James clavell

Suslev ducked under clotheslines, stepped over the flotsam and jetsam of lifetimes, oblivious of the automatic obscenities that followed him, amused by the urchins who ran before him shrieking, "Quailoh... quailoh!", laughing together, holding out their hands. He was too Hong Kong yan to give them any money though he was touched by them, their poverty and good humour, so he just cursed them genially and tousled a few crew-cut heads.

On the far side of the roof the entrance to Ginny Fu's tenement jutted like an ancient funnel. The door was ajar. He went down.

"Halloa, Gregy," Ginny Fu said, breathlessly opening her front door for him. She was dressed as he had ordered in a drab coolie outfit with a big straw conical hat hanging down her back, her face and hands dirtied. "How I look? Like film star, heya?"

"Greta Garbo herself," he said with a laugh as she ran into his arms and gave him a great hug.

"You want jig-jig more 'fore go, heya?"

"Nyet. Plenty of time in the next weeks. Plenty, heya?" He set her down. He had pillowed with her at dawn, more to prove his manhood than out of desire. That's the problem, he thought. No desire. She's boring. "Now, you understand plan, heya?"

"Oh yes," she said grandly. "I find go-down 7 and join coolies, carry bales to ship. Once on ship I go door opposite stairway, go in and give paper." She pulled it out of her pocket to show that she had it safely. On the paper was written in Russian, "Cabin 3." Boradinov would be expecting her. "In 3 cabin, can use bath, change to clothes you buy and wait." Another big smile. "Heya?"

"Excellent." The clothes had cost little and the buying saved any baggage. Much more simple without baggage. Baggage would be noticed. Nothing about her should be noticed.
"Sure no need bring anything, Gregy?" she asked anxiously.

"No, only makeup things, woman things. Everything in pocket, understand?"

"Of course," she said haughtily. "Am I fool?"

"Good. Then off you go."

Once more she embraced him. "Oh thanks holiday, Gregy—I be bestest ever." She left.

The meeting with Koronski had made him hungry. He went to the battered refrigerator and found the chocolates he sought. He munched on one, then lit the gas stove and began to fry some eggs. His anxiety began to return. Don't worry, he ordered himself. The plan will work, you will get possession of the tai-pan and it will be routine at police headquarters.

Put those things aside. Think of Ginny. Perhaps at sea she won't be boring. She'll divert the nights, some of the nights, the tai-pan the days until we dock. By then he'll be empty and she'll vanish into a new life and that danger will be gone forever and I'll go to my dacha where the Zergeyev hellcat'll be waiting and we'll fight, she calling me every obscenity until I lose my temper and tear her clothes off, maybe use the whip again and she'll fight back and fight back until I fight into her and explode, explode taking her with me sometimes, Kristos how I wish it was every time. Then sleeping, never knowing when she'll kill me in my sleep. But she's been warned. If anything happens to me my men will give her to lepers on the east side of Vladivostok with the rest of her family.

The radio announced the seven o'clock news in English. "Good morning. This is Radio Hong Kong. More heavy rain is expected. The Victoria Bank has confirmed officially that it will assume all depositor debts of the Ho-Pak and asks depositors to line up peacefully if they require their money on Monday.

"During the night there were numerous land and mud slides throughout the Colony. Worst hit were the squatters' settlement area above Aberdeen, Sau Ming Ping, and Sui Fai Terrace in Wan-chai where six major landslips affected buildings in the area. In all, thirty-three persons are known to have lost their lives and many are feared still buried in the slides.

"There are no new developments in the foul murder and kidnapping of Mr. John Chen by the Werewolf gang. Rewards of $100,000 for information leading to their capture have been posted.

"Reports from London confirm that this year's harvest in the USSR has again failed...."

Suslev didn't hear the rest of the broadcast. He knew the report from London was true. Top-secret KGB forecasts had predicted the harvest would once more be below even that necessary for subsistence.

Kristos, why the hell can't we feed ourselves? he wanted to shout, knowing famine, knowing the bloatedness and pains in his own lifetime let alone the ghastly tales his father and mother would tell.

So there's to be famine once more, tightening the belt once more, having to buy wheat from abroad, using up our hard-earned foreign currency, our future in danger, terrible danger, food our Achilles' heel. Never enough. Never enough skill or tractors or fertilisers or wealth, all the real wealth going for arms and armies and aeroplanes and ships first, far more important to become strong enough to protect ourselves from capitalist swine and revisionist Chinese swine and carry the war to them and smash them before they smash us, but never enough food for us and our buffer lands—the Balkans, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, East Germany, the Baltic lands. Why is it those bastards could feed themselves most times? Why is it they falsify their harvests and cheat us and lie and steal from us? We protect them and what do they do? Brood and hate us and yet without our armies and the KGB to keep the filthy scum revisionist dissidents in thrall, they'll foment rebellion—like East Germany and Hungary—and turn the stupid masses against us.

But famine causes revolution. Always. Famine will always make the masses rise up against their government. So what can we do?

Keep them chained—all of them—until we smash America and Canada and take their wheatlands for ourselves. Then our system will double their harvest.

Don't fool yourself, he thought, agonised. Our agricultural system doesn't work. It never has. One day it will. Meanwhile we cannot feed ourselves. Those motherless turd farmers should...

"Stop it," Suslev muttered aloud, "you're not responsible, it's not your problem. Deal with your own problems, have faith in the Party and Marxist-Leninism!"

The eggs were done now and he made toast. Rain spattered the open windows. An hour ago the all-night torrent had ceased, but across the street and above the opposite tenement there were the dark clouds. More rain there, he thought, lots more. It's either god-cursed drought or god-cursed flood in this cesspit! A gust caught one of the sodden, cardboard makeshift lean-tos on the roof and collapsed it. At once stoic repairs began, children barely old enough to walk helping.

With deft hands, liking neatness, he laid himself a place at the table, humming in time with the radio music. Everything's fine, he reassured himself. Dunross will go to the party, Koronski will supply the means, Plumm the client, Roger the protection, and all I have to do is go to police headquarters for an hour or so, then leisurely board my ship. On the midnight tide I kiss my arse to Hong Kong, leaving the Werewolves to bury the dead....

The hackles of his neck rose as he heard the screech of an approaching police siren. He stood, paralysed. But the siren whined past and went away. Stoically he sat and began to eat. Then the secret phone rang.
72
7:30 AM
The small Bell helicopter swung in over the city, just below the overcast, and continued climbing the slopes to ease past the Peak funicular and the multiple high rises that dotted the steepness. Now the chopper was almost in the bottom layer of cloud.

Warily the pilot climbed another hundred feet, slowed and hovered, then saw the misted helipad in the grounds of the Great House near a great jacaranda tree. Immediately he swooped to the landing. Dunross was already waiting there. He ducked low to avoid the swirling blades, got into the left side of the bubble and buckled on his safety belts and headphones. "Morning, Duncan," he said into the mouth mike. "Didn't think you'd make it."

"Nor me," the older man said, and Dunross adjusted the headphone volume to hear better. "Doubt if we'll be able to get back, tai-pan. The overcast's dropping too fast again. Best leave if we're leaving. You have control."

"Here we go."

Gently Dunross's left hand twisted the throttle grip and increased the revs smoothly and eased the lever up, while his right hand moved the control stick right, left, forward, back, inching it in a gentle tiny circle, seeking and feeling for the air cushion that was building nicely—his left hand controlling speed, climbing or descending, his right hand direction, his feet on the rudder pedals keeping the whole unstable aircraft straight, preventing torque. Dunross loved to fly choppers. It was so much more of a challenge than fixed-wing flying. It required so much concentration and skill that he forgot his problems, the flying cleansing him. But he rarely flew alone. The sky was for professionals or for those who flew daily, so he would always have a pilot-instructor along with him, the presence of the other man not detracting from his pleasure.

His hands felt the cushion building and then the craft was an inch airborne. Instantly he corrected the slight slide to the right as a wind gusted. He checked his instruments, feeling for dangers, eyes outside, ears tuned to the music of the engine. When all was stable, he increased revs as he raised the left lever, eased the stick forward and left an inch, feet compensating, and went into a skidding left turn, gaining altitude and speed to drop away down the mountainside.

Once he was steady he pushed the transmit button on the stick, reporting in to Air Traffic Control at Kai Tak.

"Watch your revs," Mac said.

"Got it. Sorry." Dunross corrected just a fraction too hastily and cursed himself, then got the helicopter trimmed nicely, cruising sweetly, everything in the green, a thousand feet above sea level heading out across the harbour toward Kowloon, the New Territories and the hill-climb area.

"You really going to do the hill climb, tai-pan?"

"Doubt it, Duncan," he said through the mike. "But I wanted our ride anyway. I've been looking forward to it all week." Duncan Maclver ran this small helicopter business from the airport. Most of his business was local, most from government for surveys. The police hired him sometimes, the fire department, Customs. He was a short man, ex-RAF, with a lined face, very wide, sharp eyes that raked constantly.

Once Dunross was settled and trimmed, Maclver leaned forward and put circles of cardboard over the instruments to force Dunross to fly by feel and sound only, to listen to the pitch and tone; slowing meant the engine was working harder so they were climbing—watch for stalling—and faster, that it was diving, losing altitude.

"Tai-pan, look down there." Maclver pointed at the scar on one of the mountainsides just outside Kowloon; it scored a path through one of the vast squatter hovel slums. "There're mud slides all over. Did you hear the seven o'clock news?"

"Yes, yes I did."

"Let me take her a minute." Dunross took his hands and feet off the controls. Maclver went into a lovely diving turn to swoop nearer the settlement to examine the damage. The damage was great. Perhaps two hundred of the hovels were scattered and buried. Others near the slide were now even more precarious than before. Smoke from the fires that came with every slide still hung like a pall.

"Christ! It looks terrible."

"I was up at dawn this morning. The fire department asked me to help them on Hill Three, over above Aberdeen. They had a slide there a couple of days ago, a child almost got buried. Last night there was another slip in the same area. Very dicey. The slip's about two hundred feet by fifty. Two or three hundred hovels gone but only ten dead—bloody lucky!" Maclver circled for a moment, made a note on a pad, then gunned the ship back to altitude and to course. Once she was steady, level and trimmed he said, "She's all yours." Dunross took control.

Sha Tin was coming up on their right-side horizon. When they were close, Maclver took off the cardboard instrument covers. "Good," he said checking the readings. "Spot on."

"Had any interesting jobs recently?"

"Just more of the same. Got a charter for Macao, weather permitting, tomorrow morning."

"Lando Mata?"

"No, some American called Banastasio. Watch your revs! Oh, there's your landfall."

The fishing village at Sha Tin was near tracks that led back into the hills where the hill climb was to be held. The course consisted of a crude dirt road bulldozed out of the mountainside. At the foot of the slopes were a few cars, some on trailers and trailer rigs, but almost no spectators. Normally there would be hundreds, Europeans mostly. It was the only car-racing event in the Colony. British law forbade using any part of the public road system for racing, and this was the reason that the annual amateur Grand Prix race at Macao had been organised under the joint banner of the Sportscar and Rally Club of Hong Kong and the Portuguese Municipal Council. Last year Guillo Rodriguez of the Hong Kong Police had won the sixty-lap race in three hours twenty-six minutes at an average speed of 72 mph, and Dunross, driving a Lotus, and Brian Kwok in a borrowed E-Type Jag had been neck and neck for second place until Dunross blew a tire, flat out, going into Fisherman's Bend and nearly killed himself at the same spot where his engine blew in '59, the year before he became tai-pan.

Dunross was concentrating on his landing now, knowing that they would be watched.

The chopper was lined up, revs correct for descent, wind ahead and to the right, swirling a little as they came closer to the ground. Dunross held her meticulously. At the exact spot, he corrected and stopped, hovering, in total control, then, keeping everything coordinated, eased off the throttle oh so gently, raising the left lever to change the pitch of the blades to cushion the landing. The landing skids touched the earth. Dunross took off the remaining throttle and smoothly lowered the lever to bottom. The landing was as good as he had ever done.

Maclver said nothing, paying him a fine compliment by pretending to take it for granted, and watched while Dunross began the shutdown drill. "Tai-pan, why don't you let me finish it for you," he said. "Those fellows look somewhat anxious."

"Thanks."

Dunross kept his head down and went to the rain-coated group, his feet squelching in the mud. "Morning."

"It's bloody awful, tai-pan," George T'Chung, Shitee T'Chung's eldest son, said. "I tried my bus out and she stuck on the first bend." He pointed at the track. The E-Type was bogged down with one of its fenders bent. "I'll have to get a tractor." A spatter of rain washed them.

"Bloody waste of time," Don Nikklin said sourly. He was a short, bellicose man in his late twenties. "We should have cancelled it yesterday."

Quite true, Dunross thought contentedly, but then I wouldn't have had the excuse to fly, and the extreme pleasure of seeing you here, your morning wasted. "The consensus was to try for today. Everyone agreed it was a long shot," Dunross said sweetly. "You were there. So was your father. Eh?"

McBride said hastily, "I formally suggest we postpone."

"Approved." Nikklin went off back to his brand-new four-wheel-drive truck with its souped-up Porsche under a neat tarp.

"Friendly fellow," someone said.

They watched as Nikklin got his rig into motion and swirled away with great skill on the treacherous dirt road, past the chopper, its engine dying and the rotors slowing down.

"Pity he's such a shit," someone else said. "He's an awfully good driver."

"Roll on Macao, eh, tai-pan?" George T'Chung said with a laugh, his voice patrician and English public school.

"Yes," Dunross said, his voice sharpening, looking forward to November, to beating Nikklin again. He had beaten him three out of six tries but he had never won the Grand Prix, his cars never strong enough to sustain his heavy right foot. "This time I'll win, by God."

"Oh no you won't, tai-pan. This's my year! I've a Lotus 22, the works, my old man sprung for the lot. You'll see my tail for all sixty laps!"

"Not on your nelly! My new E-Type'll..." Dunross stopped. A police car was skidding and slipping in the quagmire, approaching him. Why's Binders here so early? he asked himself, his stomach tightening. He had said noon. Involuntarily his hand moved to check that the envelope was safe in his buttoned-down hip pocket. His fingers reassured him.

Last night when he had returned to P. B. White's study he had taken out the eleven pieces of paper and examined them again under the light. The ciphers were meaningless. I'm glad, he had thought. Then he had gone to the photocopier that was beside the leather-topped desk and made two copies of each page. He put each set into a separate envelope and sealed them. One he marked: "P. B. White—please hand this to the tai-pan of Struan's unopened." That one he put into a book that he chose at random from the bookshelves, replacing it with equal care. Following AMG's instructions, he marked the second with a G for Riko Gresserhoff and pocketed it. The originals he sealed in a last envelope and pocketed that too. With a final check that the secret door was back in place, he unlocked the door and went out. In a few minutes he and Gavallan had left with Casey and Riko and though there was plenty of opportunity to give Riko her set privately, he had decided it was better to wait until the originals were delivered.

Should I give Sinders the originals now or at noon? he asked himself, watching the police car. The car stopped. Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth got out. Neither Sinders nor Crosse was with him.

"Morning," Smyth said politely, touching his peaked cap with his swagger stick, his other arm still in a sling. "Excuse me, Mr. Dunross, is the chopper your charter?"

"Yes, yes it is, Chief Inspector," Dunross said. "What's up?"

"I've a small show on down the road and saw you coming in. Wonder if we could borrow Maclver and the bird for an hour—or if you're going back at once, perhaps we could take her on after?"

"Certainly. I'll be off in a second. The hill climb's cancelled."

Smyth glanced at the mountain track and the sky and grunted. "I'd say that was wise, sir. Someone would've been hurt, sure as shooting. If it's all right, I'll talk to Maclver?"

"Of course. Nothing serious I hope?"

"No, no, not at all. Interesting though. The rain's uncovered a couple of bodies that'd been buried in the same area where John Chen's body was found."

The others came closer. "The Werewolves?" George T'Chung asked, shocked. "More kidnap victims?"

"We presume so. They were both young. One had his head bashed in and the other poor bugger half his head cut off, looks like with a spade. Both were Chinese."

"Christ!" Young George T'Chung had gone white.

Smyth nodded sourly. "You haven't heard of any rich sons being kidnapped, have you?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Not surprised," Smyth said. "Stupid for the families of victims to deal with kidnappers and keep quiet about it. Unfortunately the bodies were discovered by locals so it'll be headlines by tonight from here to Peking!"

"You want to fly the bodies back?"

"Oh no, tai-pan. The hurry's to get some CID experts here to search the area before the rain comes again. We need to try to identify the poor buggers. Can you leave at once?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Thanks. Sorry to bother you. Sorry about Noble Star, but my bundle'll be on you on Saturday." Smyth nodded politely and walked off.

George T'Chung was openly upset. "We're all targets for those bastards, the Werewolves. You, me, my old man, anyone! Christ, how can we protect ourselves against them?"

No one answered him.

Then Dunross said with a laugh, "No need to worry, old chap, we're inviolate, we're all inviolate."

"Good morning, Mr. Bartlett, this is Claudia Chen. The tai-pan asked if you'd need the car today anyway?"

"No, no thanks." Bartlett glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he muttered aloud, astounded he had slept so long. "Er, thanks, thanks, Claudia."

"The Taipei trip's rescheduled for next Friday, Friday back Monday noon. Is that convenient?"

"Yes, er yes, sure."

"Thank you."

Bartlett hung up and lay back a moment, collecting his wits. He stretched luxuriously, glad that there was no rush for anything, enjoying the rare pleasantness of being just a little lazy.

It had been four o'clock this morning when he had hung up a "do not disturb," cut off the phones till 10:00 A.M. and had gone to bed. Last night Orlanda had taken him to Aberdeen where she had hired a Pleasure Boat. They had drifted the channels, the rain making the hooped cabin more cosy, the brazier warming, the food hot and spicy.

"In Shanghai we cook with garlic and chilies and peppers and all manner of spices," she had told him, serving him, her chopsticks a delicate extension of her fingers. "The farther north you go the hotter the food, the less rice is eaten, more breads and noodles. The north's wheat-eating, only the southern part of China's rice-eating, Linc. More?"

He had eaten well and drunk the beer she had brought with her. The night had been happy for him, the time going unnoticed as she regaled him with stories of Asia and Shanghai, her mind deft and darting. Then, afterward, the rain pattering on the canvas, the dishes taken away and they reclining side-by-side on the cushions, fingers entwined, she had said, "Linc, I'm sorry, but I love you."

It had taken him by surprise.

"No need to be sorry," he had said, not ready yet to reply in kind.

"Oh but I am. It complicates things, oh yes, it complicates things very much."

Yes, he thought. It's so easy for a woman to say I love you, so hard for a man, unwise for a man, for then you're stuck. Is that the right word? Again the answer did not present itself.

As he lay now in bed, his head cradled on his arms, he rethought the night. Touching and leaving alone, then hands searching, his and hers, but not finalising. Not that she prevented him or stopped him. He just held back. Finally.

"You've never done that before," he muttered out loud. "Once you had a girl going, you went all the way," and he wished he had, remembering how heavy the desire had been upon them. "I'm not a one-night stand or Eurasian tramp" had rung in his ears.

In the taxi to her home they had not spoken, just held hands. That's the goddamnedest part, he thought, feeling foolish, childish, just holding hands. If anyone had told me a month ago, a week ago that I'd settle for that, I'd've said he was a meathead and bet big money.

Money. I have more than enough for Orlanda and me. But what about Casey? And Par-Con? First things first. Let's see if Casey tells me about Murtagh and why she's been sitting on that hot potato. Gornt? Gornt or Dunross? Dunross has style and if Banastasio's against him that's one great vote of confidence.

After he had told Armstrong their theory about Banastasio, Armstrong had said, "We'll see what we can come up with, though Mr. Gornt's credentials are as impeccable as any in the Colony. You can rest assured Vincenzo Banastasio will be high up on our shit list, but isn't his real threat in the States?"

"Oh yes. But I told Rosemont an—"

"Ah, good! That was wise. He's a good man. Did you see Ed Langan?"

"No. Is he CIA too?"

"I don't even know, officially, if Rosemont is, Mr. Bartlett. Leave it with me. Did he have any suggestion about the guns?"

"No."

A small tremor went through Bartlett. He'll have to be very good to clobber Mafia, if Banastasio really is Mafia.