James clavell

"Yes sir."

Crosse was lost in thought for a moment. "Why would Dunross want John Chen eliminated?"

The two police officers gaped at their superior.

"Put that in your abacus brain, Brian."

"Yes sir, but there's no reason. John Chen's no threat to Dunross, wouldn't possibly be—even if he became compradore. In the Noble House the tai-pan holds all the power."

"Does he?"

"Yes. By definition." Brian Kwok hesitated, thrown off balance again. "Well yes sir—I... in the Noble House, yes."

Crosse turned his attention to Armstrong. "Well?"

"No reason I can think of, sir. Yet."

"Well think about it."

Crosse lit a cigarette and Armstrong felt the smoke hunger pangs heavily. I'll never keep my vow, he thought. Bloody bastard Crosse-that-we-all-have-to-carry! What the hell's in his mind? He saw Crosse offer him a packet of Senior Service, the brand he always used to smoke—don't fool yourself, he thought, the brand you still smoke. "No thank you sir," he heard himself say, shafts of pain in his stomach and through all of him.

"You're not smoking, Robert?"

"No sir, I've stopped... I'm just trying to stop."

"Admirable! Why should Bartlett want John Chen eliminated?"

Again both police officers gawked at him. Then Armstrong said throatily, "Do you know why, sir?"

"If I knew, why should I ask you? That's for you to find out. There's a connection somewhere. Too many coincidences, too neat, too pat—and too smelly. Yes it smells of KGB involvement to me, and when that happens in my domain I must confess I get irritable."

"Yes sir."

"Well, so far so good. Put surveillance on Mrs. Phillip Chen—she could easily be implicated somewhere. The stakes for her are certainly high enough. Tail Phillip Chen for a day or two as well."

"That's already done, sir. Both of them. On Phillip Chen, not that I suspect him but just because I think they'll both do the usual—be uncooperative, keep mum, negotiate secretly, pay off secretly and breathe a sigh of relief once it's over."

"Quite. Why is it these fellows—however well educated—think they're so much smarter than we are and won't help us do the work we're paid to do?"

Brian Kwok felt the steely eyes grinding into him and the sweat trickled down his back. Control yourself, he thought. This bastard's only a foreign devil, an uncivilised, manure-eating, dung-ladened, motherless, dew neh loh moh saturated, monkey-descended foreign devil. "It's an old Chinese custom which I'm sure you know, sir," he said politely, "to distrust all police, all government officials—they've four thousand years of experience, sir."

"I agree with the hypothesis, but with one exception. The British. We have proved beyond all doubt we're to be trusted, we can govern, and, by and large, our bureaucracy's incorruptible."

"Yes sir."

Crosse watched him for a moment, puffing his cigarette. Then he said, "Robert, do you know what John Chen and Miss Tcholok said or talked about?"

"No sir. We haven't been able to interview her yet—she's been at Struan's all day. Could it be important?"

"Are you going to Dunross's party tonight?"

"No sir."

"Brian?"

"Good. Robert, I'm sure Dunross won't mind if I bring you with me, call for me at 8:00 P.M. All Hong Kong that counts will be there—you can keep your ears to the grindstone and your nose everywhere." He smiled at his own joke and did not mind that neither smiled with him. "Read the report now. I'll be back shortly. And Brian, please don't fail tonight. It really would be very boring."

"Yes sir."

Crosse left.

When they were alone Brian Kwok mopped his brow. "That bugger petrifies me."

"Yes. Same for me, old chum, always has."

"Would he really order a team into Struan's?" Brian Kwok asked incredulously. "Into the inner kernel of the Noble House?"

"Of course. He'd even lead it himself. This's your first tour with SI, old lad, so you don't know him like I do. That bugger'd lead a team of assassins into hell if he thought it important enough. Bet you he got the file himself. Christ, he's been over the border twice that I know of to chat to a friendly agent. He went alone, imagine that!"

Brian gasped. "Does the governor know?"

"I wouldn't think so. He'd have a haemorrhage, and if MI-6 ever heard, he'd be roasted and Crosse'd get sent to the Tower of London. He knows too many secrets to take that chance—but he's Crosse and not a thing you can do about it."

"Who was the agent?"

"Our guy in Canton."

"Wu Fong Fong?"

"No, a new one—at least he was new in my time. In the army."

"Captain Ta Quo Sa?"

Armstrong shrugged. "I forget."

Kwok smiled. "Quite right."

"Crosse still went over the border. He's a law unto himself."

"Christ, you can't even go to Macao because you were in SI a couple of years ago and he goes over the border. He's bonkers to take that risk."

"Yes. " Armstrong began to mimic Crosse. "And how is it tradesmen know things before we do, dear boy? Bloody simple," he said, answering himself, and his voice lost its banter. "They spend money. They spend lots of bloody money, whereas we've sweet f. a. to spend. He knows it and I know it and the whole world knows it. Christ, how does the FBI, CIA, KGB or Korean CIA work? They spend money! Christ, it's too easy to get Alan Medford Grant on your team—Dunross hired him. Ten thousand pounds retainer, that'd buy lots of reports, that's more than enough, perhaps it was less. How much are we paid? Two thousand quid a year for three hundred and sixty-six, twenty-five-hour days and a copper on the beat gets four hundred quid. Look at the red tape we'd have to go through to get a secret ten thousand quid to pay to one man to buy info. Where'd the FBI, CIA and god-cursed KGB be without unlimited funds? Christ," he added sourly, "it'd take us six months to get the money, if we could get it, whereas Dunross and fifty others can take it out of petty cash." The big man sat in his chair slouched and loose-limbed, dark shadows under his eyes that were red rimmed, his cheekbones etched by the overhead light. He glanced at the file on the desk in front of him but did not touch it yet, just wondered at the evil news it must contain. "It's easy for the Dunrosses of the world," he said.

Brian Kwok nodded and wiped his hands and put his kerchief away. "They say Dunross's got a secret fund—the tai-pan's fund—started by Dirk Struan in the beginning with the loot he got when he burned and sacked Foochow, a fund that only the current tai-pan can use for just this sort of thing, for h'eung yau and payoffs, anything—maybe even a little murder. They say it runs into millions."

"I'd heard that rumour too. Yes. I wish to Christ... oh well." Armstrong reached for the file, hesitated, then got up and went for the phone. "First things first," he told his Chinese friend with a sardonic smile. "First we'd better breathe on a few VIPs." He dialled Police HQ in Kowloon.

"Armstrong—give me Divisional Staff Sergeant Tang-po please."

"Good evening, sir. Yes sir?" Divisional Staff Sergeant Tang-po's voice was warm and friendly.

"Evening, 'Major," he said sweetly using the contraction of Sergeant Major as was customary. "I need information. I need information on who the guns were destined for. I need information on who the kidnappers of John Chen are. I want John Chen—or his body—back in three days. And I want this Werewolf—or Werewolves, in the dock very quickly."

There was a slight pause. "Yes sir."

"Please spread the word. The Great White Father is very angry indeed. And when he gets even just a little angry superintendents get posted to other commands, and so do inspectors—even sergeants, even divisional staff sergeants class one. Some even get demoted to police constable and sent to the border. Some might even get discharged or deported or go to prison. Eh?"

There was an even longer pause. "Yes sir."

"And when he's very angry indeed wise men flee, if they can, before anticorruption falls on the guilty—and even on innocents."

Another pause. "Yes sir. I'll spread the word, sir, at once. Yes, at once."

"Thank you, 'Major. The Great White Father is really very angry indeed. And oh, yes." His voice became even thinner. "Perhaps you'd ask your brother sergeants to help. They'll surely understand, too, my modest problem is theirs as well." He switched to Cantonese. "When the Dragons belch, all Hong Kong defecates. Heya?"

A longer pause. "I'll take care of it, sir."

"Thank you." Armstrong replaced the receiver.

Brian Kwok grinned. "That's going to cause a few sphincter muscles to oscillate."

The Englishman nodded and sat down again but his face did not lose its hardness. "I don't like to pull that too often—actually that's only the second time I've ever done it—but I've no option. He made that clear, so did the Old Man. You better do the same with your sources."

"Of course. 'When the Dragons belch...' You were punning on the legendary Five Dragons?"

"Yes."

Now Brian Kwok's handsome face settled into a mould—cold black eyes in his golden skin, his square chin almost beardless. "Tang-po's one of them?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it doesn't matter if he is or isn't. The word'll get to one of them, which is all I'm concerned about. Personally I'm pretty certain the Five Dragons exist, that they're five Chinese divisional sergeants, perhaps even station sergeants, who run all the illegal street gambling of Hong Kong—and probably, possibly, some protection rackets, a few dance halls and girls—five out of eleven. Five senior sergeants out of eleven possibilities. Eh?"

"I'd say the Five Dragons're real, Robert—perhaps there are more, perhaps less, but all street gambling's run by police."

"Probably run by Chinese members of our Royal Police Force, lad," Armstrong said, correcting him. "We've still no proof, none —and we've been chasing that will o' the wisp for years. I doubt if we'll ever be able to prove it." He grinned. "Maybe you will when you're made assistant commissioner."

"Come off it, for God's sake, Robert."

"Christ, you're only thirty-nine, you've done the special bigwig Staff College course and you're a super already. A hundred to ten says you'll end up with that rank."

"Done."

"Try me."

"I won't. I can't afford to lose that amount of tootie—you might get killed or something, this year or next, or resign—but if you don't you're in for the big slot before you retire, presuming you want to go the distance."

"Both of us."

"Not me—I'm too mad dog English." Armstrong clapped him on the back happily. "That'll be a great day. But you won't close down the Dragons either—even if you'll be able to prove it, which I doubt."

"No?"

Brian Kwok studied him. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Yes. In a funny sort of a way, right now the Dragons are one of our strongest supports. Let's face it, Brian, only Chinese can govern Chinese. The status quo's good for them too—violent crime's bad for them. So we get help when we need it—sometimes, probably—help that we foreign devils couldn't get any other way. I'm not in favour of their corruption or of breaking the law, not at all—or bribery or all the other shitty things we have to do, or informers, but what police force in the world could operate without dirty hands sometimes and snotty little bastard informers? So the evil the Dragons represent fills a need here, I think. Hong Kong's China and China's a special case. Just so long as it's just illegal gambling I don't care never mind. Me, if it was left up to me I'd make gambling legal tonight but I'd break anyone for any protection racket, any dance hall protection or girls or whatever. I can't stand pimps as you know. Gambling's different. How can you stop a Chinese gambling? You can't. So make it legal and everyone's happy. How many years have the Hong Kong police been advising that and every year we're turned down. Twenty that I know of. But oh no and why? Macao! Simple as that. Dear old Portuguese Macao feeds off illegal gambling and gold smuggling and that's what keeps them alive and we can't afford, we, the UK, we can't afford to have our old ally go down the spout."

"Robert Armstrong for prime minister!"

"Up yours! But it's true. The take on illegal gambling's our only slush fund—a lot of it goes to pay our ring of informers. Where else can we get quick money? From our grateful government? Don't make me laugh! From a few extra tax dollars from the grateful population we protect? Ha!"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not, Robert. But it's certainly going to backfire one day. The payoffs—the loose and uncounted money that 'happens' to be in a station drawer? Isn't it?"

"Yes, but not on me 'cause I'm not in on it, or a taker, and the vast majority aren't either. British or Chinese. Meanwhile how do we three hundred and twenty-seven poor foreign devil police officers control eight odd thousand civilised junior officers and coppers, and another three and a half million civilised little bastards who hate our guts never mind."

Brian Kwok laughed. It was an infectious laugh and Armstrong laughed with him and added, "Up yours again for getting me going."

"Likewise. Meanwhile are you going to read that first or am I?"

Armstrong looked down at the file he held in his hand. It was thin and contained twelve closely typewritten pages and seemed to be more of a newsletter with topics under different headings. The contents page read: Part One: The Political and Business Forecast of the United Kingdom. Part Two: The KGB in Asia. Part Three: Gold. Part Four: Recent CIA Developments.

Wearily Armstrong put his feet on the desk and eased himself more comfortably in his chair. Then he changed his mind and passed the file over. "Here, you can read it. You read faster than I do anyway. I'm tired of reading about disaster."

Brian Kwok took it, his impatience barely contained, his heart thumping heavily. He opened it and began to read.

Armstrong watched him. He saw his friend's face change immediately and lose colour. That troubled him greatly. Brian Kwok was not easily shocked. He saw him read through to the end without comment, then flick back to check a paragraph here and there. He closed the file slowly.

"It's that bad," Armstrong said.

"It's worse. Some of it—well, if it wasn't signed by A. Medford Grant, I'd say he was off his rocker. He claims the CIA have a serious connection with the Mafia, that they're plotting and have plotted to knock off Castro, they're into Vietnam in strength, into drugs and Christ knows what else—here—read it for yourself."

"What about the mole?"

"We've a mole all right." Brian reopened the file and found the paragraph. "Listen: There's no doubt that presently there is a high-level Communist agent in the Hong Kong police. Top-secret documents brought to our side by General Hans Richter—second-in-command of the East German Department of Internal Security—when he defected to us in March of this year clearly state the agent's code name is "Our Friend," that he has been in situ for at least ten, probably fifteen years. His contact is probably a KGB officer in Hong Kong posing as a visiting friendly businessman from the Iron Curtain countries, possibly as a banker or journalist, or posing as a seaman off one of the Soviet freighters visiting or being repaired in Hong Kong. Among other documented information we now know "Our Friend" has provided the enemy with are: All restricted radio channels, all restricted private phone numbers of the governor, chief of police and top echelon of the Hong Kong Government, along with very private dossiers on most of them...' "

"Dossiers?" Armstrong interrupted. "Are they included?"

"No."

"Shit! Go on, Brian."

"Jesus!" Armstrong gasped. "We'd better get old Fong Fong and his lads out right smartly."

"Yes."

"Is Wu Tat-sing on the list?"

Armstrong swore softly. "Who? Who could the spy be? Got to be high up. Who?"

After a great silence, Brian said, "The only one... the only one who could know all of this's Crosse himself."

"Oh come on for chrissake!"

"Think about it, Robert. He knew Philby. Didn't he go to Cambridge also? Both have similar backgrounds, they're the same age group, both were in Intelligence during the war—like Burgess and Maclean. If Philby could get away with it for all those years, why not Crosse?"

"Impossible!"

"Who else but him? Hasn't he been in MI-6 all his life? Didn't he do a tour here in the early fifties and wasn't he brought back here to set up our SI as a separate branch of SB five years ago? Hasn't he been director ever since?"

"That proves nothing."

"Oh?"

There was a long silence. Armstrong was watching his friend closely. He knew him too well not to know when he was serious. "What've you got?" he asked uneasily.

"You're plain bonkers," Armstrong exploded. "He's married and... and he may be an evil son of a bitch but there's never been a smell of anything like that, never."

"Yes, but he's got no children, his wife's almost permanently in England and when she's here they have separate rooms."

"How do you know?"

"The amah would know so if I wanted to know it'd be easy to find out."

"That proves nothing. Lots of people have separate rooms. You're wrong about Crosse."

"Say I could give you proof?"

"What proof?"

"Where does he always go for part of his leave? The Cameron Highlands in Malaya. Say he had a friend there, a young Malayan, a known deviate."

"I'd need photos and we both know photos can be easily doctored," Armstrong said harshly. "I'd need tape recordings and we both know those can be doctored too. The youth himself? That proves nothing—it's the oldest trick in the book to produce false testimony and false witnesses. There's never been a hint... and even if he's AC-DC, that proves nothing—not all deviates are traitors."

"No. But all deviates lay themselves open to blackmail. And if he is, he'd be highly suspect. Highly suspect. Right?"

Armstrong looked around uneasily. "I don't even like talking about it here, he could have this place tapped."

"And if he has?"

"If he has and if it's true he can fry us so quickly your head would spin. He can fry us anyway."

"Perhaps—but if he is the one then he'll know we're on to him and if he's not he'll laugh at us and I'm out of SI. In any event, Robert, he can't fry every Chinese in the force."

Armstrong stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Perhaps there's a file on him. Perhaps every Chinese above the rank of corporal's read it."

"What?"

"You mean you're all organised into a brotherhood? A long, a secret society? A triad within the force?"

"I said perhaps. This is all surmise, Robert. I said perhaps and maybe."

"Who's the High Dragon? You?"

"I never said there was such a grouping. I said perhaps."

"Are there other files? On me, for instance?"

"Perhaps."

"And?"

"This is China, old chum. We know almost everything that goes on with quai loh here. We have to, to survive, don't we?"

Armstrong looked at him strangely. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I haven't told you anything now. Nothing. I said perhaps and I repeat perhaps. But if this's all true..." He passed over the file and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. "Read it yourself. If it's true we're up the creek without a paddle and we'll need to work very quickly. What I said was all surmise. But not about Crosse. Listen Robert, I'll bet you a thousand... a thousand to one, he's the mole."

7:43 P.M.: Dunross finished reading the blue-covered file for the third time. He had read it as soon as it had arrived—as always—then again on the way to the Governor's Palace. He closed the blue cover and set it onto his lap for a moment, his mind possessed. Now he was in his study on the second floor of the Great House that sat on a knoll on the upper levels of the Peak, the leaded bay windows overlooking floodlit gardens, and then far below, the city and the immensity of the harbour.

The ancient grandfather clock chimed a quarter to eight.

Fifteen minutes to go, he thought. Then our guests arrive and the party begins and we all take part in a new charade. Or perhaps we just continue the same one.

The room had high ceilings and old oak panelling, dark green velvet curtains and Chinese silk rugs. It was a man's room, comfortable, old, a little worn and very cherished. He heard the muted voices of the servants below. A car came up the hill and passed by.

The phone rang. "Yes? Oh hello, Claudia."

"I haven't reached Tsu-yan yet, tai-pan. He wasn't in his office. Has he called?"

"No. No not yet. You keep trying."

"Yes. See you in a little while. 'Bye."