CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
4:00 P.M.:
In their stalls, jockeys dug their fingers into the horses’ manes, all of them nervous, those in the know ready to crowd Noble Star. Then the doors flew open and in a mad instant the eight runners were galloping, packed together along a short part of the straight, now past the winning post, now racing into the first bend. The riders were all crouched high up, side by side, almost touching, some touching, the horses getting their pace, hurtling through the first part of the bend that would take them a quarter of the course into the far straight. Already Pilot Fish was half a length ahead on the rails, Butterscotch Lass in fine position not flat out yet, Winning Billy alongside, back a little from Noble Star on the outside, crowding the others for a better place in the pack, all jockeys knowing that all binoculars were trained on them so any pulling or interference better be clever and cautious. They had all been warned that millions would be won or lost and it would cost each one of them their future to foul up.
They pounded through the turn, mud splattering those behind, the going bad. As they came out of the turn into the straight still together, shoving for position, they lengthened their strides, the sweat-smell and the speed exciting horses and riders alike. Winning Billy took the bit and closed up alongside Butterscotch Lass, now half a length behind Pilot Fish, going well, the rest bunched, all waiting to make their run. Now Butterscotch Lass felt the spurs and she leapt forward and passed Pilot Fish, fell back a little and passed him again, Pilot Fish still hugging the rails carefully.
Travkin was holding the filly well, lying back in the pack, still outside, then he gave her the spurs and she increased speed and he cut closer to the leaders, herding the others, almost bumping Lochinvar. The rain increased. The sting of it was in his eyes, his knees and legs tight and already hurting. There was not a length between them as they galloped out of the stretch into the corner. Going into the far turn they were all packed close to take advantage of the corner when a whip came from nowhere and lashed across Travkin’s wrists. The suddenness and pain unlocked his grip an instant and almost unbalanced him. A split second later he was in control again. Where the blow came from he did not know, or care, for they were well into the corner, the going dreadful. Abruptly, the gray outsider Kingplay on the rails just behind Pilot Fish slipped and stumbled, his jockey felt the earth twist and they went down smashing into the rails, pulling two horses with them. Everyone in the stadium was on their feet.
“Christ who’s down …”
“Is it … it’s Noble Star …”
“No, no it isn’t … Winning Bill—”
“No he’s lying third …”
“Come on for Christ’s sweet sake …”
In the uproar in the stewards’ room Dunross, whose binoculars were rock steady, called out, “It was Kingplay who fell … Kingplay, Street Vendor and Golden Lady … Golden Lady’s on her feet but Christ the jockey’s hurt … Kingplay won’t get up … he’s hurt…”
“What’s the order, what’s the order?”
“Butterscotch Lass by a nose, then Pilot Fish on the rails, Winning Billy, Noble Star, nothing to choose amongst them. Now they’re going into the last turn, the Lass’s ahead by a neck, the others hacking at her …” Dunross watched the horses, his heart almost stopped, excitement possessing him. “Come on, Alexi…” His shout added to those of others, Casey as excited, but Bartlett watching, uninvolved, his mind below.
Gornt in the Blacs box had his glasses focused as steadily as the tai-pan, his excitement as controlled. “Come on,” he muttered, watching Bluey White give Pilot Fish the whip in the turn, Noble Star well placed on the outside, Winning Billy alongside the Lass who was a neck in front, the angle of the turn making it difficult to see.
Again Travkin felt the lash on his hands but he dismissed it and eased a little closer in the bend, the remaining five horses inches apart, Butterscotch Lass crowding the rails.
Bluey White on Pilot Fish knew it would soon be time to make his dash. Ten yards, five, four three two now! They were coming out of the turn and he gave Pilot Fish the whip. The stallion shot forward, inches from the rails, flat out now as Butterscotch Lass got the spurs and whip an instant later, for all the jockeys knew it was now or never.
Travkin, stretched out parallel to Noble Star’s neck, leaned forward and let out a cossack scream near Noble Star’s ear and the filly took the primeval call and lengthened her stride, nostrils flared, foam on her mouth. Now the five runners were pounding the stretch, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching ahead of the Lass, all their withers sweat-foamed, now the Lass, now Pilot Fish ahead, and now the dappled gelding Lochinvar made his bid to conquer and he took the lead from Pilot Fish, taking the post position, all whips out and spurs in and only the winning post ahead.
One hundred yards to go.
In the stands and on the balconies and in the boxes, there was but one voice. Even the governor was pounding the balcony rail—“Come on come on Butterscotch Lasssss!”—and down by the winning post Nine Carat Chu was almost crushed against the rails by the press of the crowd craning forward.
Ninety yards, eighty … mud scattering, all runners flat out, all caught by the excitement and the crescendoing roar.
“The Lass’s pulling away …”
“No, look at Pilot F—”
“Christ it’s Lochinvarrrrr …”
“Winning Billy …”
“Come on come on come on …”
Travkin saw the winning post bearing down on them. There was another flash of lightning. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lochinvar ahead by a neck, then the Lass, now Winning Billy, now Pilot Fish easing forward taking the lead, now Winning Billy, Lochinvar crowding him.
Then Bluey White saw the opening he’d been promised and he gave the stallion the final whip. Like an arrow he darted for the opening and swung up alongside Butterscotch Lass, then passed her. He was ahead by a neck. He saw the Lass’s jockey, not in the know, give the mare the whip, shouting her onward. Travkin screamed exultantly and Noble Star put out her final effort. The five horses came down the final yards neck and neck, now Pilot Fish ahead, now Winning Billy, Noble Star closing, just a neck behind, just a nose, just a nostril, the crowd a single, mindless raving lunatic, all the runners bunched, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching away, the Lass closing, Pilot Fish closing, now ahead by a nose.
Forty … thirty … twenty … fifteen …
Noble Star was ahead by a nostril, then Pilot Fish, then the Lass then Noble Star … Winning Billy … and now they were past the winning post not one of them sure who had won—only Travkin sure he had lost. Abruptly he sawed the bit a vicious two inches and held it left in an iron hand, the movement imperceptible but enough to throw her off her stride and she shied. With a shriek she barreled down into the mud and threw her rider at the rails, the Lass almost falling but holding, the other three safe. Travkin felt himself sailing, then there was an impossible chest tearing, head-splitting blackness.
The crowd gasped, the race momentarily forgotten. Another blinding flash of lightning, pandemonium swooped over them, the downpour increased, mixing nicely with the thunder above.
“Pilot Fish by a nose …”
“Balls, it was Noble Star by a hair …”
“You’re wrong, old boy, it was Pilot Fish …”
“Dew neh loh moh …”
“Christ what a race …”
“Oh Christ! Look! There’s the stewards’ objection flag …”
“Where? Oh my God! Who fouled …”
“I didn’t see anything, did you …”
“No. Difficult in this rain, even with glasses …”
“Christ, now what? Those bloody stewards, if they take victory from my winner by Christ…”
Dunross had rushed for the elevator the moment he saw Noble Star fall and throw Travkin. He had not seen the cause. Travkin was too clever.
Others were excitedly crowding the corridors waiting for the elevator, everyone talking, no one listening. “We won by a nostril…”
“What’s the objection for chrissake? Noble St—”
“What’s the objection, tai-pan?”
“That’s up to the stewards to announce.” In the uproar Dunross stabbed the button again.
Gornt hurried up as the doors opened, everyone packing in, Dunross wanting to bellow with rage at the slowness. “It was Pilot Fish by a nose, Ian,” Gornt shouted above the uproar, his face flushed.
“What a race!” someone shouted. “Anyone know what the objection is?”
“Do you, Ian?” Gornt asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“It’s against my Pilot Fish?”
“You know the procedure. First the stewards investigate, then they make an announcement.” He saw Gornt’s flat brown eyes and he knew his enemy was suddenly blind with rage that he wasn’t a steward. And you won’t become one, you bastard, Dunross thought, enraged. I’ll blackball you till I’m dead.
“Is it against Pilot Fish, tai-pan?” someone shouted.
“Good God,” he called back. “You know the procedure.”
The elevator stopped at every level. More owners and friends crammed in. More shouts about what a great race but what the hell’s the objection? At last they reached ground level. Dunross rushed out onto the track where a group of ma-foo and officials surrounded Travkin who lay there crumpled and inert. Noble Star had fought to her feet, unhurt, and was now on the far side galloping riderless around the course, stable hands scattered and waiting to intercept her. Up the track on the last bend, the vet was kneeling beside the agonized roan gelding, Kingplay, his back leg broken, the bone jutting through. The sound of the shot did not penetrate the roars and counter roars of the impatient onlookers, their eyes fixed on the tote, waiting for the stewards’ judgment.
Dunross knelt beside Travkin, one of the ma-foo holding an umbrella over the unconscious man. “How is he, Doctor?”
“He didn’t slam into the rails, missed them by a miracle. He’s not dead, at least not yet, tai-pan,” Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, said nervously, used to dead bodies, not live patients. “I can’t tell, not until he comes around. There’s no apparent hemorrhaging externally. His neck … and his back seem all right … I can’t tell yet…”
Two St. John’s ambulance men hurried up with a stretcher. “Where should we take him, sir?”
Dunross looked around. “Sammy,” he said to one of his stableboys, “go and fetch Doc Tooley. He should be in our box.” To the ambulance men he said, “Keep Mr. Travkin in the ambulance till Doc Tooley gets here. What about the other three jockeys?”
“Two are just shook up, sir. One, Captain Pettikin, has a broken leg but he’s already in a splint.”
Very carefully the men put Travkin on the stretcher. McBride joined them, then Gornt and others. “How is he, Ian?”
“We don’t know. Yet. He seems all right.” Gently Dunross lifted one of Travkin’s hands, examining it. He had thought he had seen a blow in the far turn and Travkin falter. A heavy red weal disfigured the back of his right hand. And the other one. “What could have caused this, Dr. Meng?”
“Oh!” More confidently the little man said, “The reins perhaps. Perhaps a whip, could be a blow … perhaps in falling.”
Gornt said nothing, just watched, inwardly seething that Bluey White could have been so inept when everything had been so neatly set up beforehand with a word here, a promise there. Half the bloody stadium must have seen him, he thought.
Dunross examined Travkin’s ashen face. No marks other than inevitable bruising. A little blood seeped out of the nose.
“It’s already coagulating. That’s a good sign,” Dr. Meng volunteered.
The governor hurried up. “How is he?”
Dunross repeated what the doctor had said.
“Damned bad luck, Noble Star shying like that.”
“Yes.”
“What’s the stewards’ objection, Ian?”
“We’re just going to discuss that, sir. Would you care to join us?”
“Oh, no, no thank you. I’ll just wait and be patient. I wanted to make sure Travkin was all right.” The governor felt the rain running down his back. He looked up at the sky. “Blasted weather—looks like it’s here to stay. Are you going to continue the meet?”
“I’m going to recommend we cancel, or postpone.”
“Good idea.”
“Yes,” McBride said. “I agree. We can’t afford another accident.”
“When you have a moment, Ian,” Sir Geoffrey said, “I’ll be in my box.”
Dunross’s attention focused. “Did you talk to the minister, sir?” he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
“Yes.” Sir Geoffrey was equally casual. “Yes, he called on the private line.”
Abruptly the tai-pan was conscious of Gornt and the others. “I’ll walk you back, sir.” To McBride he said, “I’ll follow you at once,” then turned away and the two of them walked for the elevator.
Once alone Sir Geoffrey muttered, “Hardly the place for a private conversation, what?”
“We could examine the course, sir.” Dunross led the way to the rail, praying. “The turfs terrible, isn’t it?” he said, pointing.
“Very.” Sir Geoffrey also kept his back to the eyes. “The minister was very perturbed. He left the decision about Brian to me, providing Mr. Sinders and Mr. Crosse first agree to the release, pro—”
“Surely they’ll agree with you, sir?” Uneasily Dunross recalled his conversation with them last night.
“I can only advise. I will advise them it is necessary providing you assure me it is. You personally.”
“Of course,” Dunross said slowly. “But surely Havergill, Southerby or the other bankers would carry more weight.”
“In banking matters, Ian, yes. But I think I require your personal assurance and cooperation also.”
“Sir?”
“This matter will have to be handled very delicately, by you, not by them. Then there’s the problem of those files. The AMG files.”
“What about them, sir?”
“That’s for you to answer. Mr. Sinders told me of his conversation with you last night.” Sir Geoffrey lit his pipe, his hands cupping the flame, protecting it from the rain. After the tai-pan’s call to him this morning he had at once sent for Crosse and Sinders to discuss the matter of the exchange prior to asking the minister. Sinders had reiterated his concern that the files might have been doctored. He said he might agree to release Kwok if he was sure of those files. Crosse had suggested trading Kwok for Fong-fong and the others.
Now Sir Geoffrey looked at Dunross searchingly. “Well, Ian?”
“Tiptop’s due, or was due this afternoon. May I assume that I can say yes to his proposal?”
“Yes, providing you first get Mr. Sinders’s agreement. And Mr. Crosse’s.”
“Can’t you give that to me, sir?”
“No. The minister was quite clear. If you want to ask them now, they are in the members’ stands.”
“They know the result of your call?”
“Yes. Sorry but the minister made it very clear.” Sir Geoffrey was gentle. “It seems the reputation for fairness and honesty of the present tai-pan of the Noble House is known even in those hallowed places. Both the minister and I bank on it.” A burst of cheering distracted them. Noble Star had broken through the cordon of ma-foo trying to recapture her, and galloped past them, officials and stableboys scattering. “Perhaps you’d better deal with the race objection first. I’ll be in my box. Join me for tea or a cocktail if you wish.”
Dunross thanked him then hurried for the stewards’ room, his mind in turmoil.
“Ah, Ian,” Shitee T’Chung, the nominal chairman called out anxiously as he came in, all the stewards now present. “We really have to decide quickly.”
“That’s hard without Travkin’s evidence,” Dunross said. “How many of you saw Bluey White slash at him?”
Only McBride put up his hand.
“That’s only two of us out of twelve.” Dunross saw Crosse watching him. “I’m certain. And there was a weal across both his hands. Dr. Meng said it could have been made by a whip or the reins in falling. Pug, what’s your opinion?”
Pugmire broke an uncomfortable silence. “I saw nothing malicious, personally. I was watching like hell because I was on Noble Star, 1,000 on the nose. Whether there was a blow or not it didn’t seem to make much difference. I didn’t see her falter, or any of the pack, other than Kingplay. Noble Star was well in the running till the post and everyone had their whips out.” He tossed over one of the copies of the photo finish.
Dunross picked it up. The photo was as he had seen it: Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star, by a nostril from Butterscotch Lass, by a nose from Winning Billy.
“They’ve all got their whips out,” Pugmire continued, “and they had in the turn, quite rightly. It could easily have been accidental—if there was a blow.”
“Shitee?”
“I must confess, old boy, I was watching my Street Vendor and cursing Kingplay. I thought your filly’d pipped Pilot Fish. We, er, we’ve polled the other trainers and there’s, er, no formal complaint. I agree with Pug.”
“Roger?”
“I saw nothing untoward.”
“Jason?”
To his surprise Plumm shook his head and disagreed and Dunross wondered again about AMG and his astonishing accusation of Plumm and Sevrin. “We all know Bluey White’s cunning,” Plumm was saying. “We’ve had to warn him before. If the tai-pan and Donald say they saw it I vote we debar him and disqualify Pilot Fish when it comes to a vote.”
Dunross polled the other stewards, the rest wavering.
“Let’s call in the jockeys, White last.”
They did. All the jockeys muttered permutations of the same thing: they were too busy with their own mounts to notice anything.
Now the stewards looked at Dunross, waiting. He stared back, well aware that if he said, I vote we unanimously debar Bluey White for interference and disqualify Pilot Fish, all in favor say aye! that they would concede and vote as he wished.
I saw him do it, he told himself, so did Donald, and others, and it shook Alexi for that necessary split second. Even so, in all honesty I don’t think that cost Noble Star the race. I blew the race myself. Alexi was the wrong choice for this race. He should have shoved Pilot Fish into the rails on the second corner when he had the chance, or put his whip across Bluey White’s face, not his hands as I’d have done, oh yes, without hesitation. And there are other considerations.
“There’s no doubt in my mind there was interference,” he said. “But whether by accident or design I doubt if even Alexi will know. I agree it didn’t cost Noble Star the race so I suggest we just caution Bluey and let the result stand.”
“Excellent.” Shitee T’Chung exhaled and beamed and they all relaxed, none of them, least of all Pugmire, wanting a confrontation with the tai-pan. “Anyone against? Good! Let’s release the photo finish to the papers and make the announcement over the loudspeakers. Will you do that, tai-pan?”
“Certainly. But what about the rest of the program? Look at the rain.” It was pelting down now. “Listen, I’ve an idea.” He told it to them.
A whoop of excitement and they all laughed. “Very good, oh very good!”
“Grand!” Dunstan Barre exploded.
“That’ll give the buggers something to think about!” Pugmire said.
“Great idea, tai-pan!” McBride beamed. “Oh very good.”
“I’ll go to the control center—perhaps you’d get Bluey back and give him what for, scare him, eh?”
Pugmire said, “A word, Ian?”
“Can we make it later?”
“Of course. Roger, can I have a word?”
“Of course. I’ll be down in the members’ stand with Sinders.”
“Oh, not in your box?”
“No, I let the commissioner have it for a private party.”
“Ian?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Do you think they’ll hold the hill climb tomorrow?”
“If this keeps up, no. That whole area’ll be a quagmire. Why?”
“Nothing. I was planning a cocktail party early Sunday evening to celebrate your Superfoods coup!”
Shitee T’Chung chortled. “Jolly good idea! Congratulations, Ian! Did you see Biltzmann’s face?”
“Ian, would you be free? I won’t invite Biltzmann,” Plumm added to much laughter. “It’ll be at our company flat in Sinclair Towers.”
“Sorry, I’m going to Taipei early afternoon, sorry, at least that’s my present plan. Th—”
Pugmire interrupted with sudden concern, “You won’t be here Monday? What about our papers, and everything?”
“No problem, Pug. 9:30 we close.” To Plumm Dunross said, “Jason if I cancel or postpone Taipei, I’ll accept.”
“Good. 7:30 to 9:30 casual.”
Dunross walked off, his frown deepening, surprised that Plumm was so friendly. Ordinarily he was the opposition on all the boards they shared, siding with Gornt and Havergill against him, particularly on the Victoria’s board.
Outside the stewards’ room there were milling clusters of anxious reporters, owners, trainers and bystanders. Dunross brushed aside the barrage of questions all the way to the control room. It was on the top floor.
“Hello, sir,” the announcer said, everyone tense in the small glass booth that had the best view of the course. “Marvelous race, pity about … Do you have the decision? It’s Bluey, isn’t it, we all saw the whip….”
“May I use the mike?”
“Oh of course.” The man hastily moved and Dunross sat in his place. He clicked on the switch. “This is Ian Dunross, the stewards have asked me to make two announcements….”
The silence was vast as his words echoed and re-echoed over the stadium. The fifty thousand held their breaths, careless of the rain, in the stands and on every soaring level. “First, the result of the fifth race.” Dead silence but for the sound of the rain. Dunross took a deep breath. “Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star by a whisker from Butterscotch Lass …” but the last was drowned by the cheers and counter cheers, happiness and disgust, and everyone throughout the stadium was shouting, arguing, cheering, cursing and, down in the paddock, Gornt was astonished, having been convinced that his jockey had been seen as he had seen him, had been caught and carpeted and the result would be set aside. In the pandemonium the winning numbers flashed on to the tote: one, seven, eight.
Dunross waited a moment and breezily repeated the result in Cantonese, the crowd more docile, their pent-up anxieties allayed, for the stewards’ decision was final. “Second, the stewards have decided, due to the weather and bad conditions, to cancel the rest of the meet…” A vast groan went over the crowd. “… actually to postpone until next Saturday for another special meet.” A sudden great roar and excitement picked up. “We will have a meet of eight races and the fifth will be the same as today, with the same runners, Pilot Fish, Butterscotch Lass, Winning Billy, Street Vendor, Golden Lady, Lochinvar and Noble Star. A special return challenge with double stakes, 30,000 added….”
Cheers and more cheers, applause and roars and someone in the booth said, “Christ what a great idea, tai-pan! Noble Star’ll take that black bastard!”
“Oh no he won’t! Butterscotch …”
“Great idea, tai-pan.”
Into the mike Dunross said, “The stewards appreciate your continued support.” He repeated it in Cantonese, adding, “There will be a further special announcement in a few minutes. Thank you!” in both languages.
Another huge cheer and those in the rain scurried for cover or for the winning windows, everyone chattering, groaning, cursing the gods or blessing them, choking the exits, long lines of men, women and children seeking the long way home, a wonderful new happiness possessing them. Only those who possessed the winning double quinella numbers, eight and five in the second, one and seven in the fifth, stood paralyzed, staring at the tote, waiting for the winning odds to be declared.
“Another announcement, tai-pan?” the announcer asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Dunross said. “Around five.” Havergill had told him that the deal with Richard Kwang had been struck and had asked him to go to the Victoria box as soon as possible. He reached the exit door and went down the steps three at a time to the next level, very pleased with himself. Giving the race to Pilot Fish’s got to throw Gornt, he thought. Gornt knew and I knew it was a carve-up and that Alexi was set up whatever he did—which is the major reason I didn’t ride. They’d’ve tried it on me and I would have killed someone. But next Saturday … ah, next Saturday I’ll ride and Bluey White won’t dare, nor will the other trainers, next Saturday’ll be fair game and they’ll be on notice by God. His excitement picked up a beat. Then ahead in the crowded corridor he saw Murtagh waiting for him.
“Oh tai-pan, can I se—”
“Of course.” Dunross led him through the kitchen into his private room.
“That was a great race. I won a bundle,” the young man said excitedly, “and great about Saturday.”
“Good.” Then Dunross noticed the sweat on the man’s forehead. Oh Christ, he thought. “Are we in business, Mr. Murtagh?”
“Please call me Dave, the brass said, er, they said maybe. They’ve scheduled a board meeting for tomorrow, 9:00 A.M. their time. Our time that’s …”
“10:00 P.M. this evening. Yes. Excellent, Mr. Murtagh, then call me on this number.” Dunross wrote it down. “Please don’t lose it and don’t give it to anyone else.”
“Oh, of course, tai-pan, I’ll call the very moment … How late can I call?”
“The moment you put the phone down to them. Keep calling till you get me.” Dunross got up. “Sorry but there’s rather a lot to do.”
“Oh sure, sure!” Murtagh added uneasily, “Say, tai-pan, I just heard about the 2 million down on the General Stores tender. 2 million from us by 9:30 Monday’s gotta be kinda pushing it.”
“I rather expected it would be—for your group. Fortunately, Mr. Murtagh, I never planned on that modest amount of cash being your money. I know First Central is inclined to be like the mills of God—they grind slowly—unless they wish to remove themselves from the arena,” he added, remembering many friends who had been hurt by their precipitous withdrawal years back. “Not to worry, my new external source of credit’s more th—”
“What?” Murtagh blanched.
“My new external source of finance reacts at once to any sudden business opportunities, Mr. Murtagh. This took them just eight minutes. They seem to have more confidence than your principals.”
“Hell, tai-pan, please call me Dave, it’s not lack of confidence but, well, they’ve no idea of Asia. I’ve got to convince them the General Stores takeover’s got to double your gross in three years.”
“In one,” Dunross interrupted firmly, enjoying himself. “So sorry your group won’t share in our huge profits from that minor section of our immense expansion plans. Do have some tea in the box, sorry, I just have to make a phone call.” He took Murtagh’s elbow and firmly led him out of the door, shutting in after him.
In the kitchen Murtagh was staring at the closed door, the happy clatter of plates and Cantonese obscenities from the twenty cooks and helpers a vast din. “Jesus,” he muttered in near panic, “eight minutes? Shit, are the goddamn Swiss horning in on our client?” He tottered away.
Inside the room Dunross was on his private phone, listening to the ringing tone. “Weyyyyy?”
“Mr. Tip please,” he said carefully in Cantonese. “This is Mr. Dunross calling.”
He heard the phone put down with a clatter and the amah shriek, “It’s the phone! For you, Father!”
“Who is it?”
“A foreign devil.”
Dunross smiled.
“Hello?”
“Ian Dunross, Mr. Tip. I was just concerned that your illness wasn’t worse.”
“Ah, ah, yes, so sorry I could not arrive. Yes. I, I had some pressing business, you understand? Yes. Very pressing. Oh by the way, that was bad joss about Noble Star. I just heard on the wireless that Pilot Fish won by a nose after an objection. What was the objection?”
Patiently Dunross explained and answered questions about his General Stores takeover bid, delighted that that news had already reached him. If Tiptop, then all newspapers. Good, he thought, waiting Tiptop out but Tiptop outsmarted him. “Well, thank you for calling, tai-pan.”
At once Dunross said, “It was my pleasure, oh by the way, confidentially, I understand it may well be possible that the police have discovered one of their underlings has made a mistake.”
“Ah. I presume the mistake will be corrected immediately?”
“I would presume very soon, if the person concerned wishes to resign and take advantage of permission to travel abroad.”
“How soon might very soon be, tai-pan?”
Dunross was picking his words carefully, deliberately vague though formal now. “There are certain formalities, but it is possible that it could be quickly achieved. Unfortunately VIPs have to be consulted elsewhere. I’m sure you understand.”
“Certainly. But the mighty dragon is no match for the native serpent, heya? I understand there is one of your VVIPs already in Hong Kong. A Mr. Sinders?”
Dunross blinked at the extent of Tiptop’s knowledge. “I have certain approvals already,” he said, disquieted.
“I would have thought very few approvals were necessary. True gold fears no fire.”
“Yes. Is there somewhere I could call you this evening—to report progress?”
“This number will find me. Please call me at 9:00 P.M.” Tiptop’s voice became even drier. “I understand it might well be possible that your last suggestion about banking might be serviced. Of course any bank would need proper documentation to secure an immediate half billion Hong Kong dollars in cash, but I hear that the Victoria’s chop, the governor’s chop and yours would be all that’s required to secure the loan for thirty days. This … minor amount of cash is ready, for a limited time, whenever the correct procedures are entered into. Until that time this matter is confidential, very strictly confidential.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for calling.”
Dunross put the phone down and wiped his palms. “For a limited time” was branded on his mind. He knew, and he knew Tiptop knew he understood that the two “procedures” were absolutely interlinked but not necessarily. Christ Jesus I love Asia, he thought happily as he rushed off.
The corridors were filled, many people already crowding the elevators to go home. He peered into his box, caught Gavallan’s eye. “Andrew, go down to the members’ stand and get hold of Roger Crosse—he’s there with a fellow called Sinders. Ask them if they’ve a moment to join me in my box! Hurry!”
Gavallan took off. Dunross hurried along the corridor past the betting windows.
“Tai-pan!” Casey called out. “Sorry about Noble Star! Did y—”
“Be back in a minute, Casey. Sorry, can’t stop!” Dunross called back on the run. He noticed Gornt at the winning window but it did not take away his happiness. First things first, he thought. “How do you want the 10,000? Our bet?”
“Cash will do very nicely, thank you,” Gornt said.
“I’ll send it around later.”
“Monday will do just as well.”
“Later tonight. Monday I’ll be busy.” Dunross walked off with a polite nod.
In the packed Victoria box the uproar was the same as everywhere. Drinks, laughter, excitement and some cursing about Pilot Fish but already wagers were being placed on next Saturday’s race. As Dunross came in there were more cheers, condolences and another volley of questions. He fielded them all casually and one from Martin Haply who was jammed beside the door with Adryon.
“Oh, Father, what rotten luck about Noble Star. I lost my shirt and my month’s allowance!”
Dunross grinned. “Young ladies shouldn’t bet! Hello, Haply!”
“Can I ask ab—”
“Later. Adryon darling, don’t forget cocktails. You’re hostess.”
“Oh yes, we’ll be there. Father, can you advance me my next mon—”
“Certainly,” Dunross said to her astonishment, gave her a hug and pushed his way over to Havergill, Richard Kwang nearby.
“Hello, Ian,” Havergill said. “Bad luck, but clearly Pilot Fish had the edge.”
“Yes, yes he did. Hello, Richard.” Dunross gave him the copy of the photo finish. “Damned bad luck for both of us.” Others crowded to see it.
“Good God, by a whisker …”
“I thought Noble Star …”
Taking advantage of the diversion Dunross bent closer to Havergill. “Is everything signed?”
“Yes. 20 cents on the dollar. He agreed to and signed the provisional papers. Formal papers by the end of the week. Of course the rotter tried to wheedle but it’s all signed.”
“Marvelous. You did a terrific deal.”
Havergill nodded. “Yes. Yes, I know.”
Richard Kwang turned around. “Ah, tai-pan.” He dropped his voice and whispered, “Has Paul told you about the merger?”
“Of course. May I offer congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Southerby echoed, coming up to them. “Damned bad luck if you ask me! I had my bundle on Butterscotch Lass!”
The tempo of the room picked up as the governor came in. Havergill went to meet him, Dunross following. “Ah, Paul, Ian. Damned bad luck but an excellent decision! Both of them.” His face hardened nicely. “Next Saturday will certainly be a needle match.”
“Paul, you wanted to make a formal announcement?”
“Yes sir.” Havergill raised his voice. “May I have your attention please …” No one took any notice until Dunross took a spoon and banged it against a teapot. Gradually there was silence. “Your Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to announce, on behalf of the directors of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China, that an immediate merger has been arranged with the great Ho-Pak Bank of Hong Kong …” Martin Haply dropped his glass. “… and that the Victoria totally guarantees 100 percent of all Ho-Pak depositors and …”
The rest was drowned out with a great cheer. Guests in the nearby boxes craned over the balconies to see what was happening. The news was shouted across as others came in from the corridors and soon there were more cheers.
Havergill was besieged with questions and he held up his hand, delighted with the effect of his announcement. In the silence Sir Geoffrey said quickly, “I must say, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, that this is marvelous news, Paul, good for Hong Kong, good for the bank, good for you, Richard, and the Ho-Pak!”
“Oh yes, Sir Geoffrey,” Richard Kwang said, jovial and loud, sure that now he was a giant step nearer his knighthood. “I decided—of course with our directors—I decided it would be good for the Victoria to have a major foothold in the Chinese community an—”
Hastily Havergill interrupted and overrode him. “Richard, perhaps I’d better finish the formal announcement and leave the details to our press conference.” He glanced at Martin Haply. “We have scheduled a formal press conference for Monday at noon but all details of the, er, merger have been agreed. Isn’t that so, Richard?”
Richard Kwang began to make another variation but quickly changed his mind, seeing both Dunross’s and Havergill’s look. “Er, yes, yes,” he said but could not resist adding, “I’m delighted to be partners with the Victoria.”
Haply called out quickly, “Excuse me, Mr. Havergill, may I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Havergill said affably, well aware of what he would be asked. This bastard Haply has to go, he thought, one way or another.
“May I ask, Mr. Havergill, how you propose to pay out all the Ho-Pak customers and yours, Blacs and all the other banks when there’s a run on all of them and not enough cash in the till?”
“Rumors, rumors, Mr. Haply,” Havergill replied airily and added to laughter, “Remember: A swarm of mosquitoes can create a noise like thunder! Hong Kong’s economy has never been stronger. As to the so-called run on the Ho-Pak, that’s over. The Victoria guarantees the Ho-Pak’s depositors, guarantees the Struan-General Stores takeover and guarantees to be in business for the next hundred and twenty years.”
“But Mr. Havergill, would you ans—”
“Not to worry, Mr. Haply. Let’s leave the details of our … our benevolent umbrella for the Ho-Pak till our press conference on Monday.” At once he turned to the governor. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll make it public.” There were more cheers as he started through the crush toward the door.
Someone began singing, “For he’s a jolly good fellow…” Everyone joined in. The noise became deafening. Dunross said to Richard Kwang in Cantonese, quoting an old expression, “‘When it is enough, stop.’ Heya?”
“Ah, ah yes. Yes, tai-pan. Yes indeed.” The banker smiled a sickly smile, understanding the threat, reminding himself of his good fortune, that Venus Poon would certainly kowtow now that he was an important director on the board of the Victoria. His smile broadened. “You’re right, tai-pan. ‘Inside the red doors there is much waste of meat and wine!’ My expertise will greatly benefit our bank, heya?” He went off importantly.
“My God, what a day!” Johnjohn muttered.
“Yes, yes, marvelous! Johnjohn, old fellow,” McBride said, “you must be very proud of Paul.”
“Yes, of course.” Johnjohn was watching Havergill leave.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh yes, I was just working late.” Johnjohn had been up most of the night estimating how they could safely effect the takeover, safely for the bank and for the Ho-Pak depositors. He had been the architect and this morning he had spent more wearisome hours trying to convince Havergill that now was the time to be innovative. “We can do it, Paul, and create such a resurgence of confid—”
“And a very dangerous precedent! I don’t think your idea’s as important as you imagine!”
It was only when Havergill had seen the enormous and immediate gain in confidence after Dunross’s dramatic announcement that he had reconsidered. Never mind, Johnjohn thought wearily, we’re all gainers. The bank, Hong Kong, the Ho-Pak. Certainly we’ll do very well for their investors, stockholders and backers, far better than Richard! When I’m tai-pan I’ll use the Ho-Pak as a pattern for future bail-outs. With our new management the Ho-Pak will be a marvelous asset. Like any one of a dozen enterprises. Even like Struan’s!
Johnjohn’s tiredness vanished. His smile broadened. Oh hurry up, Monday—when the market opens!
In the Struan box Peter Marlowe was gloomily leaning on the rail, watching the crowds below. Rain cascaded off the jutting overhang protecting the boxes. The three cantilever balconies of the members and nonvoting members were not so protected. Bedraggled horses were being led down the ramps, bedraggled grooms joining the bedraggled thousands streaming away.
“What’s up, Peter?” Casey asked.
“Oh nothing.”
“Not Fleur, no problem there I hope?”
“No.”
“Was it Grey? I saw you both having at it.”
“No, no it wasn’t Grey, though he’s a pain, ill-mannered and stridently anti-everything of value.” Marlowe smiled curiously. “We were just discussing the weather.”
“Sure. You were looking depressed as hell just then. You lost the fifth?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t that. I’m ahead, well ahead on the day.” The tall man hesitated then motioned at the boxes and all around. “It’s just that I was thinking that there’re fifty thousand-odd Chinese here and another three or four million out there, and each one’s got a vast heritage, marvelous secrets, and fantastic stories to tell, to say nothing of the twenty-odd thousand Europeans, high and low, the tai-pans, the pirates, freebooters, accountants, shopkeepers, government people here—why did they choose Hong Kong too? And I know that however much I try, however much I read or listen or ask, I’ll never really know very much about Hong Kong Chinese or about Hong Kong. Never. I’ll only ever scratch the surface.”
She laughed. “It’s the same everywhere.”
“Oh no, no it isn’t. This’s the potpourri of Asia. Take that guy—the one in the third box over—the rotund Chinese. He’s a millionaire many times over. His wife’s a kleptomaniac so whenever she goes out he has his people follow her secretly and every time she steals something, his fellows pay for it. All the stores know her and him and it’s all very civilized—where else in the world would you do that? His father was a coolie and his father a highwayman and his a Mandarin and his a peasant. One of the men near him’s another multimillionaire, opium and illegal stuff into China, and his wife’s … ah well, that’s another story.”
“What story?”
He laughed. “Some wives have stories just as fascinating as their husbands’, sometimes more so. One of the wives you met today, she’s a nympho an—”
“Oh come on, Peter! It’s like Fleur says, you’re making it all up.”
“Perhaps. Oh yes, but some Chinese ladies are just as … just as predatory as any ladies on earth, on the quiet.”
“Chauvinist! You’re sure?”
“Rumor has it…” They laughed together. “Actually they’re so much smarter than we are, the Chinese. I’m told the few Chinese married ladies here who have a wandering eye usually prefer a European for a lover, for safety—Chinese adore gossip, love scandal, and it’d be rare to find a Chinese swinger who’d be able to keep such a secret or protect a lady’s honor. Rightly, the lady would be afraid. To be caught would be very bad, very bad indeed. Chinese law’s quite strict.” He took out a cigarette. “Maybe that makes it all the more exciting.”
“To have a lover?”
He watched her, pondering what she would say if he told her her nickname—whispered gleefully to him by four separate Chinese friends. “Oh yes, ladies here get around, some of them. Look over there, in that box—the fellow holding forth wearing a blazer. He wears a green hat—that’s a Chinese expression meaning he’s a cuckold, that his wife’s got a lover, actually in her case it was a Chinese friend of his.”
“Green hat?”
“Yes. Chinese are marvelous! They have such a terrific sense of humor. That fellow took out an ad in one of the Chinese papers some months ago that said, ‘I know I wear a green hat but the wife of the man who gave it to me had two of his sons by other men!’”
Casey stared at him. “You mean he signed his name to it?”
“Oh yes. It was a pun on one of his names, but everyone of importance knew who it was.”
“Was it true?”
Peter Marlowe shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The other fellow’s nose was neatly out of joint and his wife got hell.”
“That’s not fair, not fair at all.”
“In her case it was.”
“What did she do?”
“Had two sons by anoth—”
“Oh come on, Mr. Storyteller!”
“Hey look, there’s Doc Tooley!”
She searched the course below, then saw him. “He doesn’t look happy at all.”
“I hope Travkin’s all right. I heard Tooley went to examine him.”
“That was some spill.”
“Yes. Terrible.”
Both had been subjected to Tooley’s searching questions about their health, knowing the specter of typhus, perhaps cholera, and certainly hepatitis still hung over them.
“Joss!” Peter Marlowe had said firmly.
“Joss!” she had echoed, trying not to be worried about Linc. It’s worse for a man, she thought, remembering what Tooley had said: Hepatitis can mess up your liver—and your life, forever, if you’re a man.
After a moment she said, “People here do seem to be more exciting, Peter. Is that because of Asia?”
“Probably. The mores are so different. And here in Hong Kong we collect the cream. I think Asia’s the center of the world and Hong Kong the nucleus.” Peter Marlowe waved to someone in another box who waved at Casey. “There’s another admirer of yours.”
“Lando? He is a fascinating man.”
Casey had spent time with him between races.
“You must come to Macao, Miss Tcholok. Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow. Would 7:30 be convenient?” Mata had said with his marvelous old world charm and Casey had got the message very quickly.
During lunch Dunross had warned her a little about him. “He’s a good fellow, Casey,” the tai-pan had said delicately. “But here, for a quai loh stranger, particularly someone as beautiful as you, on a first trip to Asia, well it’s sometimes better to remember that being over eighteen isn’t always enough.”
“Got you, tai-pan,” she had told him with a laugh. But this afternoon she had allowed herself to be mesmerized by Mata, in the safety of the tai-pan’s box. Alone, her defenses would be up as she knew they would be tomorrow evening: “It depends, Lando,” she had said, “dinner would be fine. It depends what time I get back from the boat trip—I don’t know if it’s weather permitting or not.”
“With whom are you going? The tai-pan?”
“Just friends.”
“Ah. Well, if not Sunday, my dear, perhaps we could make it Monday. There are a number of business opportunities for you, here or in Macao, for you and Mr. Bartlett if you wish, and Par-Con. May I call you at seven tomorrow to see if you are free?”
I can deal with him, one way or another, she reassured herself, the thought warming her, though I’ll watch the wine and maybe even the water in case of the old Mickey Finn.
“Peter, the men here, the ones on the make—are they into Mickey Finns?”
His eyes narrowed. “You mean Mata?”
“No, just generally.”
“I doubt if a Chinese or Eurasian would give one to a quai loh if that’s what you’re asking.” A frown creased him. “I’d say you’d have to be fairly circumspect though, with them and with Europeans. Of course, to be blunt, you’d be high on their list. You have what it takes to send most of them into an orgiastic faint.”
“Thanks much!” She leaned on the balcony, enjoying the compliment. I wish Linc were here. Be patient. “Who’s that?” she asked. “The old man leering at the young girl? Down on the first balcony. Look, he’s got his hand on her butt!”
“Ah, that’s one of our local pirates—Four Finger Wu. The girl’s Venus Poon, a local TV star. The youth talking to them is his nephew. Actually the rumor is that he’s a son. The fellow’s got a Harvard business degree and a U.S. passport and he’s as smart as a whip. Old Four Fingers is another multimillionaire, rumored to be a smuggler, gold and anything, with one official wife, three concs of various ages and now he’s after Venus Poon. She was Richard Kwang’s current. Was. But perhaps now with the Victoria takeover she’ll dump Four Fingers and go back to him. Four Fingers lives on a rotten old Aberdeen junk and hoards his enormous wealth. Ah, look there! The wrinkled old man and woman the tai-pan’s talking to.”
She followed his glance to the next box but one.
“That’s Shitee T’Chung’s box,” he said. “Shitee’s a direct descendent of May-may and Dirk through their son Duncan. Did the tai-pan ever show you Dirk’s portraits?”
“Yes.” A small shiver touched her as she remembered the Hag’s knife jammed through the portrait of her father, Tyler Brock. She considered telling him about it but decided not to. “There’s a great likeness,” she said.
“There certainly is! Wish I could see the Long Gallery. Anyway, that old couple he’s talking to live in a tenement, a two-room, sixth-floor walk-up over in Glessing’s Point. They own a huge block of Struan stock. Every year before each annual board meeting, the tai-pan, whoever he is, has to go cap in hand to ask for the right to vote the stock. It’s always granted, that was part of the original agreement, but he still has to go personally.”
“Why’s that?”
“Face. And because of the Hag.” A flicker of a smile. “She was a great lady, Casey. Oh how I would like to have met her! During the Boxer revolt in 1899–1900, when China was in another of her conflagrations, the Noble House had all its possessions in Peking, Tiensin, Foochow and Canton wiped out by the Boxer terrorists who were more or less sponsored and certainly encouraged by Tz’u Hsi, the old dowager empress. They called themselves the Righteous Harmonious Fists and their battle cry was ‘Protect the Ch’ing and kill all foreign devils!’ Let’s face it, the European powers and Japan had pretty much partitioned China. Anyway, the Boxers fell on all foreign business houses, settlements, the unprotected areas, and obliterated them. The Noble House was in terrible straits. At that time the nominal tai-pan was again old Sir Lochlin Struan—he was Robb Struan’s last son, born with a withered arm. He was tai-pan after Culum. The Hag had appointed him when he was eighteen, just after Culum died—then again after Dirk Dunross—and she’d kept him tied to her apron strings till he died in 1915 at the age of seventy-two.”
“Where do you get all this information, Peter?”
“I make it up,” he said grandly. “In any event, the Hag needed a lot of money fast. Gornt’s grandfather had bought up a lot of Struan’s paper and he had lowered the boom. There was no normal source of finance, nowhere she could borrow, for all Asia—all the hongs—were equally in turmoil. But that fellow’s father, the father of the one the tai-pan’s talking to, was the King of the Beggars in Hong Kong. Begging used to be a huge business here. Anyway, this man came to see her, so the story goes. ‘I come to buy a fifth part of the Noble House,’ this man said with great dignity, ‘is it for sale? I offer 200,000 taels of silver,’ which was exactly the amount she needed to redeem her paper. For face they haggled and he settled for a tenth, 10 percent—an incredibly fair deal—both knowing that he could have had 30 or 40 percent for the same amount because by that time the Hag was desperate. He required no contract other than her chop and her promise that once a year she, or the tai-pan, would come to him or his descendents wherever he or they lived, to ask for the vote of the stock. ‘So long as the tai-pan asks—the voting power is given.’
“‘But why, Honorable King of the Beggars? Why save me from my enemies?’ she asked.
“‘Because your grandfather, old Green-Eyed Devil, once saved my grandfather’s face and helped him become the first King of the Beggars of Hong Kong.’”
Casey sighed. “Do you believe that, Peter?”
“Oh yes.” He looked out at Happy Valley. “Once this was all a malarial swamp. Dirk cleaned that up too.” He puffed his cigarette. “One day I’ll write about Hong Kong.”
“If you continue to smoke you’ll never write anything.”
“Point well taken. Okay, I’ll stop. Now. For today. Because you’re pretty.” He stubbed the cigarette out. Another smile, different. “Eeeee, but I could tell some stories about lots of the people you met today. I won’t, that’s not fair, not right. I can never tell the real stories, though I know lots!” She laughed with him, letting her eyes wander from the strange old couple down to the other stands. Involuntarily she gasped. Sitting in the lee of the members’ balcony she saw Orlanda. Linc was with her. He was very close. Both were very happy together, that was easy to see, even from this distance.
“What’s th—” Peter Marlowe began, then he saw them too. “Oh! Not to worry.”
After a pause she took her eyes away. “Peter, that favor. May I ask for that favor, now?”
“What do you want as a favor?”
“I want to know about Orlanda.”
“To destroy her?”
“For protection. Protection for Linc against her.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to be protected, Casey.”
“I swear I’ll never use it unless I honest to God feel it’s necessary.”
The tall man sighed. “Sorry,” he said with great compassion, “but nothing I could tell you about her would give you or Linc protection. Nothing to destroy her or make her lose face. Even if I could I wouldn’t, Casey. That really wouldn’t be cricket. Would it?”
“No, but I’m still asking.” She stared back at him, forcing the issue. “You said a favor. I came when you needed a hand. I need a hand now. Please.”
He watched her a long time. “What do you know about her?”
She told him what she had learned—about Gornt supporting Orlanda, Macao, about the child.
“Then you know everything I know, except perhaps that you should be sorry for her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s Eurasian, alone, Gornt her only support and that’s as precarious as anything in the world. She’s living on a knife edge. She’s young, beautiful and deserves a future. Here there’s none for her.”
“Except Linc?”
“Except Linc or someone like him.” Peter Marlowe’s eyes were slate color. “Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad from his point of view.”
“Because she’s Asian and I’m not?”
Again the curious smile. “Because she’s a woman and so are you but you hold all the cards, and the only real thing you have to decide is if you really want that war.”
“Level with me, Peter, please. I’m asking. What’s your advice? I’m running scared—there, I’ll admit it to you. Please?”
“All right, but this isn’t the favor I owe you,” he said. “Rumor has it you and Linc are not lovers though you obviously love him. Rumor has it you’ve been together for six or seven years in close proximity but with no … no formal contact. He’s a terrific fellow, you’re a terrific lady and you’d make a great couple. The key word is couple, Casey. Maybe you want money and power and Par-Con more than you do him. That’s your problem. I don’t think you can have both.”
“Why not?”
“It seems to me you choose Par-Con and power and riches and no Bartlett, other than as a friend—or you become Mrs. Linc Bartlett and behave and love and be the kind of woman there’s no doubt in hell Orlanda would be. Either way you have to be a hundred percent—you and Linc are both too strong and probably have tested each other too many times to be fooled. He’s been divorced once, so he’s on guard. You’re over the age of a Juliet blindness so you’re equally on guard.”
“Are you a psychiatrist too?”
He laughed. “No, nor a father-confessor, though I like to know about people and like to listen but not to lecture and never to give advice—that’s the most thankless task in the world.”
“So there’s no compromise?”
“I don’t think so, but then I’m not you. You have your own karma. Irrespective of Orlanda—if it’s not her it’ll be another woman, better or worse, prettier though maybe not, because win, lose or draw, Orlanda’s quality and has what it takes to make a man content, happy, alive as a man. Sorry, I don’t mean to be chauvinistic, but since you asked, I’d advise you to make up your mind quickly.”
Gavallan hurried into Shitee T’Chung’s box and joined the tai-pan. “Afternoon,” he said politely to the old couple. “Sorry, tai-pan, Crosse and the other fellow you wanted had already left.”
“Blast!” Dunross thought a second, then excused himself and walked out with Gavallan. “You’re coming to the cocktail party?”
“Yes, if you want me there—afraid I’m not very good company.”
“Let’s go in here a second.” Dunross led the way into his private room. Tea was laid out and a bottle of Dom Pérignon in an ice bucket.
“Celebration?” Gavallan asked.
“Yes. Three things: the General Stores takeover, the Ho-Pak rescue and the dawn of the new era.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Dunross began to open the bottle. “For instance you: I want you to leave for London Monday evening with the children.” Gavallan’s eyes widened but he said nothing. “I want you to check on Kathy, see her specialist, then take her and the kids to Castle Avisyard. I want you to take over Avisyard for six months, perhaps a year or two. Six months certain—take over the whole of the east wing.” Gavallan gasped. “You’re going to head up a new division, very secret, secret from Alastair, my father, every member of the family including David. Secret from everyone except me.”
“What division?” Gavallan’s excitement and happiness showed.
“There’s a fellow I want you to get close to tonight, Andrew. Jamie Kirk. His wife’s a bit of a bore but invite them to Avisyard. I want you to slide into Scotland, particularly Aberdeen. I want you to buy property, but very quietly: factory areas, wharfage, potential airfields, heliports near the docks. Are there docks there?”
“Christ, tai-pan, I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“Eh?”
Dunross laughed at the look on Gavallan’s face. “Not to worry. Your initial budget is a million pounds sterling.”
“Christ, where the hell’s a million coming fr—”
“Never mind!” Dunross twisted the cork and held it, deadening the explosion neatly. He poured the pale, oh so dry wine. “You’ve a million sterling to commit in the next six months. A further 5 million sterling over the next two years.”
Gavallan was gaping at him openly.
“In that time I want the Noble House, oh so quietly, to become the power in Aberdeen, with the best land, best influence on the town councils. I want you laird of Aberdeen—and as far west as Inverness and south to Dundee. In two years. All right?”
“Yes but…” Gavallan stopped helplessly. All his life he had wanted to quit Asia. Kathy and the children too, but it had never been possible or even considered. Now Dunross had given him Utopia and he could not take it all in. “But why?”
“Talk to Kirk, beguile his wife, and remember, laddie, a closed mouth.” Dunross gave him a glass and took one for himself. “Here’s to Scotland, the new era and our new fief.” Then he added in his most secret heart, And here’s to the North Sea! All gods bear witness: The Noble House is implementing Contingency Plan One.