James clavell

In 1950 when the Chinese Communist armies in Korea were battering and bleeding their way south from the Yalu with monstrous losses, they were desperately short of all strategic supplies and very willing to pay mightily those who could slip through the blockade with the supplies they needed. At that time, Rothwell-Gornt was also in desperate straits because of their huge losses at Shanghai the previous year thanks to the conquest by Mao. So in December of 1950, he and his father had borrowed heavily and secretly bought a huge shipment of penicillin, morphine, sulfanalamides and other medical supplies in the Philippines, avoiding the obligatory export licence. These they smuggled onto a hired oceangoing junk with one of their trusted crews and sent it to Wampoa, a bleak island in the Pearl River near Canton. Payment was to be in gold on delivery, but en route, in the secret backwaters of the Pearl River Estuary, their junk had been intercepted by river pirates favouring Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalists and a ransom demanded. They had no money to ransom the cargo, and if the Nationalists found out that Rothwell-Gornt was dealing with their hated Communist enemy, their own future in Asia was lost forever.

Through his compradore Gornt had arranged a meeting in Aberdeen Harbour with Four Finger Wu, supposedly one of the biggest smugglers in the Pearl River Estuary.

"Where ship now?" Four Finger Wu had asked in execrable pidgin English.

Gornt had told him as best he could, conversing in pidgin, not being able to speak Haklo, Wu's dialect.

"Perhaps, perhaps not!" Four Finger Wu smiled. "I phone three day. Nee choh wah password. Three day, heya?"

On the third day he phoned. "Bad, good, don' know. Meet two day Aberdeen. Begin Hour of Monkey." That hour was ten o'clock at night. Chinese split the day into twelve, two-hour segments, each with a name, always in the same sequence, beginning at 4:00 A.M. with the Cock, then at 6:00 A.M. with the Dog, and so on; Boar, Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Monkey, Horse and Sheep.

At the Hour of the Monkey on Wu's junk at Aberdeen two days later, he had been given the full payment for his shipment in gold plus an extra 40 percent. A staggering 500 percent profit.

Four Finger Wu had grinned. "Make better trade than quai loh, never mind .28,000 taels of gold." A tael was a little more than an ounce. "Next time me ship. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes." Gornt had thankfully tried to press a much larger percentage on him this time but Wu had refused.

"40 percent only, sale price." But Gornt had understood that now he was in the smuggler's debt.

The gold was in five-tael smuggler bars. It was valued at the official rate of $35 U.S. an ounce. But on the black market, smuggled into Indonesia, India or back into China, it was worth two or three times as much... sometimes more. On this one shipment again with Wu's help, Rothwell-Gornt had made a million and a half U.S. and were on the road to recovery.

After that there had been three more shipments, immensely profitable to both sides. Then the war had ceased and so had their relationship.

Never a word since then, Gornt thought. Until the phone call this afternoon.

"Ah, old friend, can see? Tonight?" Four Finger Wu had said. "Can do? Anytime—I wait. Same place as old days. Yes?"

So now the favor's to be returned. Good.

Gornt switched on the radio. Chopin. He was driving the winding road automatically, his mind on the meetings ahead, the engine almost silent. He slowed for an advancing truck, then swung out and accelerated on the short straight to overtake a slow-moving taxi. Going quite fast now he braked sharply in good time nearing the blind corner, then something seemed to snap in the innards of the engine, his foot sank to the floorboards, his stomach turned over and he went into the hairpin too fast In panic he jammed his foot on the brake again and again but nothing happened, his hands whirling the wheel around. He took the first corner badly, swerving drunkenly as he came out of it onto the wrong side of the road. Fortunately there was nothing coming at him but he overcorrected and lurched for the mountainside, his stomach twisting with nausea, overcorrected again, going very fast now and the next corner leapt at him. Here the grade was steeper, the road more winding and narrow. Again he cornered badly but once through he had a split second to grab the hand brake and this slowed him only a little, the new corner was on him, and he came out of it way out of his lane, oncoming headlights blinding him.

The taxi skittered in panic to the shoulder and almost went over the side, its horn blaring but he was passed by a fraction of an inch, lurching petrified for the correct side, and then went on down the hill out of control. A moment of straight road and he managed to jerk the gear lever into low as he hurtled into another blind corner, the engine howling now. The sudden slowing would have pitched him through the windscreen but for his seat belt, his hands almost frozen to the wheel.

He got around this corner but again he was out too far and he missed the oncoming car by a millimetre, skidded back to his side once more, swerved, overcorrecting, slowing a little now but there was no letup in the grade or twisting road ahead. He was still going too fast into the new hairpin and coming out of the first part he was too far over. The heavily laden truck grinding up the hill was helpless.

Panic-stricken he tore the wheel left and just managed to get around the truck with a glancing blow. He tried to jerk the gear lever into reverse but it wouldn't go, the cogs shrieking in protest. Then, aghast, he saw slow traffic ahead in his lane, oncoming traffic in the other and the road vanish around the next bend. He was lost so he turned left into the mountainside, trying to ricochet and stop that way.

There was a howl of protesting metal, the back side window shattered and he bounced away. The oncoming car lurched for the far shoulder, its horn blaring. He closed his eyes and braced for the head-on collision but somehow it didn't happen and he was past and just had enough strength to jerk the wheel hard over again and went into the mountainside. He hit with a glancing blow. The front left fender ripped away. The car ploughed into the shrub and earth, then slammed into a rock outcrop, reared up throwing Gornt aside, but as the car fell back the near-side wheel went into the storm drain and held, and, just before smashing into the paralysed little Mini ahead, it stopped.

Gornt weakly pulled himself up. The car was still half upright. Sweat was pouring off him and his heart was pounding. He found it hard to breathe or to think. Traffic both ways was stopped, snarled. He heard some horns hooting impatiently below and above, then hurried footsteps.

"You all right, old chap?" the stranger asked.

"Yes, yes I think so. My, my brakes went." Gornt wiped the sweat off his forehead, trying to get his brain to work. He felt his chest, then moved his feet and there was no pain. "I... the brakes went... I was turning a corner and... and then everything..."

"Brakes, eh? Not like a Rolls. I thought you were pretending to be Stirling Moss. You were very lucky. I thought you'd had it twenty times. If I were you I'd switch off the engine."

"What?" Then Gornt realised the engine was still gently purring and the radio playing so he turned the ignition off and, after a moment, pulled the keys out.

"Nice car," the stranger said, "but it's a right proper mess now. Always liked this model. '62, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"You want me to call the police?"

Gornt made the effort and thought a moment, his pulse still pounding in his ears. Weakly he unsnapped the seat belt. "No. There's a police station just back up the hill. If you'd give me a lift to there?"

"Delighted, old chap." The stranger was short and rotund. He looked around at the other cars and taxis and trucks that were stopped in both directions, their Chinese drivers and Chinese passengers gawking at them from their windows. "Bloody people," he muttered sourly. "You could be dying in the street and you'd be lucky if they stepped over you." He opened the door and helped Gornt out.

"Thanks." Gornt felt his knees shaking. For a moment he could not dominate his knees and he leaned against the car.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Oh yes. It's... that frightened me to death!" He looked at the damage, the nose buried into earth and shrub, a huge score down the right side, the car jammed well into the inside curve. "What a bloody mess!"

"Yes, but it hasn't telescoped a sausage! You were bloody lucky you were in a good car, old chap." The stranger let the door swing and it closed with a muted click. "Great workmanship. Well, you can leave it here. No one's likely to steal it." The stranger laughed, leading the way to his own car which was parked, its blinker lights on, just behind. "Hop in, won't take a jiffy."

It was then Gornt remembered the mocking half-smile on Dunross's face that he had taken for bravado as he left. His mind cleared. Would there have been time for Dunross to tamper... with his knowledge of engines... surely he wouldn't...?

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, aghast.

"Not to worry, old chap," the stranger said, as he eased past the wreck, making the turn. "The police'll make all the arrangements for you."

Gornt's face closed. "Yes. Yes they will."
13
10:25 PM
"Grand dinner, Ian, better than last year's," Sir Dunstan Barre said expansively from across the table.

"Thank you." Dunross raised his glass politely and took a sip of the fine cognac from the brandy snifter.

Barre gulped his port then refilled his glass, more florid than usual. "Ate too much, as usual, by God! Eh Phillip? Phillip!"

"Yes... oh yes... much better..." Phillip Chen muttered.

"Are you all right, old chap?"

"Oh yes... it's just... oh yes."

Dunross frowned, then let his eyes rove the other tables, hardly listening to them.

There were just the three of them now at this round table that had seated twelve comfortably. At the other tables spread across the terraces and lawns, men were lounging over their cognac, port and cigars, or standing in clusters, all the ladies now inside the house. He saw Bartlett standing over near the buffet tables that an hour ago had been groaning under the weight of roast legs of lamb, salads, sides of rare beef, vast hot steak-and-kidney pies, roast potatoes and vegetables of various kinds, and the pastries and cakes and ice cream sculptures. A small army of servants was cleaning away the debris. Bartlett was in deep conversation with Chief Superintendent Roger Crosse and the American Ed Langan. In a little while I'll deal with him, he told himself grimly—but first Brian Kwok. He looked around. Brian Kwok was not at his table, the one that Adryon had hosted, or at any of the others, so he sat back patiently, sipped his cognac and let himself drift.

Secret files, MI-6, Special Intelligence, Bartlett, Casey, Gornt, no Tsu-yan and now Alan Medford Grant very dead. His phone call before dinner to Kiernan, Alan Medford Grant's assistant in London, had been a shocker. "It was sometime this morning, Mr. Dunross," Kiernan had said. "It was raining, very slippery and he was a motorcycle enthusiast as you know. He was coming up to town as usual. As far as we know now there were no witnesses. The fellow who found him on the country road near Esher and the A3 highway, just said he was driving along in the rain and then there in front of him was the bike on its side and a man sprawled in a heap on the edge of the road. He said as far as he could tell, AMG was dead when he reached him. He called the police and they've begun enquiries but... well, what can I say? He's a great loss to all of us."

"Yes. Did he have any family?"

"Not that I know of, sir. Of course I informed MI-6 at once."

"Oh?"

"Why?"

"But I have Grant's assurance in writing he'd got clearance from HMG in advance."

"Yes sir. You've done nothing illegal but this MI-6 fellow just about went bonkers."

"Who was he? What was his name?"

"I was told, told, sir, not to mention any names. He was very pompous and mumbled something about the Official Secrets Act."

"You said two numbers?"

"Yes sir. The other was in Switzerland. A woman answered and after I'd told her, she just said, oh, so sorry, and hung up. She was foreign, sir. One interesting thing, in AMG's final instructions he had said not to tell either number about the other but, as this gentleman from MI-6 was, to put it lightly, incensed, I told him. He called at once but got a busy line and it was busy for a very long time and then the exchange said it had been temporarily disconnected. He was bloody furious, sir."

"Can you carry on AMG's reports?"

"No sir. I was just a feeder—I collated information that he got. I just wrote the reports for him, answered the phone when he was away, paid office bills. He spent a good part of the time on the Continent but he never said where he'd been, or volunteered anything. He was... well, he played his cards close to his nose. I don't know who gave him anything—I don't even know his office number in Whitehall. As I said, he was very secretive...."
Dunross sighed and sipped his brandy. Bloody shame, he thought. Was it an accident—or was he murdered? And when do MI-6 fall on my neck? The numbered account in Switzerland? That's not illegal either, and no one's business but mine and his.

What to do? There must be a substitute somewhere.

Was it an accident? Or was he killed?

"Sorry?" he asked, not catching what Barre had said.

"I was just saying it was bloody funny when Casey didn't want to go and you threw her out." The big man laughed. "You've got balls, old boy."

At the end of the dinner just before the port and cognac and cigars had arrived, Penelope had got up from her table where Linc Bartlett was deep in conversation with Havergill and the ladies had left with her, and then Adryon at her table, and then, all over the terraces, ladies had begun trickling away after her. Lady Joanna, who was sitting on Dunross's right, had said, "Come on girls, time to powder."

Obediently the other women got up with her and the men politely pretended not to be relieved by their exodus.

"Come along, dear," Joanna had said to Casey, who had remained seated.

"Oh I'm fine, thanks."

"I'm sure you are but, er, come along anyway."

Then Casey had seen everyone staring. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, dear," Lady Joanna had said. "It's custom that the ladies leave the men alone for a while with the port and cigars. So come along."

Casey had stared at her blankly. "You mean we're sent off while the men discuss affairs of state and the price of tea in China?"

"It's just good manners, dear. When in Rome..." Lady Joanna had watched her, a slight, contemptuous smile on her lips, enjoying the embarrassed silence and the shocked looks of most of the men. All eyes went back to the American girl.

"You can't be serious. That custom went out before the Civil War," Casey said.

"In America I'm sure it did." Joanna smiled her twisted smile. "Here it's different; this is part of England. It's a matter of manners. Do come along, dear."

"I will—dear," Casey said as sweetly. "Later."

Joanna had sighed and shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Dunross and smiled crookedly and gone off with the other ladies. There was a stunned silence at the table.

"Tai-pan, you don't mind if I stay, do you?" Casey had said with a laugh.

"Yes, I'm sorry but I do," he had told her gently. "It's just a custom, nothing important. It's really so the ladies can get first crack at the loo and the pails of water."

Her smile faded and her chin began to jut. "And if I prefer not to go?"

"It's just our custom, Ciranoush. In America it's custom to call someone you've just met by his first name, it's not here. Even so..." Dunross stared back calmly, but just as inflexibly. "There's no loss of face in it."

"I think there is."

"Sorry about that—I can assure you there isn't."

The others had waited, watching him and watching her, enjoying the confrontation, at the same time appalled by her. Except Ed Langan who was totally embarrassed for her. "Hell, Casey," he said, trying to make a joke of it, "you can't fight City Hall."

"I've been trying all my life," she had said sharply—clearly furious. Then, abruptly, she had smiled gloriously. Her fingers drummed momentarily on the tablecloth and she got up. "If you gentlemen will excuse me..." she had said sweetly and sailed away, an astonished silence in her wake.

"I hardly threw her out," Dunross said.

"It was bloody funny, even so," Barre said. "I wonder what changed her mind? Eh Phillip?"

"What?" Phillip Chen asked absently.

"For a moment I thought she was going to belt poor old Ian, didn't you? But something she thought of changed her mind. What?"

Dunross smiled. "I'll bet it's no good. That one's as touchy as a pocketful of scorpions."

"Great knockers, though," Barre said.

They laughed. Phillip Chen didn't. Dunross's concern for him increased. He had tried to cheer him up all evening but nothing had drawn the curtain away. All through dinner Phillip had been dulled and monosyllabic. Barre got up with a belch. "Think I'll take a leak while there's space." He lurched off into the garden.

"Don't pee on the camellias," Ian called after him absently, then forced himself to concentrate. "Phillip, not to worry," he said, now that they were alone. "They'll find John soon."

"Yes, I'm sure they will," Phillip Chen said dully, his mind not so much swamped by the kidnapping as appalled by what he had discovered in his son's safety deposit box this afternoon. He had opened it with the key that he had taken from the shoebox.

"Go on, Phillip, take it, don't be a fool," his wife Dianne had hissed. "Take it—if we don't the tai-pan will!"

"Yes, yes I know." Thank all gods I did, he thought, still in shock, remembering what he had found when he'd rifled through the contents. Manila envelopes of various sizes, mostly itemised, a diary and phone book. In the envelope marked "debts" betting slips for 97,000 HK for current debts to illegal, off-course gamblers in Hong Kong. A note in favour of Miser Sing, a notorious moneylender, for 30,000 HK at 3 percent per month interest; a long overdue sight demand note from the Ho-Pak Bank for $20,000 U.S. and a letter from Richard Kwang dated last week saying unless John Chen made some arrangements soon he would have to talk to his father. Then there were letters which documented a growing friendship between his son and an American gambler, Vincenzo Banastasio, who assured John Chen that his debts were not pressing: "... take your time, John, your credit's the best, anytime this year's fine..." and, attached, was the photocopy of a perfectly legal, notarized promissory note binding his son, his heirs or assignees, to pay Banastasio, on demand, $485,000 U.S., plus interest.

Stupid, stupid, he had raged, knowing his son had not more than a fifth of those assets, so he himself would have to pay the debt eventually.

Then a thick envelope marked "Par-Con" had caught his attention.

This contained a Par-Con employment contract signed by K. C. Tcholok, three months ago, hiring John Chen as a private consultant to Par-Con for "... $100,000 down ($50,000 of which is hereby acknowledged as already paid) and, once a satisfactory deal is signed between Par-Con and Struan's, Rothwell-Gornt or any other Hong Kong company of Par-Con's choosing, a further one million dollars spread over a five-year period in equal instalments; and within thirty days of the signing of the above said contract, a debt to Mr. Vincenzo Banastasio of 85 Orchard Road, Las Vegas, Nevada, of $485,000 paid off, the first year's instalment of $200,-000, along with the balance of $50,000...."

"In return for what," Phillip Chen had gasped helplessly in the bank vault.

But the long contract spelled out nothing further except that John Chen was to be a "private consultant in Asia." There were no notes or papers attached to it.

Hastily he had rechecked the envelope in case he had missed anything but it was empty. A quick leafing through the other envelopes produced nothing. Then he happened to notice a thin airmail envelope half stuck to another. It was marked "Par-Con II." It contained photocopies of handwritten notes from his son to Linc Bartlett.

The first was dated six months ago and confirmed that he, John Chen, would and could supply Par-Con with the most intimate knowledge of the innermost workings of the whole Struan complex of companies, "... of course this has to be kept totally secret, but for example, Mr. Bartlett, you can see from the enclosed Struan balance sheets for 1954 through 1961 (when Struan's went public) what I advise is perfectly feasible. If you look at the chart of Struan's corporate structure, and the list of some of the important stockholders of Struan's and their secret holdings, including my father's, you should have no trouble in any takeover bid Par-Con cares to mount. Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about—I swear to God that you can believe me—I guarantee success. I'm putting my life on the line, that should be collateral enough, but if you'll advance me fifty of the first hundred now, I'll agree to let you have possession on arrival—on your undertaking to return it to me once your deal's set—or for use against Struan's. I guarantee to use it against Struan's. In the end Dunross has to do anything you want. Please reply to the usual post box and destroy this as we have agreed."

"Possession of what?" Phillip Chen had muttered, beside himself with anxiety. His hands were shaking now as he read the second letter. It was dated three weeks ago. "Dear Mr. Bartlett. This will confirm your arrival dates. Everything's prepared. I look forward to seeing you again and meeting Mr. K. C. Tcholok. Thanks for the fifty cash which arrived safely—all future monies are to go to a numbered account in Zurich—I'll give you the bank details when you arrive. Thank you also for agreeing to our unwritten understanding that if I can assist you in the way I've claimed I can, then I'm in for 3 percent of the action of the new Par-Con (Asia) Trading Company.

"I enclose a few more things of interest: note the date that Struan's demand notes (countersigned by my father) become due to pay Toda Shipping for their new super container ships—September 1, 11 and 15. There's not enough money in Struan's till to meet them.

"Next: to answer Mr. Tcholok's question about my father's position in any takeover or proxy fight. He can be neutralised. Enclosed photocopies are a sample of many that I have. These show a very close relationship with White Powder Lee and his cousin, Wu Sang Fang who's also known as Four Finger Wu, from the early fifties, and secret ownership with them—even today—of a property company, two shipping companies and Bangkok trading interests. Though outwardly, now, both pose as respectable businessmen, property developers and shipping millionaires, it's common knowledge they have been successful pirates and smugglers for years—and there's a very strong rumour in Chinese circles that they are the High Dragons of the opium trade. If my father's connection with them was made public it would take his face away forever, would sever the very close links he has with Struan's, and all the other hongs that exist today, and most important, would destroy forever his chance for a knighthood, the one thing he wants above all. Just the threat of doing this would be enough to neutralise him—even make him an ally. Of course I realise these papers and the others I have need further documentation to stick in a court of law but I have this already in abundance in a safe place...."