass, the brown mare still heavily the favorite, was pawing the ground, nostrils flared, excitement of the coming race and the nearness of the stallion sending shiver after shiver through her. She had stall eight from the rails, Pilot Fish now entering the stall in post position one. Winning Billy had stall three between Street Vendor and Golden Lady, and the smell of them and the stallion’s brazen challenge tore the gelding’s mind. Before the gate could close behind him he backed out and, once free, fought the bit and reins, shaking his head violently from side to side, twirling like a dancer on the slippery turf, almost colliding with Noble Star who swerved deftly out of the way.

“Alexi, come along!” the starter called out. “Hurry it up!”

“Yes, certainly,” Travkin called back but he was not hurried. He knew Noble Star and he walked the trembling, big brown filly well away from the stallion, letting her prance, the wind under her tail. “Gently, my darling,” he crooned in Russian, wanting to delay, wanting to keep the others off balance, now the only one not in the gate. A flash of lightning lit the eastern sky but he paid it no attention, or the ominous roll of thunder. The drizzle became stronger.

His whole being was concentrated. Just after the weigh-in, one of the other jockeys had sidled up to him. “Mr. Travkin,” he had said softly, “you’re not to win.”

“Oh? Who says?”

The jockey shrugged.

“Who’s the winner?”

Again the jockey shrugged.

“If the trainers and jockeys have a fix then let them know I’m not part of it. I never have been, not in Hong Kong.”

“You’n the tai-pan won with Buccaneer, that should satisfy you.”

“It satisfies me but in this race I’m a trier.”

“Fair enough, sport. I’ll tell them.”

“Who’s them?”

The jockey had gone away, the crowded changing room noisy and sweat-filled. Travkin was well aware who the ring was, some of them, who fixed races now and then, but he had never been a participant. He knew it was not because he was more honest than the others. Or less dishonest. It was only that his needs were few, a sure thing did not excite him and the touch of money did not please him.

The starter was becoming impatient. “Come along, Alexi! Hurry it up!”

Obediently he jabbed the spurs and walked Noble Star forward into her stall. The gate clanged behind her. A moment’s hush. Now the racers were under starter’s orders.