James clavell

"It's for safety," his father, their leader, had said. "To put out a false scent for the fornicating police."

"But it will bring no money," he had said to him and to the others disgustedly. "How can we produce the fornicating son if he's dead and buried? Would you pay off without some proof that he was alive? Of course not! It was a mistake to hit him with the shovel."

"But the fellow was trying to escape!" his brother said.

"True, Younger Brother. But the first blow didn't kill him, only bent his head a little. You should have left it at that!"

"I would have but the evil spirits got into me so I hit him again. I only hit him four times! Eeeee, but these highborn fellows have soft skulls!"

"Yes, you're right," his father had said. He was short and balding with many gold teeth, his name Kin Min-ta, Baldhead Kin. "Dew neh loh moh but it's done so there's no point in remembering it. Joss. It was his own fault for trying to escape! Have you seen the early edition of The Times?"

"No—not yet, Father," he had replied.

"Here, let me read it to you: 'The Chief of all the Police said today that they have arrested a triad who they suspect is one of the Werewolves, the dangerous gang of criminals who kidnapped John Chen. The authorities expect to have the case solved any moment.' "

They all laughed, he, his younger brother, his father and the last member, his very good friend, Dog-eared Chen—Pun Po Chen—for they knew it was all lies. Not one of them was a triad or had triad connections, and none had ever been caught for any crime before, though they had formed their own Brotherhood and his father had, from time to time, run a small gambling syndicate in North Point. It was his father who had proposed the first kidnapping. Eeee, that was very clever, he thought, remembering. And when John Chen had, unfortunately, had himself killed because he stupidly tried to escape, his father had also suggested cutting off the ear and sending it. "We will turn his bad joss into our good. 'Kill one to terrify ten thousand!' Sending the ear will terrify all Hong Kong, make us famous and make us rich!"

Yes, he thought, sitting in the sun at Aberdeen. But we haven't made our riches yet. Didn't I tell father this morning: "I don't mind going all the way to post the letter, Father, that's sensible and what Humphrey Bogart would order. But I still don't think it will bring us any ransom."

"Never mind and listen! I've a new plan worthy of Al Capone himself. We wait a few days. Then we phone Noble House Chen. If we don't get immediate cash, then we snatch the compradore himself! Great Miser Chen himself!"

They had all stared at him in awe.

"Yes, and if you don't think he'll pay up quickly after seeing his son's ear—of course we'll tell him it was his son's ear... perhaps we'll even dig up the body and show him, heya?"

Smallpox Kin beamed, recalling how they had all chortled. Oh how they had chortled, holding their bellies, almost rolling on the floor of their tenement apartment.

"Now to business. Dog-eared Chen, we need your advice again."

Dog-eared Chen was a distant cousin of John Chen and worked for him as a manager of one of the multitudinous Chen companies. "Your information about the son was perfect. Perhaps you can supply us with the father's movements too?"

"Of course, Honoured Leader, that's easy," Dog-eared Chen had said. "He's a man of habit—and easily frightened. So is his tai-tai—ayeeyah, that mealy-mouthed whore knows which side of the bed she sleeps in! She'll pay up very quickly to get him back. Yes, I'm sure he'll be very cooperative now. But we'll have to ask double what we would settle for because he's an accomplished negotiator. I've worked for the fornicating House of Chen all my working life so I know what a miser he is."

"Excellent. Now, by all the gods, how and when should we kidnap Noble House Chen himself?"
20
4:01 PM
Sir Dunstan Barre was ushered into Richard Kwang's office with the deference he considered his due. The Ho-Pak Building was small and unpretentious, off Ice House Street in Central, and the office was like most Chinese offices, small, cluttered and drab, a place for working and not for show. Most times two or three people would share a single office, running two or three separate businesses there, using the same telephone and same secretary for all. And why not, a wise man would say? A third of the overhead means more profit for the same amount of labour.

But Richard Kwang did not share his office. He knew it did not please his quai loh customers—and the few that he had were important to his bank and to him for face and for the highly sought after peripheral benefits they could bring. Like the possible, oh so important election as a voting member to the super-exclusive Turf Club, or membership in the Hong Kong Golf Club or Cricket Club—or even the Club itself—or any of the other minor though equally exclusive clubs that were tightly controlled by the British tai-pans of great hongs where all the really big business was conducted.

"Hello, Dunstan," he said affably. "How are things going?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Very good. My horse had a great workout this morning."

"Yes. I was at the track myself."

"Oh, I didn't see you!"

"Just popped in for a minute or two. My gelding's got a temperature—we may have to scratch him on Saturday. But Butterscotch Lass was really flying this morning."

"She almost pipped the track record. She'll definitely be trying on Saturday."

Barre chuckled. "I'll check with you just before race time and you can tell me the inside story then! You can never trust trainers and jockeys, can you—yours or mine or anyone's!"

They chatted inconsequentially, then Barre came to the point.

Richard Kwang tried to cover his shock. "Close all your corporate accounts?"

"Yes, old boy. Today. Sorry and all that but my board thinks it wise for the moment, until you weath—"

"But surely you don't think we're in trouble?" Richard Kwang laughed. "Didn't you see Haply's article in the Guardian? '... malicious lies spread by certain tai-pans and a certain big bank____'"

"Oh yes, I saw that. More of his poppycock, I*d say. Ridiculous! Spread rumours? Why should anyone do that? Huh, I talked to both Paul Havergill and Southerby this morning and they said Haply better watch out this time if he implies it's them or he'll get a libel suit. That young man deserves a horsewhipping! However... I'd like a cashier's check now—sorry, but you know how boards are."

"Yes, yes I do." Richard Kwang kept his smile on the surface of his face but he hated the big florid man even more than usual. He knew that the board was a rubber stamp for Barre's decisions. "We've no problems. We're a billion-dollar bank. As to the Aberdeen branch, they're just a lot of superstitious locals."

"Yes, I know." Barre watched him. "I heard you had a few problems at your Mong Kok branch this afternoon too, also at Tsim Sha Tsui... at Sha Tin in the New Territories, even, God help us, on Lan Tao." Lan Tao Island was half a dozen miles east of Hong Kong, the biggest island in the whole archipelago of almost three hundred islands that made up the Colony—but almost unpopulated because it was waterless.

"A few customers withdrew their savings," Richard Kwang said with a scoff. "There's no trouble."

But there was trouble. He knew it and he was afraid everyone knew it. At first it was just at Aberdeen. Then, during the day, his other managers had begun to call with ever increasing anxiety. He had eighteen branches throughout the Colony. At four of them, withdrawals were untoward and heavy. At Mong Kok, a bustling hive within the teeming city of Kowloon, a line had formed in early afternoon. Everyone had wanted all their money. It was nothing like the frightening proportions at Aberdeen, but enough to show a clear indication of failing confidence. Richard Kwang could understand that the sea villages would hear about Four Finger Wu's withdrawals quickly, and would rush to follow his lead—but what about Mong Kok? Why there? And why Lan Tao? Why at Tsim Sha Tsui, his most profitable branch, which was almost beside the busy Golden Ferry Terminal where 150,000 persons passed by daily, to and from Hong Kong?

It must be a plot!

Is my enemy and arch-rival Smiler Ching behind it? Is it those fornicators, those jealous fornicators at Blacs or the Victoria?

Is Thin Tube of Dung Havergill masterminding the attack? Or is it Compton Southerby of Blacs—he's always hated me. These filthy quai loh! But why should they attack me? Of course I'm a much better banker than them and they're jealous but my business is with civilised people and hardly touches them. Why? Or has it leaked somehow that against my better judgment, over my objections, my partners who control the bank have been insisting that I borrow short and cheap and lend long and high on property deals, and now, through their stupidity, we are temporarily overextended and cannot sustain a run?

Richard Kwang wanted to shout and scream and tear his hair out. His secret partners were Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung, major shareholders of Macao's gambling and gold syndicate, along with Smuggler Mo, who had helped him form and finance the Ho-Pak ten years ago. "Did you see Old Blind Tung's predictions this morning?" he asked, the smile still on his face.

"No. What'd he say?"

Richard Kwang found the paper and passed it over. "All the portents show we're ready for boom. The lucky eight is everywhere in the heavens and we're in the eighth month, my birthday is the eighth of the eighth month...."

Barre read the column. In spite of his disbelief in soothsayers, he had been too long in Asia to dismiss them totally. His heart quickened. Old Blind Tung had a vast reputation in Hong Kong. "If you believe him we're in for the biggest boom in the history of the world," he said.

"He's usually much more cautious. Ayeeyah, that would be good, heya?"

"Better than good. Meanwhile Richard old boy, let's finish our business, shall we?"

"Certainly. It's all a typhoon in an oyster shell, Dunstan. We're stronger than ever—our stock's hardly a point off." When the market had opened, there had been a mass of small offerings to sell, which, if not reacted to at once would have sent their stock plummeting. Richard Kwang had instantly ordered his brokers to buy and to keep buying. This had stabilised the stock. During the day, to maintain the position, he had had to buy almost five million shares, an unheard of number to be traded in one day. None of his experts could pinpoint who was selling big. There was no reason for a lack of confidence, other than Four Finger Wu's withdrawals. All gods curse that old devil and his fornicating, too smart Harvard-trained nephew! "Why not le—"

The phone rang. " 'Scuse me," then curtly into the phone, "I said no interruptions!"

"It's Mr. Haply from the Guardian, he says it's important," his secretary, his niece, Mary Yok said. "And the tai-pan's secretary called. The Nelson Trading board meeting's brought forward to this afternoon at five o'clock. Mr. Mata called to say he would be there too."

Richard Kwang's heart skipped three beats. Why? he asked himself, aghast. Dew neh loh moh it was supposed to be postponed to next week. Oh ko why? Then quickly he put aside that question to consider Haply. He decided that to answer now in front of Barre was too dangerous. "I'll call him back in a few minutes." He smiled at the red-faced man in front of him. "Leave everything for a day or two, Dunstan, we've no problems."

"Can't, old boy. Sorry. There was a special meeting, have to settle it today. The board insisted."

"We've been generous in the past—you've forty million of our money unsecured now—we're joint venturing another seventy million with you on your new building program."

"Yes, indeed you are, Richard, and your profit will be substantial. But they're another matter and those loans were negotiated in good faith months ago and will be settled in good faith when they're due. We've never defaulted on a payment to the Ho-Pak or anyone else." Barre passed the newspaper back and with it, signed documents imprinted with his corporate seal. "The accounts are consolidated so one check will suffice."

The amount was a little over nine and a half million.

Richard Kwang signed the cashier's check and smiled Sir Dunstan Barre out, then, when it was safe, cursed everyone in sight and went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. He kicked his desk then picked up the phone and shouted at his niece to get Haply and almost broke the phone as he slammed it back onto its cradle.

"Dew neh loh moh on all filthy quai loh," he shrieked to the ceiling and felt much better. That lump of dogmeat! I wonder... oh, I wonder if I could prevail on the Snake to forbid any lines at all tomorrow? Perhaps he and his men could break a few arms.

Gloomily Richard Kwang let his mind drift. It had been a rotten day. It had begun badly at the track. He was sure his trainer—or jockey—was feeding Butterscotch Lass pep pills to make her run faster to shorten her odds—she'd be favourite now—then Saturday they'd stop the pills and back an outsider and clean up without him being in on the profit-making. Dirty dog bones, all of them! Liars! Do they think I own a racehorse to lose money?

The banker hawked and spat into the spittoon.

Maggot-mouthed Barre and dog bone Uncle Wu! Those withdrawals will take most of my cash. Never mind, with Lando Mata, Smuggler Mo, Tightfist Tung and the tai-pan I'm quite safe. Oh I'll have to shout and scream and curse and weep but nothing can really touch me or the Ho-Pak. I'm too important to them.

Yes, it had been a rotten day. The only bright spot had been his meeting this morning with Casey. He had enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her clean-smelling, smart, crisp Americanness of the great outdoors. They had fenced pleasantly about financing and he felt sure he could get all or certainly part of their business. Clearly the pickings would be huge. She's so naive, he thought. Her knowledge of banking and finance's impressive but of the Asian world, nil! She's so naive to be so open with their plans. Thank all gods for Americans.

"I love America, Miss Casey. Yes. Twice a year I go there, to eat good steaks and go to Vegas—and to do business of course."

Eeeee, he thought happily, the whores of the Golden Country are the best and most available quai loh in the world, and quai Ms're so cheap compared to Hong Kong girls! Oh oh oh! I get such a good feeling pillowing them, with their great deodorised armpits, their great tits and thighs and rears. But in Vegas it's the best. Remember the golden-haired beauty that towered over me but lying down she...

His private phone rang. He picked it up, irritated as always that he had had to instal it. But he had had no option. When his previous secretary of many years had left to get married, his wife had planted her favourite niece firmly in her place, of course to spy on me, he thought sourly. Eeeee, what can a man do?

"Yes?" he asked, wondering what his wife wanted now.

"You didn't call me all day.... I've been waiting for hours!"

His heart leapt at the unexpected sound of the girl's voice. He dismissed the petulance, her Cantonese sweet like her Jade Gate. "Listen, Little Treasure," he said, his voice placating. "Your poor Father's been very busy today. I've—"

"You just don't want your poor Daughter anymore. I'll have to throw myself in the harbour or find another person to cherish me oh oh oh____"

His blood pressure soared at the sound of her tears. "Listen, Little Oily Mouth, I'll see you this evening at ten. We'll have an eight-course feast at Wanchai at my fav—"

"Ten's too late and I don't want a feast I want a steak and I want to go to the penthouse at the V and A and drink champagne!"

His spirit groaned at the danger of being seen and reported secretly to his tai-tai. Oh oh oh! But, in front of his friends and his enemies and all Hong Kong he would gain enormous face to escort his new mistress there, the young exotic rising star in TV's firmament, Venus Poon.

"At ten I'll call f—"

"Ten's too late. Nine."

Rapidly he tried to sort out all his meetings tonight to see how he could accommodate her. "Listen, Little Treasure, I'll se—"

"Ten's too late. Nine. I think I will die now that you don't care anymore."

"Listen. Your Father has three meetings and I th—"

"Oh my head hurts to think you don't want me anymore oh oh oh. This abject person will have to slit her wrists, or...." He heard the change in her voice and his stomach twisted at the threat, "Or answer the phone calls of others, lesser than her revered Father of course, but just as rich nonetheless and m—"

"All right, Little Treasure. At nine!"

"Oh you do love me don't you!" Though she was speaking Cantonese Venus Poon used the English word and his heart flipped. English was the language of love for modern Chinese, there were no romantic words in their own language. "Tell me!" she said imperiously. "Tell me you love me!"

He told her, abjectly, then hung up. The mealy-mouthed little whore, he thought irritably. But then, at nineteen she's a right to be demanding and petulant and difficult if you're almost sixty and she makes you feel twenty and the Imperial Yang blissful. Eeeee, but Venus Poon's the best I've ever had. Expensive but, eeee, she's got muscles in her Golden Gulley that only the legendary Emperor Kung wrote about!

He felt his yang stir and scratched pleasantly. I'll give that little baggage what for tonight. I'll buy an extra specially large device, ah yes, a ring with bells on it. Oh oh oh! That'll make her wriggle!

Yes, but meanwhile think about tomorrow. How to prepare for tomorrow?

Call your High Dragon friend, Divisional Sergeant Tang-po at Tsim Sha Tsui and enlist his help to see that his branch and all branches in Kowloon are well policed. Phone Blacs and Cousin Tung of the huge Tung Po Bank and Cousin Smiler Ching and Havergill to arrange extra cash against the Ho-Pak's securities and holdings. Ah yes, phone your very good friend Joe Jacobson, VP of the Chicago Federal and International Merchant Bank—his bank's got assets of four billion and he owes you lots of favours. Lots. There're lots of quai loh who're deeply in your debt, and civilised people. Call them all!

Abruptly Richard Kwang came out of his reverie as he remembered the tai-pan's summons. His soul twisted. Nelson Trading's deposits in bullion and cash were huge. Oh ko if Nels— The phone jangled irritably. "Uncle, Mr. Haply's on the line."

"Hello, Mr. Haply, how nice to talk to you. Sorry I was engaged before."

"That's all right, Mr. Kwang. I just wanted to check a couple of facts if I may. First, the riot at Aberdeen. The police w—"

"Hardly a riot, Mr. Haply. A few noisy, impatient people, that's all," he said, despising Haply's Canadian-American accent, and the need to be polite.

"I'm looking at some photos right now, Mr. Kwang, the ones that're in this afternoon's Times—it looks like a riot all right."

The banker squirmed in his chair and fought to keep his voice calm. "Oh—oh well I wasn't there so... I'll have to talk to Mr. Sung."

"I did, Mr. Kwang. At 3:30. Spent half an hour with him. He said if it hadn't been for the police they'd've torn the place apart." There was a hesitation. "You're right to play it down, but, say, I'm trying to help, and I can't without the facts, so if you'll level with me... How many folks wanted their money out at Lan Tao?"

Richard Kwang said, "18," halving the real figure.

"Our guy said 36 .82 at Sha Tin. How about Mong Kok?"

"A cupful."

"My guy said 48, and there was a good 100 left at closing. How about Tsim Sha Tsui?"

"I haven't got the figures yet, Mr. Haply," Richard Kwang said smoothly, consumed with anxiety, hating the staccato questioning.

"All the evening editions're heavy with the Ho-Pak run. Some're even using the word."

"Oh ko...."

"Yeah, I'd say you'd better get ready for a real hot day tomorrow, Mr. Kwang. I'd say your opposition's very well organised. Everything's too pat to be a coincidence."

"I certainly appreciate your interest." Then Richard Kwang added delicately, "If there's anything I can do..."

Again the irritating laugh. "Have any of your big depositors pulled out today?"

Richard Kwang hesitated a fraction of a moment and he heard Haply jump into the breach. "Of course I know about Four Finger Wu. I meant the big British hongs. "

"No, Mr. Haply, not yet."

"There's a strong rumour that Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms's going to change banks."

Richard Kwang felt that barb in his Secret Sack. "Let's hope it's not true, Mr. Haply. Who're the tai-pans and what big bank or banks? Is it the Victoria or Blacs?"

"Perhaps it's Chinese. Sorry, I can't divulge a news source. But you'd better get organised—it sure as hell looks as though the big guys are after you."

"Eh?" Dunross looked up absently from the stack of papers he was going through.

"No. At least they didn't last night."

"Who?"

Dunross stopped working. "Oh?"

"Yes. Separate rooms, separate beds, breakfast together in the main room—both neat and tidy and dressed in modest robes which is interesting because neither wears anything in bed."

"They don't?"

"No, at least they didn't last night."

Dunross grinned and she was glad that her news pleased him. It was his first real smile of the day. Since she had arrived at 8:00 A.M. he had been working like a man possessed, rushing out for meetings, hurrying back again: the police, Phillip Chen, the governor, twice to the bank, once to the penthouse to meet whom she did not know. No time for lunch and, so the doorman had told her, the tai-pan had arrived with the dawn.

She had seen the weight on his spirit today, the weight that sooner or later bowed all tai-pans—and sometimes broke them. She had seen Ian's father withered away by the enormous shipping losses of the war years, the catastrophic loss of Hong Kong, of his sons and nephews—bad joss piling on bad joss. It was the loss of Mainland China that had finally crushed him. She had seen how Suez had broken Alastair Struan, how that tai-pan had never recovered from that debacle and how bad joss had piled on bad joss for him until the Gornt-mounted run on their stock had shattered him.

It must be a terrible strain, she thought. All our people to worry about and our House, all our enemies, all the unexpected catastrophes of nature and of man that seem to be ever present—and all the sins and piracies and devil's work of the past that are waiting to burst forth from our own Pandora's box as they do from time to time. It's a pity the tai-pans aren't Chinese, she thought. Then the sins of the past would be so much gossamer.

"What makes you sure, Claudia?"

"No sleep things for either—pyjamas or filmy things." She beamed.

"How do you know?"

"Please, tai-pan, I can't divulge my sources!"

"What else do you know?"

"Ah!" she said, then blandly changed the conversation. "The Nelson Trading board meeting's in half an hour. You wanted to be reminded. Can I have a few minutes beforehand?"

"Yes. In a quarter of an hour. Now," he said with a finality she knew too well. "What else do you know?"

She sighed, then importantly consulted her notepad. "She's never been married. Oh, lots of suitors but none have lasted, tai-pan. In fact, according to rumours, none have..."

Dunross's eyebrows shot up. "You mean she's a virgin?"

"Of that we're not sure—only that she has no reputation for staying out late, or overnight, with a gentleman. No. The only gentleman she goes out socially with is Mr. Bartlett and that's infrequently. Except on business trips. He, by the way, tai-pan, he's quite a gadabout—swinger was the term used. No one lady bu—"