James clavell

On the third ring a polite voice said, "Tsim Sha Tsui Police Station, good evening."

The man smiled sardonically and said rudely in Shanghainese, "You speak Shanghainese?"

A hesitation, a click, and now another voice in Shanghainese said, "This is Divisional Sergeant Tang-po. What is it, caller?"

"A Soviet pig slipped through your mother-fornicating net tonight as easily as a bullock shits, but now he's joined his ancestors. Do we of the 14K have to do all your manure-infected work for you?"

"What Sovie—"

"Hold your mouth and listen! His turtle-dung corpse's in a phone booth at Golden Ferry, Kowloonside. Just tell your mother-fornicating superiors to keep their eyes on enemies of China and not up their fornicating stink holes!"

At once he hung up and eased out of the box. He turned back momentarily and spat on the body, then shut the door and he and his companion joined the streams of passengers heading for the Hong Kong ferry.

They did not notice the man trailing them. He was a short, tubby American dressed like all the other tourists with the inevitable camera around his neck. Now he was leaning against the starboard gunnel melding into the crowd perfectly, pointing his camera this way and that as the ferry scuttled toward Hong Kong Island. But unlike other tourists his film was very special, so was his lens, and his camera.

"Hello, friend," another tourist said with a beam, wandering up to him. "You having yourself a time?"

"Sure," the man said. "Hong Kong's a great place, huh?"

"You can say that again." He turned and looked at the view. "Beats the hell outta Minneapolis."

The first man turned also but kept his peripheral vision locked onto the two Chinese, then dropped his voice. "We got problems."

The other tourist blanched. "Did we lose him? He didn't double back, Tom, I'm certain. I covered both exits. I thought you had him pegged in the booth."

"You bet your ass he was pegged. Look back there, centre row—the Chinese joker with the white shirt and the one next to him. Those two sons of bitches knocked him off."

"Jesus!" Marty Povitz, one of the team of CIA agents assigned to cover the Sovetsky Ivanov, carefully looked at the two Chinese. "Kuomintang? Nationalists? Or Commies?"

"Shit, I don't know. But the stiff's still in a phone booth back there. Where's Rosemont?"

"He's g—" Povitz stopped then raised his voice and became an affable tourist again as passengers began to crowd nearer the exit. "Lookit there," he said, pointing to the crest of the Peak. The apartment buildings were tall and well lit and so were the houses that dotted the slopes, one particularly, one very high, the highest private mansion in Hong Kong. It was floodlit and sparkled like a jewel. "Say, whoever lives there's just about on top of the world, huh?"

Tom Connochie, the senior of the two, sighed. "Gotta be a tai-pan's house." Thoughtfully he lit a cigarette and let the match spiral into the black waters. Then, openly chatting tourist-style, he took a shot of the house and casually finished the roll of film, taking several more of the two Chinese. He reloaded his camera and, unobserved, passed the roll of exposed film to his partner. Hardly Using his lips, he said, "Call Rosemont up there, soon as we dock—tell him we got problems—then go get these processed tonight. I'll phone you when these two've bedded down."

"You crazy?" Povitz said. "You're not tailing them alone."

"Have to, Marty, the film might be important. We're not risking that."

"No."

"Orders says two g—"

"Screw orders!" Connochie hissed. "Just call Rosemont and don't foul up the film." Then he raised his voice and said breezily, "Great night for a sail, huh?"

"Sure."

Dunross and Bartlett were facing each other in the Long Gallery at the head of the staircase. Alone.

"Have you made a deal with Gornt?" Dunross asked.

"No," Bartlett said. "Not yet." He was as crisp and tough as Dunross and his dinner jacket fitted as elegantly.

"Neither you nor Casey?" Dunross asked.

"No."

"We're in business to make money, Ian—as are you!"

"Yes. But there're ethics involved."

"Hong Kong ethics?"

"May I ask how long you have been dealing with Gornt?"

"About six months. Are you agreeing to our proposal today?"

Dunross tried to put away his tiredness. He had not wanted to seek out Bartlett tonight but it had been necessary. He felt the eyes from all the portraits on the walls watching him. "You said Tuesday. I'll tell you Tuesday."

"Then until then, if I want to deal with Gornt or anyone else, that's my right. If you accept our offer now, it's a deal. I'm told you're the best, the Noble House, so I'd rather deal with you than him—providing I get top dollar with all the necessary safeguards.

I'm cash heavy, you're not. You're Asian heavy, I'm not. So we should deal."

Yes, Bartlett told himself, covering his foreboding, though delighted that his diversion this morning with Gornt had produced the confrontation so quickly and brought his opponent to bay—at the moment, Ian, you're just that, an opponent, until we finalise, if we finalise.

Is now the time to blitzkrieg?

He had been studying Dunross all evening, fascinated by him and the undercurrents and everything about Hong Kong—so totally alien to anything he had ever experienced before. New jungle, new rules, new dangers. Sure, he thought grimly, with both Dunross and Gornt as dangerous as a swamp full of rattlers and no yardstick to judge them by. I've got to be cautious like never before.

He felt his tension strongly, conscious of the eyes that watched from the walls. How far dare I push you, Ian? How far do I gamble? The profit potential's huge, the prize huge, but one mistake and you'll eat us up, Casey and me. You're a man after my own heart but even so still an opponent and governed by ghosts. Oh yes, I think Peter Marlowe was right in that though not in everything.

Jesus! Ghosts and the extent of the hatreds! Dunross, Gornt, Penelope, young Struan, Adryon... Adryon so brave after her initial fright.

He looked back at the cold blue eyes watching him. What would I do now, Ian, if I were you, you with your wild-ass heritage standing there so outwardly confident?

I don't know. But I know me and I know what Sun Tzu said about battlefields: only bring your opponent to battle at a time and a place of your own choosing. Well it's chosen and it's here and now.

"Tell me, Ian, before we decide, how are you going to pay off your three September notes to Toda Shipping?"

Dunross was shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't got a charter yet and your bank won't pay without one, so it's up to you, isn't it?"

"The bank... there's no problem."

"But I understand you've already overextended your line of credit 20 percent. Doesn't that mean you'll have to find a new line of credit?"

"I'll have one if I need it," Dunross said, his voice edgy, and Bartlett knew he had gotten under his guard.

"12 million to Toda's a lot of cash when you add it to your other indebtedness."

"What other indebtedness?"

"The instalment of $6,800,000 U.S. due September 8 on your Orlin International Banking loan of 30 million unsecured; you've 4.2 million in consolidated corporate losses so far this year against a written-up paper profit of seven and a half last year; and 12 million from the loss of Eastern Cloud and all those contraband engines."

The colour was out of Dunross's face. "You seem to be particularly well informed."

"I am. Sun Tzu said that you've got to be well informed about your allies."

The small vein in Dunross's forehead was pulsating. "You mean enemies."

"Allies sometimes become enemies, Ian."

"Yes. Sun Tzu also hammered about spies. Your spy can only be one of seven men."

Bartlett replied as harshly, "Why should I have a spy? That information's available from banks—all you've got to do is dig a little. Toda's bank's the Yokohama National of Japan—and they're tied in with Orlin in a lot of deals—so're we, Stateside."

"Whoever your spy is, he's wrong. Orlin will extend. They always have."

"Don't bet on it this time. I know those bastards and if they smell a killing, they'll have your ass so fast you'll never know what happened."

"A killing of Struan's?" Dunross laughed sardonically. "There's no way Orlin or any god-cursed bank could—or would want us wrecked."

"Maybe Gornt's got a deal cooking with them."

"Christ Jesus...." Dunross held on to his temper with an effort. "Has he or hasn't he?"

"Ask him."

"I will. Meanwhile if you know anything, tell me now!"

"You've got enemies every which way."

"So have you."

"Yes. Does that make us good or bad partners?" Bartlett stared back at Dunross. Then his eyes fell on a portrait at the far end of the gallery. Ian Dunross was staring down at him from the wall, the likeness marvellous, part of a three-masted clipper in the background.

"Is that... Jesus, that's gotta be Dirk, Dirk Struan!"

Dunross turned and looked at the painting. "Yes."

Bartlett walked over and studied it. Now that he looked closer he could see that the sea captain was not Dunross, but even so, there was a curious similarity. "Jacques was right," he said.

"No."

"He's right." He turned and studied Dunross as though the man was a picture, comparing them back and forth. At length he said, "It's the eyes and the line of the jaw. And the taunting look in the eyes which says, 'You'd better believe I can kick the shit out of you anytime I want to.' "

"Yes."

"I think there is."

"The Victoria's our bank—we're big stockholders."

"How big?"

"We've alternate sources of credit if need be. But we'll get everything we want from the Vic. They're cash heavy too."

"Your Richard Kwang doesn't think so."

Dunross looked back from the portrait sharply. "Why?"

"He didn't say, Ian. He didn't say anything, but Casey knows bankers and she read the bottom line and that's what she thinks he thinks. I don't think she's much taken by Havergill either."

After a pause, Dunross said, "What else does she think?"

"That maybe we should go with Gornt."

"Be my guest."

"I may. What about Taipei?" Bartlett asked, wanting to keep Dunross off balance.

"What about it?"

"I'm still invited?"

"Yes, yes of course. That reminds me, you're released into my custody by kind permission of the assistant commissioner of police. Armstrong will be so informed tomorrow. You'll have to sign a piece of paper that you guarantee you'll return when I do."

"Thanks for arranging it. Casey is still not invited?"

"I thought we settled that this morning."

"Just asking. What about my aeroplane?"

Dunross frowned, off balance. "I suppose it's still impounded. Did you want to use it for the Taipei trip?"

"It'd be convenient, wouldn't it; then we could leave to suit ourselves."

"I'll see what I can do." Dunross watched him. "And your offer's firm until Tuesday?"

"Firm, just as Casey said. Until close of business Tuesday."

"Midnight Tuesday," Dunross countered.

"Do you always barter whatever the hell someone says?"

"Don't you?"

"Okay, midnight Tuesday. Then one minute into Wednesday all debts and friendships are cancelled." Bartlett needed to keep the pressure on Dunross, needed the counteroffer now and not Tuesday so he could use it with or against Gornt. "The guy from Blacs, the chairman, what was his name?"

"Compton Southerby."

"Yes, Southerby. I was talking to him after dinner. He said they were all the way in back of Gornt. He implied Gornt also has a lot of Eurodollars on call if he ever needed them." Again Bartlett saw the piece of information slam home. "So I still don't know how you're going to pay Toda Shipping," he said.

Dunross didn't answer at once. He was still trying to find a way out of the maze. Each time he came back to the beginning: the spy must be Gavallan, deVille, Linbar Struan, Phillip Chen, Alastair Struan, David MacStruan, or his father, Colin Dunross. Some of Bartlett's information the banks would know—but not their corporate losses this year. That figure had been too accurate. That was the shocker. And the "... written-up paper profit."

He was looking at the American, wondering how much more inside knowledge the man had, feeling the trap closing on him with no way to manoeuvre, yet knowing he could not concede too much or he would lose everything.

What to do?

He glanced at Dirk Struan on the wall and saw the twisted half-smile and the look that said to him, Gamble laddie, where are thy balls?

Very well.

"Don't worry about Struan's. If you decide to join us, I want a two-year deal—-20 million next year too," he said, going for broke. "I'd like 7 on signing the contract."

Bartlett kept the joy off his face. "Okay on the two-year deal. As to the cash flow, Casey offered 2 million down and then one and a half per month on the first of each month. Gavallan said that would be acceptable."

"It's not. I'd like 7 down, the rest spread monthly."

"If I agree to that I want title to your new Toda ships as a guarantee this year."

"What the hell do you want guarantees for?" Dunross snapped. "The whole point of the deal is that we'd be partners, partners in an immense expansion into Asia."

"Yes. But our 7 million cash covers your September payments to Toda Shipping, takes you off the Orlin hook and we get nothing in return."

"Why should I give you any concession? I can discount your contract immediately and get an advance of 18 of the 20 million you provide with no trouble at all."

Yes, you can, Bartlett thought—once the contract's signed. But before that you've got nothing. "I'll agree to change the down payment, Ian. But in return for what?" Casually he glanced at a painting opposite him, but he did not see it, for all of his senses were concentrating on Dunross, knowing they were getting down to the short strokes. Title to the huge Toda bulk-cargo ships would cover all of Par-Con's risk whatever Dunross did.

"Don't forget," he added, "your 21 percent of the Victoria Bank stock is already in hock, signed over as collateral against your indebtedness to them. If you fail on the Toda payment or the Orlin, your old pal Havergill'll jerk the floor out. I would."

Dunross knew he was beaten. If Bartlett knew the exact amount of their secret bank holdings, Chen's secret holdings, together with their open holdings, there was no telling what other power the American had over him. "All right," he said. "I'll give you title to my ships for three months, providing first, you guarantee to keep it secret between the two of us; second, that our contracts are signed within seven days from today; third, that you agree to the cash flow I've suggested. Last, you guarantee not to leak one word of this until I make the announcement."

"When do you want to do that?"

"Sometime between Friday and Monday."

"I'd want to know in advance," Bartlett said.

"Of course. Twenty-four hours."

"I want title to the ships for six months, contracts within ten days,"

"No."

"Then no deal," Bartlett said.

Bartlett was startled with the abrupt ending of the negotiations. "Wait," he said, his heart skipping a beat.

Dunross stopped at the balustrade and faced him, one hand casually on the bannister.

Grimly Bartlett tried to gauge Dunross, his stomach twisting uneasily. He read finality in the eyes. "All right, title till January first, that's four months-odd, secret to you, me and Casey, contracts next Tuesday—that gives me time to get my tax people here—the cash flow as you laid it out subject to... when's our meeting tomorrow?"

"It was at ten. Can we make it eleven?"

"Sure. Then it's a deal, subject to confirmation tomorrow at eleven."

"No. You've no need for more time. I might have but you haven't." Again the thin smile. "Yes or no?"

Bartlett hesitated, all his instincts saying close now, stick out your hand and close, you've everything you wanted. Yes—but what about Casey? "This's Casey's deal. She can commit up to 20 million. You mind shaking with her?"

"A tai-pan deals with a tai-pan on a closing, it's an old Chinese custom. Is she tai-pan of Par-Con?"

"No," Bartlett said evenly. "I am."

"Good." Dunross came back and put out his hand, calling him, playing with him, reading his mind. "Then it's a deal?"

Bartlett looked at the hand then into the cold blue eyes, his heart pounding heavily. "It's a deal—but I want her to close it with you."

Dunross let his hand fall. "I repeat, who's tai-pan of Par-Con?"

Bartlett looked back levelly. "A promise is a promise, Ian. It's important to her, and I promised she had the ball up to 20 million."

He saw Dunross begin to turn away, so he said firmly, "Ian, if I have to choose between the deal and Casey, my promise to Casey, then that's no contest. None. I'd consider it a fav—" He stopped. Both their heads jerked around as there was a slight, involuntary noise from an eavesdropper in the shadows at the far end of the gallery where there was a group of high-backed settees and tall winged chairs. Instantly, Dunross spun on his heel and, catlike, hurtled silently to the attack. Bartlett's reactions were almost as fast. He, too, went quickly in support.

Dunross stopped at the green velvet settee. He sighed. It was no eavesdropper but his thirteen-year-old daughter, Glenna, fast asleep, curled up, all legs and arms like a young filly, angelic in her crumpled party dress, his wife's thin rope of pearls around her neck.

Bartlett's heart slowed and he whispered, "Jesus, for a moment... Hey, she's as cute as a button!"

"Do you have any children?"

"Boy and two girls. Brett's sixteen, Jenny's fourteen and Mary is thirteen. Unfortunately I don't see them very often." Bartlett, gaining his breath again, continued quietly, "They're on the East Coast now. Afraid I'm not very popular. Their mother... we, we were divorced seven years ago. She's remarried now but..." Bartlett shrugged, then looked down at the child. "She's a doll! You're lucky."

Dunross leaned over and gently picked up his child. She hardly stirred, just nestled closer to him, contentedly. He looked at the American thoughtfully. Then he said, "Bring Casey back here in ten minutes. I'll do what you ask—as much as I disapprove of it—because you wish to honour your promise." He walked away, surefooted, and disappeared into the east wing where Glenna's bedroom was.

After a pause, Bartlett glanced up at the portrait of Dirk Struan. The smile mocked him. "Go screw yourself," he muttered, feeling that Dunross had outsmarted him somehow. Then he grinned. "Eh, what the hell! Your boy's doing all right, Dirk old buddy!"

He went for the stairs. Then he noticed an unlit portrait in a half-hidden alcove. He stopped. The oil painting was of an old grey-bearded sea captain with one eye, hook-nosed and arrogant, his face scarred, a cutlass on the table beside him.

Bartlett gasped as he saw that the canvas was slashed and coun-terslashed, with a short knife buried in the man's heart, impaling the painting to the wall.

Casey was staring at the knife. She tried to hide her shock. She was alone in the gallery, waiting uneasily. Dance music wafted up from below—rhythm and blues music. A short wind tugged the curtains and moved a strand of her hair. A mosquito droned.

"That's Tyler Brock."

Casey spun around, startled. Dunross was watching her. "Oh, I didn't hear you come back," she said.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make you jump."

"Oh, that's all right."

She looked back at the painting. "Peter Marlowe was telling us about him."

"He knows a lot about Hong Kong, but not everything, and not all his information's accurate. Some of it's quite wrong."

After a moment she said, "It's... it's a bit melodramatic, isn't it, leaving the knife like that?"
"Hag Struan did it. She ordered it left that way."

"Why?"

"Seriously, why?"

"I was serious." Dunross shrugged. "She hated her father and wanted us all to be reminded about our heritage."

Casey frowned, then motioned at a portrait on the opposite wall. "That's her?"

"Yes. It was done just after she was married." The girl in the painting was slim, about seventeen, pale blue eyes, fair hair. She wore a low-cut ball gown—tiny waist, budding bosom—an ornate green necklace encircling her throat.

They stood there looking at the picture for a moment. There was no name on the little brass plaque on the bottom of the ornate gilt frame, just the years, 1825-1917. Casey said, "It's an ordinary face, pretty but ordinary, except for the lips. They're thin and tight and disapproving—and tough. The artist captured a lot of strength there. It's a Quance?"

"No. We don't know who painted it. It was supposed to be her favourite portrait. There's a Quance of her in the Struan penthouse, painted about the same time. It's quite different, yet very much the same."

"Did she ever have a portrait done in later life?"

"Three. She destroyed them all, the moment they were finished."

"Are there any photos of her?"

"Not to my knowledge. She hated cameras—wouldn't have one in the house." Dunross laughed and she saw the tiredness in him. "Once a reporter for the China Guardian took her picture, just before the Great War. Within an hour she sent an armed crew from one of our merchantmen into their offices with orders to burn the place if she didn't get the negative and all copies back, and if the editor didn't promise to 'cease and desist from harassing her.' He promised."

"Surely you can't do that and get away with it?"

"No, you can't—unless you're tai-pan of the Noble House. Besides, everyone knew that Hag Struan didn't want her picture taken and this cocky young bastard had broken the rule. She was like the Chinese. She believed every time your picture's taken you lose part of your soul."

Casey peered at the necklace. "Is that jade?" she asked.

"Emeralds."

She gasped. "That must have been worth a fortune."

"Dirk Struan willed the necklace to her—it was never to leave Asia—it was to belong to the wife of each tai-pan of the Noble House, an heirloom to be passed on from lady to lady." He smiled oddly. "Hag Struan kept the necklace all her life, and, when she died, she ordered it burned with her."

"Jesus! Was it?"

"Yes."

"What a waste!"

Casey watched him staring at the face, almost past it into another dimension. "I only hope I can do as well," he muttered absently, and it seemed to Casey he was saying it to her, to the girl in the picture.