James clavell

Phillip Chen remembered how, panic-stricken, he had searched frantically for the further documentation, his mind shrieking that it was impossible for his son to have so much secret knowledge, impossible for him to have Struan's balance sheets of the prepublic days, impossible to know about Four Finger Wu and those secret things.

Oh gods that's almost everything I know—even Dianne doesn't know half of that! What else does John know—what else has he told the American?

Beside himself with anxiety he had searched every envelope but there was nothing more.

"He must have another box somewhere—or safe," he had muttered aloud, hardly able to think.

Furiously he had scooped everything into his briefcase, hoping that a more careful examination would answer his questions—and slammed the box shut and locked it. At a sudden thought, he had reopened it. He had pulled the slim tray out and turned it upside down. Taped to the underside were two keys. One was a safety deposit box key with the number carefully filed off. He stared at the other, paralysed. He recognised it at once. It was the key to his own safe in his house on the crest. He would have bet his life that the only key in existence was the one that he always wore around his neck, that had never been out of his possession—ever since his father had given it to him on his deathbed sixteen years ago.

"Oh ko," he said aloud, once more consumed with rage.

Dunross said, "You all right? How about a brandy?"

"No, no thank you," Phillip Chen said shakily, back in the present now. With an effort he pulled his mind together and stared at the tai-pan, knowing he should tell him everything. But he dare not. He dare not until he knew the extent of the secrets stolen. Even then he dare not. Apart from many transactions the authorities could easily misconstrue, and others that could be highly embarrassing and lead to all sorts of court cases, civil if not criminal—stupid English law, he thought furiously, stupid to have one law for everyone, stupid not to have one law for the rich and another for the poor, why else work and slave and gamble and scheme to be rich—apart from all this he would still have had to admit to Dunross that he had been documenting Struan secrets for years, that his father had done so before him—balance sheets, stockholdings and other secret, very very private personal family things, smugglings and payoffs—and he knew it would be no good saying I did it just for protection, to protect the House, because the tai-pan would rightly say, yes but it was to protect the House of Chen and not the Noble House, and he would rightly turn on him, turn his full wrath on him and his brood, and in the holocaust of a fight against Struan's he was bound to lose—Dirk Struan's will had provided for that—and everything that almost a century and a half had built up would vanish.

Thank all gods that everything was not in the safe, he thought fervently. Thank all gods the other things are buried deep.

Then, suddenly, some words from his son's first letter ripped to the forefront of his mind, "... Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about..."

He paled and staggered to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, tai-pan... I, er, I'll say good night. I'll just fetch Dianne and I... I'll... thank you, good night." He hurried off toward the house.

Dunross stared after him, shocked.

"Oh, Casey," Penelope was saying, "may I introduce Kathren Gavallan—Kathren's Ian's sister."

"Hi!" Casey smiled at her, liking her at once. They were in one of the antechambers on the ground floor among other ladies who were talking or fixing their makeup or standing in line, waiting their turn to visit the adjoining powder room. The room was large, comfortable and mirrored. "You both have the same eyes—I'd recognise the resemblance anywhere," she said. "He's quite a man, isn't he?"

"We think so," Kathren replied with a ready smile. She was thirty-eight, attractive, her Scots accent pleasing, her flowered silk dress long and cool. "This water shortage's a bore, isn't it?"

"Yes. Must be very difficult with children."

"No, cherie, the children, they just love it," Susanne deVille called out. She was in her late forties, chic, her French accent slight. "How can you insist they bathe every night?"

"My two are the same." Kathren smiled. "It bothers us parents, but it doesn't seem to bother them. It's a bore though, trying to run a house."

Penelope said, "God, I hate it! This summer's been ghastly. You're lucky tonight, usually we'd be dripping!" She was checking her makeup in the mirror. "I can't wait till next month. Kathren, did I tell you we're going home for a couple of weeks leave—at least I am. Ian's promised to come too but you never know with him."

"He needs a holiday," Kathren said and Casey noticed shadows in her eyes and care rings under her makeup. "Are you going to Ayr?"

"Yes, and London for a week."

"Lucky you. How long are you staying in Hong Kong, Casey?"

"I don't know. It all depends on what Par-Con does."

"Yes. Andrew said you had a meeting all day with them."

"I don't think they went much for having to talk business with a woman."

"That is the understatement," Susanne deVille said with a laugh, lifting her skirts to pull down her blouse. "Of course my Jacques is half French so he understands that women are in the business. But the English..." Her eyebrows soared.

"The tai-pan didn't seem to mind," Casey said, "but then I haven't had any real dealings with him yet."

"But you have with Quillan Gornt," Kathren said, and Casey, very much on guard even in the privacy of the ladies' room, heard the undercurrent in her voice.

"No," she replied. "I haven't—not before tonight—but my boss has."

Just before dinner she had had time to tell Bartlett the story of Gornt's father and Colin Dunross.

"Jesus! No wonder Adryon went cross-eyed!" Bartlett had said. "And in the billiard room too." He had thought a moment then he had shrugged. "But all that means is that this puts more pressure on Dunross."

"Maybe. But their enmity goes deeper than anything I've experienced, Linc. It could easily backfire."

"I don't see how—yet. Gornt was just opening up a flank like a good general should. If we hadn't had John Chen's advance information, what Gornt said could've been vital to us. Gornt's got no way of knowing we're ahead of him. So he's stepping up the tempo. We haven't even got our big guns out yet and they're both wooing us already."

"Have you decided yet which one to go with?"

"No. What's your hunch?"

"I haven't got one. Yet. They're both formidable. Linc, do you think John Chen was kidnapped because he was feeding us information?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Before Gornt arrived I was intercepted by Superintendent Armstrong. He questioned me about what John Chen had said last night, what we'd talked about, exactly what was said. I told him everything I could remember—except I never mentioned I was to take delivery of 'it.' Since I still don't know what 'it' is."

"It's nothing illegal, Casey."

"I don't like not knowing. Not now. It's getting... I'm getting out of my depth, the guns, this brutal kidnapping and the police so insistent."

"It's nothing illegal. Leave it at that. Did Armstrong say there was a connection?"

"He volunteered nothing. He's a strong, silent English gentleman police officer and as smart and well trained as anything I've seen in the movies. I'm sure he was sure I was hiding something." She hesitated. "Linc, what's John Chen got that's so important to us?"

She remembered how he had studied her, his eyes deep and blue and quizzical and laughing.

"A coin," he had said calmly.

"What?" she had asked, astounded.

"Yes. Actually half a coin."

"But Linc, what's a coi—"

"That's all I'm telling you now, Casey, but you tell me does Armstrong figure there's some connection between Chen's kidnapping and the guns?"

"I don't know." She had shrugged. "I don't think so, Linc. I couldn't even give you odds. He's too cagey that one." Again she had hesitated. "Linc, have you made a deal, any deal with Gornt?"

"No. Nothing firm. Gornt just wants Struan out and wants to join with us to smash them. I said we'd discuss it Tuesday. Over dinner."

"What're you going to tell the tai-pan after dinner?"

"Depends on his questions. He'll know it's good strategy to probe enemy defences."

Casey had begun to wonder who's the enemy, feeling very alien even here among all the other ladies. She had felt only hostility except from these two, Penelope and Kathren Gavallan—and a woman she had met earlier in the line for the toilet.

"Hello," the woman had said softly. "I hear you're a stranger here too."

"Yes, yes I am," Casey had said, awed by her beauty. "I'm Fleur Marlowe. Peter Marlowe's my husband. He's a writer. I think you look super!"

"Thanks. So do you. Have you just arrived too?"

"No. We've been here for three months and two days but this is the first really English party we've been to," Fleur said, her English not as clipped as the others. "Most of the time we're with Chinese or by ourselves. We've a flat in the Old V and A annex. God," she added, looking at the toilet door ahead. "I wish she'd hurry up—my back teeth are floating."

"We're staying at the V and A too."

"Yes, I know. You two are rather famous." Fleur Marlowe laughed.

"Infamous! I didn't know they had apartments there."

"They're not, really. Just two tiny bedrooms and a sitting room. The kitchen's a cupboard. Still, it's home. We've got a bath, running water, and the loos flush." Fleur Marlowe had big grey eyes that tilted pleasingly and long fair hair and Casey thought she was about her age.

"Your husband's a journalist?"

"Author. Just one book. He mostly writes and directs films in Hollywood. That's what pays the rent."

"Why're you with Chinese?"

"Oh, Peter's interested in them." Fleur Marlowe had smiled and whispered conspiratorially, looking around at the rest of the women, "They're rather overpowering aren't they—more English than the English. The old school tie and all that balls."

Casey frowned. "But you're English too."

"Yes and no. I'm English but I come from Vancouver, B. C. We live in the States, Peter and I and the kids, in good old Hollywood, California. I really don't know what I am, half of one, half of the other."

"We live in L. A. too, Linc and I."

"I think he's smashing. You're lucky."

"How old are your kids?"

"Four and eight—thank God we're not water rationed yet."

"How do you like Hong Kong?"

"It's fascinating, Casey. Peter's researching a book here so it's marvellous for him. My God, if half the legends are true... the Struans and Dunrosses and all the others, and your Quillan Gornt."

"He's not mine. I just met him this evening."

"You created a minor earthquake by walking across the room with him." Fleur laughed. "If you're going to stay here, talk to Peter, he'll fill you in on all sorts of scandals." She nodded at Dianne Chen who was powdering her nose at one of the mirrors. "That's John Chen's stepmother, Phillip Chen's wife. She's wife number two—his first wife died. She's Eurasian and hated by almost everyone, but she's one of the kindest persons I've ever known."

"Why's she hated?"

"They're jealous, most of them. After all, she's wife of the compradore of the Noble House. We met her early on and she was terrific to me. It's... it's difficult living in Hong Kong for a woman, particularly an outsider. Don't really know why but she treated me like family. She's been grand."

"She's Eurasian? She looks Chinese."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell. Her maiden name's T'Chung, so Peter says, her mother's Sung. The TChungs come from one of Dirk Struan's mistresses and the Sung line's equally illegitimate from the famous painter, Aristotle Quance. Have you heard of him?"

"Oh yes."

"Lots of, er, our best Hong Kong families are, well, old Aristotle spawned four branches..."

At that moment the toilet door opened and a woman came out and Fleur said, "Thank God!"

While Casey was waiting her turn she had listened to the conversations of the others with half an ear. It was always the same: clothes, the heat, the water shortages, complaints about amahs and other servants, how expensive everything was or the children or schools. Then it was her turn and afterward, when she came out, Fleur Marlowe had vanished and Penelope had come up to her. "Oh I just heard about your not wanting to leave. Don't pay any attention to Joanna," Penelope had said quietly. "She's a pill and always has been."

"It was my fault—I'm not used to your customs yet."

"It's all very silly but in the long run it's much easier to let the men have their way. Personally I'm glad to leave. I must say I find most of their conversation boring."

"Yes, it is, sometimes. But it's the principle. We should be treated as equals."

"We'll never be equal, dear. Not here. This is the Crown Colony of Hong Kong."

"That's what everyone tells me. How long are we expected to stay away?"

"Oh, half an hour or so. There's no set time. Have you known Quillan Gornt long?"

"Tonight was the first time I'd met him," Casey said.

"He's—he's not welcome in this house," Penelope said.

"Yes, I know. I was told about the Christmas party."

"What were you told?"

She related what she knew.

There was a sharp silence. Then Penelope said, "It's not good for strangers to be involved in family squabbles, is it?"

"No." Casey added, "but then all families squabble. We're here, Linc and I, to start a business—we're hoping to start a business with one of your big companies. We're outsiders here, we know that—that's why we're looking for a partner."

"Well, dear, I'm sure you'll make up your mind. Be patient and be cautious. Don't you agree, Kathren?" she asked her sister-in-law.

"Yes, Penelope.. Yes I do." Kathren looked at Casey with the same level gaze that Dunross had. "I hope you choose correctly, Casey. Everyone here's pretty vengeful."

"Why?"

"But the Struans and Dunrosses and Gornts have been here for generations," Casey said.

"Yes, but individually they came here for one reason only: money. Money's our god here. And as soon as you have it, you vanish, European, American—and certainly the Chinese."

"You exaggerate, Kathy dear," Penelope said. "Yes. It's still the truth. Another reason's that we live on the edge of catastrophe all the time: fire, flood, plague, landslide, riots. Half our population is Communist, half Nationalist, and they hate each other in a way no European can ever understand. And China— China can swallow us any moment. So you live for today and to hell with everything, grab what you can because tomorrow, who knows? Don't get in the way! People are rougher here because everything really is precarious, and nothing lasts in Hong Kong."

"Except the Peak," Penelope said. "And the Chinese."

"Even the Chinese want to get rich quickly to get out quickly—them more than most. You wait, Casey, you'll see. Hong Kong will work its magic on you—or evil, depending how you see it. For business it's the most exciting place on earth and soon you'll feel you're at the centre of the earth. It's wild and exciting for a man, my God, it's marvellous for a man but for us it's awful and every woman, every wife, hates Hong Kong with a passion however much they pretend otherwise."

"Come on, Kathren," Penelope began, "again you exaggerate."

"No. No I don't. We're all threatened here, Penny, you know it! We women fight a losing battle..." Kathren stopped and forced a weary smile. "Sorry, I was getting quite worked up. Penn, I think I'll find Andrew and if he wants to stay I'll slip off if you don't mind."

"Are you feeling all right, Kathy?"

"Oh yes, just tired. The young one's a bit of a trial but next year he'll be off to boarding school."

"How was your checkup?"

"Fine." Kathy smiled wearily at Casey. "When you've the inclination give me a call. I'm in the book. Don't choose Gornt. That'd be fatal. 'Bye, darling," she added to Penelope and left.

"She's such a dear," Penelope said. "But she does work herself into a tizzy."

"Do you feel threatened?"

"I'm very content with my children and my husband."

"She asked whether you feel threatened, Penelope." Susanne de-Ville deftly powdered her nose and studied her reflection. "Do you?"

"No. I'm overwhelmed at times. But... but I'm not threatened any more than you are."

"Ah, cherie, but I am Parisienne, how can I be threatened? You've been to Paris, m'selle?"

"Yes," Casey said. "It's beautiful."

"It is the world," Susanne said with Gallic modesty. "Ugh, I look at least thirty-six."

"Nonsense, Susanne." Penelope glanced at her watch. "I think we can start going back now. Excuse me a second...."

Susanne watched her go then turned her attention back to Casey. "Jacques and I came out to Hong Kong in 1946."

"You're family too?"

"Jacques's father married a Dunross in the First World War—an aunt of the tai-pan's." She leaned forward to the mirror and touched a fleck of powder away. "In Struan's it is important to be family."

Casey saw the shrewd Gallic eyes watching her in the mirror. "Of course, I agree with you that it is nonsense for the ladies to leave after dinner, for clearly, when we have gone, the heat she has left too, no?"

Casey smiled. "I think so. Why did Kathren say 'threatened'? Threatened by what?"

"By youth, of course by youth! Here there are tens of thousands of chic, sensible, lovely young Chinoise with long black hair and pretty, saucy derrieres and golden skins who really understand men and treat sex for what it is: food, and often, barter. It is the gauche English puritan who has twisted the minds of their ladies, poor creatures. Thank God I was born French! Poor Kathy!"

"Oh," Casey said, understanding at once. "She's found out that Andrew's having an affair?"

Susanne smiled and did not answer, just stared at her reflection. Then she said, "My Jacques... of course he has affairs, of course all the men have affairs, and so do we if we're sensible. But we French, we understand that such transgressions should not interfere with a good marriage. We put correctly the amount of importance on to it, non?" Her dark brown eyes changed a little. "Oui!"

"That's tough, isn't it? Tough for a woman to live with?"

"Everything is tough for a woman, cherie, because men are such cretins." Susanne deVille smoothed a crease away then touched perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. "You will fail here if you try to play the game according to masculine rules and not according to feminine rules. You have a rare chance here, mademoiselle, if you are woman enough. And if you remember that the Gornts are all poisonous. Watch your Linc Bartlett, Ciranoush, already there are ladies here who would like to possess him, and humble you."
14
10:42 PM
Upstairs on the second floor the man came cautiously out of the shadows of the long balcony and slipped through the open French windows into the deeper darkness of Dunross's study. He hesitated, listening, his black clothes making him almost invisible. The distant sounds of the party drifted into the room making the silence and the waiting more heavy. He switched on a small flashlight.

The circle of light fell on the picture over the mantelpiece. He went closer. Dirk Struan seemed to be watching him, the slight smile taunting. Now the light moved to the edges of the frame. His hand reached out delicately and he tried it, first one side and then the other. Silently the picture moved away from the wall.

The man sighed.

He peered at the lock closely then took out a small bunch of skeleton keys. He selected one and tried it but it would not turn. Another. Another failure. Another and another, then there was a slight click and the key almost turned, almost but not quite. The rest of the keys failed too.

Irritably he tried the almost-key again but it would not work the lock.

Expertly his fingers traced the edges of the safe but he could find no secret catch or switch. Again he tried the almost-key, this way and that, gently or firmly, but it would not turn.

Again he hesitated. After a moment he pushed the painting carefully back into place, the eyes mocking him now, and went to the desk. There were two phones on it. He picked up the phone that he knew had no other extensions within the house and dialled.

The ringing tone went on monotonously, then stopped. "Yes?" a man's voice said in English.

"Mr. Lop-sing please," he said softly, beginning the code.

"There's no Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number."

This code response was what he wanted to hear. He continued, "I want to leave a message."

"Sorry, you have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."

Again the correct response, the final one. "This is Lim," he whispered, using his cover name. "Arthur please. Urgent."

"Just a moment."

He heard the phone being passed and the dry cough he recognised at once. "Yes, Lim? Did you find the safe?"

"Yes," he said. "It's behind the painting over the fireplace but none of the keys fit. I'll need special equip—" He stopped suddenly. Voices were approaching. He hung up gently. A quick, nervous check that everything was in place and he switched oif the flashlight and hurried for the balcony that ran the length of the north face. The moonlight illuminated him for an instant. It was Wine Waiter Feng. Then he vanished, his black waiter's clothes melding perfectly with the darkness.

The door opened. Dunross came in followed by Brian Kwok. He switched on the lights. At once the room became warm and friendly. "We won't be disturbed here," he said. "Make yourself at home."

"Thanks." This was the first time Brian Kwok had been invited upstairs.

Both men were carrying brandy snifters and they went over to the cool of the windows, the slight breeze moving the gossamer curtains, and sat in the high-backed easy chairs facing one another. Brian Kwok was looking at the painting, its own light perfectly placed. "Smashing portrait."

"Yes." Dunross glanced over and froze. The painting was imperceptibly out of place. No one else would have noticed it.

"Something's the matter, Ian?"

"No. No nothing," Dunross said, recovering his senses that had instinctively reached out, probing the room for an alien presence. Now he turned his full attention back to the Chinese superintendent, but he wondered deeply who had touched the painting and why. "What's on your mind?"

"Two things. First, your freighter, Eastern Cloud."

Dunross was startled. "Oh?" This was one of Struan's many coastal tramps that plied the trade routes of Asia. Eastern Cloud was a ten thousand tonner on the highly lucrative Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore, Calcutta, Madras, Bombay route, with a sometimes stop at Rangoon in Burma—all manner of Hong Kong manufactured goods outward bound, and all manner of Indian, Malayan, Thai and Burmese raw materials, silks, gems, teak, jute, foodstuffs, inbound. Six months ago she had been impounded by Indian authorities in Calcutta after a sudden customs search had discovered 36,000 taels of smugglers' gold in one of the bunkers. A little over one ton.