James clavell

"No." Both men laughed.

"You were very lucky. The Peak's no road to lose your brakes on. Must have been very unpleasant."

"For a moment it was, Jason, but then it was no problem, once I was over the initial shock." Gornt stretched the truth and sipped his whiskey and soda. They had eaten an elegant dinner on the terrace overlooking Happy Valley, the racecourse and city and sea beyond, just the two of them—Plumm's wife was in England on vacation and their children grown up and no longer in Hong Kong. Now they were sitting over cigars in great easy chairs in Plumm's book-lined study, the room luxurious though subdued, in perfect taste like the rest of the ten-room penthouse. "Tom Nikklin'll find out if my car was tampered with if anyone can," he said with finality.

"Yes." Plumm sipped a glass of iced Perrier water. "Are you going to wind up young Nikklin again about Macao?"

"Me? You must be joking!"

"No. I'm not, actually," Plumm said with his mocking well-bred chuckle. "Didn't Dunross's engine blow up during the race three years ago and he bloody nearly killed himself?"

"Racing cars are always going wrong."

"Yes, yes they do frequently, though they're not always helped by the opposition." Plumm smiled.

Gornt kept his smile but inside he was not smiling. "Meaning?"

"Nothing, dear boy. Just rumours." The older man leaned over and poured more whiskey for Gornt, then used the soda syphon. "Rumour has it that a certain Chinese mechanic, for a small fee, put... put, as we say, a small spanner in the works."

"I doubt if that'd be true."

"I doubt if it could be proved. One way or another. It's disgusting, but some people will do anything for quite a small amount of money."

"Yes. Fortunately we're in the big-money market."

"My whole point, dear boy. Now." Plumm tapped the ash off his cigar. "What's the scheme?"

"It's very simple: providing Bartlett does not actually sign a deal with Struan's in the next ten days we can pluck the Noble House like a dead duck."

"Lot's of people have thought that before and Struan's is still the Noble House."

"Yes. But at the moment, they're vulnerable."

"How?"

"The Toda Shipping notes, and the Orlin instalment."

"Say Blacs won't help—they won't—and say Richard Kwang's neutralised. That leaves only the Victoria."

"Then Dunross'll ask the bank for more credit and we'll have to give it to him. Paul Havergill will put it to a vote of the board. We all know we can't outvote the Struan's block so we'll go along with it and save face, pretending we're very happy to oblige, as usual."

"Yes. But this time I'm happy to say Richard Kwang will vote against Struan's. That will tie up the board, the credit request will be delayed—he won't be able to make his payments, so Dunross goes under."

"For God's sake, Richard Kwang's not even on the board! Have you gone bonkers?"

Gornt puffed his cigar. "No, you've forgotten my game plan. The one called Competition. It was started a couple of days ago."

"Against Richard?"

"Yes."

"Yes. He'll be our deciding vote. And Dunross'll never expect an attack from there."

Plumm stared at him. "Richard and Dunross are great friends."

"But Richard's in trouble. The run's started on the Ho-Pak. He'll do anything to save himself."

"I see. How much Ho-Pak stock did you sell short?"

"Lots."

"If he does, we can always abort, you and I."

"Yes, yes we can." Jason Plumm watched his cigar smoke spiral. "But just because Dunross won't meet those payments doesn't mean he's finished."

"I agree. But after the Ho-Pak 'disaster,' the news that Struan's have defaulted will send his stock plummeting. The market'll be very nervous, there'll be all the signs of a crash looming which we fuel by selling short. There's no board meeting scheduled for a couple of weeks unless Paul Havergill calls a special meeting. And he won't. Why should he? He wants their chunk of stock back more than anything else in the world. So everything will be fixed beforehand. He'll set the ground rules for rescuing Richard Kwang, and voting as Paul decides will be one of them. So the board lets Ian stew for a few days, then offers to extend credit and restore confidence—in return for Struan's piece of the bank stock—it's pledged against the credit anyway."

"Dunross'll never agree—neither he nor Phillip Chen, nor Tsu-yan."

"It's that or Struan's goes under—providing you hold tight and you've voting control. Once the bank gets his block of stock away from him... if you control the board, and therefore the Victoria Bank, then he's finished."

"Yes. But say he gets a new line of credit?"

"Then he's only badly mauled, maybe permanently weakened, Jason, but we make a killing either way. It's all a matter of timing, you know that."

"And Bartlett?"

"Bartlett and Par-Con are mine. He'll never go with Struan's sinking ship. I'll see to that."

After a pause Plumm said, "It's possible. Yes, it's possible."

"Are you in then?"

"After Struan's, how are you going to gobble up Par-Con?"

"I'm not. But we could—possibly." Gornt stubbed out his cigar. "Par-Con's a long-term effort and a whole different set of problems. First Struan's. Well?"

"If I get Struan's Hong Kong property division—35 percent of their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore and we're fifty-fifty on their Kai Tak operation?"

"Yes, everything except Kai Tak—I need that to round off All Asia Airways. I'm sure you'll understand, old boy. But you've a seat on the board of the new company, ten percent of the stock at par, seats on Struan's of course, and all their subsidiaries."

"15 percent. And chairmanship of Struan's, alternate years with you?"

"Agreed, but I'm first." Gornt lit a cigarette. Why not? he thought expansively. By this time next year Struan's will be dismembered so your chairmanship is really academic, Jason old boy. "So everything's agreed? We'll put it in a joint memo if you like, one copy for each of us."

Plumm shook his head and smiled. "Don't need a memo, perish the thought! Here." He held out his hand. "I agree!"

The two men shook hands firmly. "Down with the Noble House!" They both laughed, very content with the deal they had made. Acquisition of Struan's landholdings would make Asian Properties the largest land company in Hong Kong. Gornt would acquire almost a total monopoly of all Hong Kong's air cargo, sea freighting and factoring—and preeminence in Asia.

Good, Gornt thought. Now for Four Finger Wu. "If you'll call me a taxi I'll be off."

"Take my car, my chauffeur will—"

"Thanks but no, I'd rather take a taxi. Really, Jason, thanks anyway."

So Plumm phoned down to the concierge of the twenty-story apartment building which was owned and operated by his Asian Properties. While they waited, they toasted each other and the destruction of Struan's and the profits they were going to make. A phone rang in the adjoining room.

"Excuse me a moment, old chap." Plumm went through the door and half-closed it behind him. This was his private bedroom which he used sometimes when he was working late. It was a small, very neat room, soundproofed, fitted up like a ship's cabin with a built-in bunk, hi-fi speakers that piped in the music, a small self-contained hot plate and refrigerator. And, on one side, was a huge bank of elaborate, shortwave, ham radio transceiver equipment which had been Jason Plumm's abiding hobby since his childhood.

He picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Mr. Lop-sing please?" the woman's voice said.

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

"I want to leave a message."

"You have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."

"An urgent message for Arthur: Centre radioed that the meeting's postponed until the day after tomorrow. Standby for urgent instructions at 0600." The line went dead. Again a dial tone.

Plumm frowned as he put the phone back on its cradle.

Four Finger Wu stood at the gunnel of his junk with Good-weather Poon watching Gornt get into the sampan that he had sent for him.

"He hasn't changed much in all this time, has he?" Wu said absently, his narrowed eyes glittering.

"Foreign devils all look alike to me, never mind. How many years is it? Ten?" Poon asked, scratching his piles.

"No, it's nearer twelve now. Good times then, heya," Wu said. "Lots of profit. Very good, slipping upstream toward Canton, evading the foreign devils and their lackeys, Chairman Mao's people welcoming us. Yes. Our own people in charge and not a foreign devil anywhere—nor a fat official wanting his hand touched with fragrant grease. You could visit all your family and friends then and no trouble, heya? Not like now, heya?"

"The Reds're getting tough, very clever and very tough—worse than the Mandarins."

Wu turned as his seventh son came on deck. Now the young man wore a neat white shirt and grey trousers and good shoes. "Be careful," he called out brusquely. "You're sure you know what to do?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good," Four Fingers said, hiding his pride. "I don't want any mistakes."

He watched him head awkwardly for the haphazard gangway of planks that joined this junk to the next and thence across other junks to a makeshift landing eight boats away.

"Does Seventh Son know anything yet?" Poon asked softly.

"No, no not yet," Wu said sourly. "Those dogmeat fools to be caught with my guns! Without the guns, all our work will be for nothing."

"Evening, Mr. Gornt. I'm Paul Choy—my uncle Wu sent me to show you the way," the young man said in perfect English, repeating the lie that was now almost the real truth to him.

Gornt stopped, startled, then continued up the rickety stairs, his sea legs better than the young man's. "Evening," he said. "You're American? Or did you just go to school there, Mr. Choy?"

"Both." Paul Choy smiled. "You know how it is. Watch your head on the ropes—and it's slippery as hell." He turned and began to lead the way back. His real name was Wu Fang Choi and he was his father's seventh son by his third wife, but, when he was born, his father Four Finger Wu had sought a Hong Kong birth certificate for him, an unusual act for a boat dweller, put his mother's maiden name on the birth certificate, added Paul and got one of his cousins to pose as the real father.

"Listen, my son," Four Finger Wu had said, as soon as Paul could understand, "when speaking Haklo aboard my ship, you can call me Father—but never in front of a foreign devil, even in Haklo. All other times I'm 'Uncle,' just one of many uncles. Understand?"

"Yes. But why, Father? Have I done something wrong? I'm sorry if I've offended you."

"You haven't. You're a good boy and you work hard. It's just better for the family for you to have another name."

"But why, Father?"

"When it's time you will be told." Then, when he was twelve and trained and had proved his value, his father had sent him to the States. "Now you're to learn the ways of the foreign devil. You must begin to speak like one, sleep like one, become one outwardly but never forget who you are, who your people are, or that all foreign devils are inferior, hardly human beings, and certainly not fornicating civilised."

Paul Choy laughed to himself. If Americans only knew—from tai-pan to meathead—and British, Iranians, Germans, Russians, every race and colour, if they all really knew what even the lousiest coolie thought of them, they'd haemorrhage, he told himself for the millionth time. It's not that all the races of China despise foreigners, it's just that foreigners're just beneath any consideration. Of course we're wrong, he told himself. Foreigners are human and some are civilised—in their way—and far ahead of us technically. But we are better....

"Why the smile?" Gornt asked, ducking under ropes, avoiding rubbish that scattered all the decks.

"Oh, I was just thinking how crazy life is. This time last month I was surfing at Malibu Colony, California. Boy, Aberdeen's something else, isn't it?"

"You mean the smell?"

"Sure."

"It's not much better at high tide. No one but me seems to smell the stench!"

"When were you last here?"

"Couple of years back—for ten days—after I graduated, B. A. in business, but I never seem to get used to it." Choy laughed. "New England it ain't!"

"Where did you go to school?"

"Seattle first. Then undergraduate school, University of Washington at Seattle. Then I got a master's at Harvard, Harvard Business School."

Gornt stopped. "Harvard?"

"Sure. I got an assist, a scholarship."

"That's very good. When did you graduate?"

"June last year. It was like getting out of prison! Boy, they really put your ass on the block if you don't keep up your grades. Two years of hell! After I got out I headed for California with a buddy, doing odd jobs here and there to make enough to keep surfing, having ourselves a time after sweating out so much school. Then..." Choy grinned. "... then a couple of months back Uncle Wu caught up with me and said it's time you went to work so here I am! After all, he paid for my education. My parents died years ago."

"Were you top of your class at Harvard?"

"Third."

"Thank you. It's not far now, ours is the end junk."

They negotiated a precarious gangway, Gornt watched suspiciously by silent boat dwellers as they crossed from floating home to floating home, the families dozing or cooking or eating or playing mah-jong, some still repairing fishing nets, some children night fishing.

"This bit's slippery, Mr. Gornt." He jumped onto the tacky deck. "We made it! Home sweet home!" He tousled the hair of the sleepy little boy who was the lookout and said in Haklo, which he knew Gornt did not understand, "Keep awake, Little Brother, or the devils will get us."

"Yes, yes I will," the boy piped, his suspicious eyes on Gornt.

Paul Choy led the way below. The old junk smelled of tar and teak, rotting fish and sea salt and a thousand storms. Below decks the midship gangway opened on to the normal single large cabin for'ard that went the breadth of the ship and the length to the bow. An open charcoal fire burned in a careless brick fireplace with a sooty kettle singing over it. Smoke curled upward and found its way to the outside through a rough flue cut in the deck. A few old rattan chairs, tables and tiers of rough bunks lined one side.

Four Finger Wu was alone and he waved at one of the chairs and beamed, "ffeya, good see," he said in halting, hardly understand able English. "Whiskey?"

"Thanks," Gornt said. "Good to see you too."

Paul Choy poured the good Scotch into two semiclean glasses.

"You want water, Mr. Gornt?" he asked.

"No, straight's fine. Not too much please."

"Sure."

"Yes. Health!"

They watched Gornt sip his whiskey.

"Good," Gornt said. "Very good whiskey."

Wu beamed again and motioned at Paul. "Him sister son."

"Yes."

"Yes. Yes, he told me. You should be very proud."

"Wat?"

Paul Choy translated for the old man. "Ah thank, thank you. He talk good, heya?"

"Ah, good never mind. Smoke?"

"Thank you." They watched Gornt take a cigarette. Then Wu took one and Paul Choy lit both of them. Another silence.

"Good with old frien'?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Good." Another silence. "Him sister son," the old seaman said again and saw Gornt nod and say nothing, waiting. It pleased him that Gornt just sat there, waiting patiently for him to come to the point as a civilised person should.

Some of these pink devils are learning at long last. Yes, but some have learned too fornicating well—the tai-pan for instance, him with those cold, ugly blue fish-eyes that most foreign devils have, that stare at you like a dead shark—the one who can even speak a little Haklo dialect. Yes, the tai-pan's too cunning and too civilised, but then he's had generations before him and his ancestors had the Evil Eye before him. Yes, but old Devil Green Eyes, the first of his line, who made a pact with my ancestor the great sea warlord, Wu Fang Choi and his son, Wu Kwok, and kept it, and saw that his sons kept it—and their sons. So this present tai-pan must be considered an old friend even though he's the most deadly of the line.

The old man suppressed a shudder and hawked and spat to scare away the evil spit god that lurked in all men's throats. He studied Gornt. Eeeee, he told himself, it must be vile to have to look at that pink face in every mirror—all that face hair like a monkey and a pallid white toad's belly skin elsewhere! Ugh!

He put a smile on his face to cover his embarrassment and tried to read Gornt's face, what was beneath it, but he could not. Never mind, he told himself gleefully, that's why all the time and money's been spent to prepare Number Seven Son—he'll know..

"Maybe ask favour?" he said tentatively.

The beams of the ship creaked pleasantly as she wallowed at her moorings.

"Yes. What favour, old friend?"

"Sister son—time go work—give job?" He saw astonishment on Gornt's face and this annoyed him but he hid it. "

"Splain," he said in English then added to Paul Choy in guttural Haklo, "Explain to this Eater of Turtle Shit what I want. Just as I told you."

"My uncle apologises that he can't speak directly to you so he's asked me to explain, Mr. Gornt," Paul Choy said politely. "He wants to ask if you'd give me a job—as a sort of trainee—in your aeroplane and shipping division."

Gornt sipped his whiskey. "Why those, Mr. Choy?"

"My uncle has substantial shipping interests, as you know, and he wants me to modernise his operation. I can give you chapter and verse on my background, if you'd consider me, sir—my second year at Harvard was directed to those areas—my major interest was transportation of all types. I'd been accepted in the International Division of the Bank of Ohio before my uncle jer—pulled me back." Paul Choy hesitated. "Anyway that's what he asks."

"What dialects do you speak, other than Haklo?"

"Mandarin."

"How many characters can you write?"

"About four thousand."

"Can you take shorthand?"

"Speedwriting only, sir. I can type about eighty words a minute but not clean."

"Wat?" Wu asked.

Gornt watched Paul Choy as the young man translated what had been said for his uncle, weighing him—and Four Finger Wu. Then he said, "What sort of trainee do you want to be?"

"He wants me to learn all there is to know about running shipping and airlines, the broking and freighting business also, the practical operation, and of course to be a profitable cog for you in your machine. Maybe my Yankee expertise, theoretical expertise, could help you somehow. I'm twenty-six. I've a master's. I'm into all the new computer theory. Of course I can program one. At Harvard I backgrounded in conglomerates, cash flows."

"And if you don't perform, or there's, how would you put it, a personality conflict?"

The young man said firmly, "There won't be, Mr. Gornt—leastways I'll work my can off to prevent that."

"Wat? What did he say? Exactly?" Four Fingers asked sharply in Haklo, noticing a change in inflexion, his eyes and ears highly tuned.

His son explained, exactly.

"Good," Wu said, his voice a rasp. "Tell him exactly, if you don't do all your tasks to his satisfaction you'll be cast out of the family and my wrath will waste your days."

Paul Choy hesitated, hiding his shock, all his American training screaming to tell his father to go screw, that he was a Harvard graduate, that he was an American and had an American passport that he 'd earned, whatever goddamn sampan or goddamn family he came from. But he kept his eyes averted and his anger off his face.

Don't be ungrateful, he ordered himself. You're not American, truly American. You're Chinese, and the head of your family has the right to rule. But for him you could be running a floating cathouse here in Aberdeen.

Paul Choy sighed. He knew that he was more fortunate than his eleven brothers. Four were junk captains here in Aberdeen, one lived in Bangkok and plied the Mekong River, one had a ferryboat in Singapore, another ran an import/export shipwright business in Indonesia, two had been lost at sea, one brother was in England—doing what he didn't know—and the last, the eldest, ruled the dozen feeder sampans in Aberdeen Harbour that were floating kitchens—and also three pleasure boats and eight ladies of the night.

After a pause Gornt asked, "What did he say? Exactly?"

Paul Choy hesitated, then decided to tell him, exactly.

"Thank you for being honest with me, Mr. Choy. That was wise. You're a very impressive young man," Gornt said. "I understand perfectly." Now for the first time since Wu had asked the original question he turned his eyes to the old seaman and smiled. "Of course. Glad to give nephew job."

Wu beamed and Paul Choy tried to keep the relief off his face.

"I won't let you down, Mr. Gornt."

"Yes, I know you won't."

Wu motioned at the bottle. "Whiskey?"

"No thank you. This is fine," Gornt said.

"When start job?"

Gornt looked at Paul Choy. "When would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow? Whenever's good for you, sir."

"Tomorrow. Wednesday."

"Gee, thanks. Eight o'clock?"

"Nine, eight thereafter. A six-day week of course. You'll have long hours and I'll push you. It'll be up to you how much you can learn and how fast I can increase your responsibilities."

"Thanks, Mr. Gornt." Happily Paul Choy translated for his father. Wu sipped his whiskey without hurrying. "What money?" he asked.

Gornt hesitated. He knew it had to be just the right sum, not too much, not too little, to give Paul Choy face and his uncle face. "1,000 HK a month for the first three months, then I'll review."

The young man kept his gloom off his face. That was hardly 200 U.S. but he translated it into Haklo.

"Maybe 2,000?" Wu said, hiding his pleasure. A thousand was the perfect figure but he was bargaining merely to give the foreign devil face and his son face.

"If he's to be trained, many valuable managers will have to take time away from their other duties," Gomt said politely. "It's expensive to train anyone."

"Much money Golden Mountain," Wu said firmly. "Two?"

"1,000 first month, 1,250 next two months?"

Wu frowned and added, "Month three, 1,500?"

"Very well. Months three and four at 1,500. And I'll review his salary after four months. And Paul Choy guarantees to work for Rothwell-Gornt for at least two years."

"Wat?"

"Sir?"

"Yes sir!" Paul Choy could not stop the beam. "Yes sir, thank you sir."