James clavell

"Used by whom?"

"Ah! Mr. Handsome Bartlett doesn't have one special girl friend, tai-pan. Nothing steady as they say. He was divorced in 1956, the same year that your Cirrrannnousshee joined his firm."

"She's not my Ciranoush," he said.

Claudia beamed more broadly. "She's twenty-six. She's Sagittarius."

"You got someone to snitch her passport—or got someone to take a peek?"

"Very good gracious no, tai-pan." Claudia pretended to be shocked. "I don't spy on people. I just ask questions. But 100 says she and Mr. Bartlett have been lovers at some time or another."

"That's no bet, I'd be astounded if they weren't. He's certainly in love with her—and she with him. You saw how they danced together. That's no bet at all."

The lines around her eyes crinkled. "Then what odds will you give me they've never been lovers?"

"Eh? What d'you know?" he asked suspiciously.

"Odds, tai-pan?"

He watched her. Then he said, "A thousand to... I'll give you ten to one."

"Done! A hundred. Thank you tai-pan. Now, about the Nels—"

"Where'd you get all this information? Eh?"

She extracted a telex from the papers she was carrying. The rest she put into his in tray. "You telexed our people in New York the night before last for information on her and to recheck Bartlett's dossier. This's just arrived."

He took it and scanned it. His reading was very fast and his memory almost photographic. The telex gave the information Claudia had related in bald terms without her embroidered interpretation and added that K. C. Tcholok had no known police record, $46,000 in a savings account at the San Fernando Savings and Loan, and $8,700 in her checking account at the Los Angeles and California Bank.

"It's shocking how easy it is in the States to find out how much you've got in the bank, isn't it, Claudia?"

"Shocking. I'd never use one, tai-pan."

He grinned. "Except to borrow from! Claudia, just give me the telex next time."

"Yes, tai-pan. But isn't my way of telling certain things more exciting?"

"Yes. But where's it say about the nakedness? You made that up!"

"Oh no, that's from my own source here. Third Toiletma—" Claudia stopped just too late to avoid falling into his trap.

His smile was seraphic. "So! A spy in the V and A! Third Toilet-maid!

Who? Which one, Claudia?"

To give him face she pretended to be annoyed. "Ayeeyah! A spymaster may reveal nothing, heya?" Her smile was kindly. "Here's a list of your calls. I've put off as many as I can till tomorrow—I'll buzz you in good time for the meeting."

He nodded but she saw that his smile had vanished and now he was lost in thought again. She went out and he did not hear the door close. He was thinking about spymasters and AMG and his meeting with Brian Kwok and Roger Crosse this morning at ten, and the one coming at six o'clock.

The meeting this morning had been short, sharp and angry. "First, is there anything new on AMG?" he had asked.

Roger Crosse had replied at once, "It was, apparently, an accident. No suspicious marks on the body. No one was seen nearby, no car marks, impact marks or skid marks—other than the motorcycle. Now, the files, Ian—oh by the way we know now you've got the only copies existent."

"Sorry but I can't do what you asked."

"Why?" There had been a sour edge to the policeman's voice.

"I'm still not admitting one way or the other that they exist but y—"

"Oh for chrissake, Ian, don't be ridiculous! Of course the copies exist. Do you take us for bloody fools? If they didn't, you'd've come out with it last night and that would have been that. I strongly advise you to let us copy them."

"And I strongly advise you to have a tighter hold on your temper."

"If you think I've lost my temper, Ian, then you know very little about me. I formally ask you to produce those documents. If you refuse I'll invoke my powers under the Official Secrets Act at six o'clock this evening and tai-pan or not, of the Noble House or not, friend or not, by one minute past six, you'll be under arrest. You'll be held incommunicado and we'll go through all your papers, safes, deposit boxes until we've found them! Now kindly produce the files!"

Dunross remembered the taut face and the iced eyes staring at him, his real friend Brian Kwok in shock. "No."

Crosse had sighed. The threat in the sound had sent a tremor through him. "For the last time, why?"

"Because, in the wrong hands, I think they'd be damaging to Her Maj—"

"Good sweet Christ, I'm head of Special Intelligence!"

"I know."

"Then kindly do as I ask."

"Sorry. I spent most of the night trying to work out a safe way to giv—"

Roger Crosse had got up. "I'll be back at six o'clock for the files. Don't burn them, Ian. I'll know if you try and I'm afraid you'll be stopped. Six o'clock."

Last night while the house slept, Dunross had gone to his study and reread the files. Rereading them now with the new knowledge of AMG's death and possible murder, the involvement of MI-5 and -6, probably the KGB, and Crosse's astounding anxiety; and then the added thought that perhaps some of the material might not yet be available to the Secret Service, together with the possibility that many of the pieces he had dismissed as too farfetched were not—now all the reports took on new importance. Some of them blew his mind.

To hand them over was too risky. To keep them now, impossible.

In the quiet of the night Dunross had considered destroying them. Finally he concluded it was his duty not to. For a moment he had considered leaving them openly on his desk, the French windows wide to the terrace darkness, and going back to sleep. If Crosse was so concerned about the papers then he and his men would be watching now. To lock them in the safe was unsafe. The safe had been touched once. It would be touched again. No safe was proof against an absolute, concerted professional attack.

There in the darkness, his feet perched comfortably, he had felt the excitement welling, the beautiful, intoxicating lovely warmth of danger surrounding him, physical danger. Of enemies nearby. Of being perched on the knife edge between life and void. The only thing that detracted from his pleasure was the knowledge that Struan's was betrayed from within, the same question always grinding: Is the Sevrin spy the same as he who gave their secrets to Bartlett? One of seven? Alastair, Phillip, Andrew, Jacques, Linbar, David MacStruan in Toronto, or his rather. All unthinkable.

His mind had examined each one. Clinically, without passion. All had the opportunity, all the same motive: jealousy, and hatred, in varying degrees. But not one would sell the Noble House to an outsider. Not one. Even so, one of them did.

Who?

The hours passed.

Who?

He stood there for a while, then, refreshed, he went back and locked the files away and sat in his great chair facing the French windows, on guard, working out his options, choosing one. Then, satisfied, he had dozed an hour or so and awoke, as usual, just before dawn.

His dressing room was off his study which was next door to their master bedroom. He had dressed casually and left silently. The road was clear. Sixteen seconds were clipped from his record. In his penthouse he bathed and shaved and changed into a tropical suit, then went to his office on the floor below. It was very humid today with a curious look to the sky. A tropical storm's coming, he had thought. Perhaps we'll be lucky and it won't pass us by like all the others and it'll bring rain. He turned away from his windows and concentrated on running the Noble House.

There was a pile of overnight telexes to deal with on all manner of negotiations and enterprises, problems and business opportunities throughout the Colony and the great outside. From all points of the compass. As far north as the Yukon where Struan's had an oil-prospecting joint venture with the Canadian timber and mining giant, McLean-Woodley. Singapore and Malaya and as far south as Tasmania for fruit and minerals to carry to Japan. West to Britain, east to New York, the tentacles of the new international Noble House that Dunross dreamed about were beginning to reach out, still weak, still tentative, and without the sustenance he knew was vital to their growth.

Never mind. Soon they'll be strong. The Par-Con deal will make our web like steel, with Hong Kong the centre of the earth and us the nucleus of the centre. Thank God for the telex and telephones.

"Mr. Bartlett please."

"Hello?"

"Ian Dunross, good morning, sorry to disturb you so early, could we postpone our meeting till 6:30?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"No. Just business. I've a lot to catch up with."

"Anything on John Chen?"

"Not yet, no. Sorry. I'll keep you posted though. Give my regards to Casey."

"I will. Say, that was some party last night. Your daughter's a charmer!"

"Thanks. I'll come to the hotel at 6:30. Of course Casey's invited. See you then. 'Bye!"

Ah Casey! he thought.

Casey and Bartlett. Casey and Gornt. Gornt and Four Finger Wu.

Early this morning he had heard from Four Finger Wu about his meeting with Gornt. A pleasant current had swept through him on hearing that his enemy had almost died. The Peak Road's no place to lose your brakes, he thought.

Pity the bastard didn't die. That would have saved me lots of anguish. Then he dismissed Gornt and rethought Four Finger Wu.

Between the old seaman's pidgin and his Haklo they could converse quite well. Wu had told him everything he could. Gornt's comment on the Ho-Pak, advising Wu to withdraw his money, was surprising. And cause for concern. That and Haply's article.

Does that bugger Gornt know something I don't?

He had gone to the bank. "Paul, what's going on?"

"About what?"

"The Ho-Pak."

"Oh. The run? Very bad for our banking image, I must say. Poor Richard! We're fairly certain he's got all the reserves he needs to weather his storm but we don't know the extent of his commitments. Of course I called him the moment I read Haply's ridiculous article. I must tell you, Ian, I also called Christian Toxe and told him in no uncertain terms he should control his reporters and that he'd better cease and desist or else."

"I was told there was a queue at Tsim Sha Tsui."

"Oh? I hadn't heard that. I'll check. Even so, surely the Ching Prosperity and the Lo Fat banks will support him. My God, he's built up the Ho-Pak into a major banking institution. If he went broke God knows what'll happen. We even had some withdrawals at Aberdeen ourselves. No, Ian, let's hope it'll all blow over. Talking about that, do you think we'll get some rain? It feels dicey today, don't you think? The news said there might be a storm coming through. Do you think it'll rain?"

"I don't know. Let's hope so. But not on Saturday!"

"My God yes! If the races were rained out that would be terrible. We can't have that. Oh, by the way, Ian, it was a lovely party last night. I enjoyed meeting Bartlett and his girl friend. How're your negotiations with Bartjett proceeding?"

"First class! Listen, Paul..."

Dunross smiled to himself, remembering how he had dropped his voice even though in Havergill's office... Havergill's office which overlooked the whole of Central District was book-lined and very carefully soundproofed. "I've closed my deal. It's two years initially. We sign the papers within seven days. They're putting up 20 million cash in each of the years, succeeding ones to be negotiated."

"Congratulations, my dear fellow. Heartiest congratulations! And the down payment?"

"Seven."

"Yes."

"No. But I'll have charterers in time to service our loan."

"I noticed your stock's jumped two points."

"It's on the way now. It's going to double, within thirty days."

"Oh? What makes you think so?"

"The boom."

"Eh?"

"All the signs point that way, Paul. Confidence's up. Our Par-Con deal will lead the boom. It's long overdue."

"Friday, after the market closes."

"Excellent. My thought entirely. By Monday everyone will be on the bandwagon!"

"But let's keep everything in the family until then."

"Of course. Oh, did you hear Quillan almost killed himself last night? It was just after your party. His brakes failed on the Peak Road."

"Yes I heard. He should have killed himself—that would have sent Second Great Company's stock skyrocketing with happiness!"

I "Come now, Ian! A boom eh? You really think so?"

"Enough to want to buy heavily. How about a million credit—to buy Struan's?"

"Personal—or for the House?"

"Personal."

"We would hold the stock?"

"Of course."

"And if the stock goes down?"

"It won't."

"Say it does, Ian?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, it's all in the family so why don't we say if it goes two points below market at today's closing, we can sell and debit your account with the loss?"

"Three. Struan's is going to double."

"Yes. Meanwhile, let's say two until you sign the Par-Con deal. The House is rather a lot over on its revolving credit already. Let's say two, eh?"

"All right."

I'm safe at two, Dunross thought again, reassuring himself. I think.

Before he had left the bank he had gone by Johnjohn's office. Bruce Johnjohn, second deputy chief manager and heir apparent to Havergill, was a stocky, gentle man with a hummingbird's vitality. Dunross had given him the same news. Johnjohn had been equally pleased. But he had advised caution on projecting a boom and, contrary to Havergill, was greatly concerned with the Ho-Pak run.

"I don't like it at all, Ian. It's very smelly."

"Yes. What about Haply's article?"

"Oh, it's all nonsense. We don't go in for those sort of shenanigans. Blacs? Equally foolish. Why should we want to eliminate a major Chinese bank, even if we could. The Ching Bank might be the culprit. Perhaps. Perhaps old Smiler Ching would—he and Richard have been rivals for years. It could be a combination of half a dozen banks, Ching included. It might even be that Richard's depositors are really scared. I've heard all sorts of rumours for three months or so. They're in deep with dozens of dubious property schemes. Anyway, if he goes under it'll affect us all. Be bloody careful, Ian!"

"I'll be glad when you're upstairs, Bruce."

"Don't sell Paul short—he's very clever and he's been awfully good for Hong Kong and the bank. But we're in for some hairy times in Asia, Ian. I must say I think you're very wise to try to diversify into South America—it's a huge market and untapped by us. Have you considered South Africa?"

"What about it?"

"Let's have lunch next week. Wednesday? Good. I've an idea for you."

"Oh? What?"

"It'll wait, old chum. You heard about Gornt?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"He won't."

"Have you seen Phillip today?"

"Phillip Chen? No, why?"

"Nothing."

"Why?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Yes. Yes I would. But I didn't think he and his Number One Son were that close."

Dunross thought about Adryon and Glenna and his son Duncan who was fifteen and on holiday on a friend's sheep station in Australia. What would I do if one of them were kidnapped? What would I do if a mutilated ear came through the mails at me like that?

I'd go mad.

I'd go mad with rage. I'd forget everything else and I'd hunt down the kidnappers and then, and then my vengeance would last a thousand years. I'd...

There was a knock on the door. "Yes? Oh hello, Kathy," he said, happy as always to see his younger sister.

"Sorry to interrupt, Ian dear," Kathy Gavallan said in a rush from the door to his office, "but Claudia said you had a few minutes before your next appointment. Is it all right?"

" 'Course it's all right," he said with a laugh, and put aside the memo he was working on.

"Oh good, thanks." She closed the door and sat in the high chair that was near the window.

He stretched to ease the ache in his back and grinned at her. "Hey, I like your hat." It was pale straw with a yellow band that matched her cool-looking silk dress. "What's up?"

"I've got multiple sclerosis."

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"That's what the tests say. The doctor told me yesterday but yesterday I couldn't tell you or... Today he checked the tests with another specialist and there's no mistake." Her voice was calm and her face calm and she sat upright in the chair, looking prettier than he had ever seen her. "I had to tell someone. Sorry to say it so suddenly. I thought you could help me make a plan, not today, but when you've time, perhaps over the weekend...." She saw his expression and she laughed nervously. "It's not as bad as that. I think."

Dunross sat back in his big leather chair and fought to get his shocked mind working. "Multiple... that's dicey, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Apparently it's something that attacks your nervous system that they can't cure yet. They don't know what it is or where or how you... how you get it."

"We'll get other specialists. No, even better, you go to England with Penn. There'd be specialists there or in Europe. There's got to be some form of cure, Kathy, got to be!"

"There isn't, dear. But England is a good idea. I'm... Dr. Tooley said he'd like me to see a Harley Street specialist for treatment. I'd love to go with Penn. I'm not too advanced and there's nothing to be too concerned about, if I'm careful."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if I take care of myself, take their medication, nap in the afternoon to stop getting tired, I'll still be able to take care of Andrew and the house and the children and play a little tennis and golf occasionally, but only one round in the mornings. You see, they can arrest the disease but they can't repair the damage already done so far. He said if I don't take care of myself and rest—it's rest mostly he said—if I don't rest, it will start up again and then each time you go down a plateau. Yes. And then you can never get back up again. Do you see, dear?"

He stared at her, keeping his agony for her bottled. His heart was grinding in his chest and he had eight plans for her and he thought Oh Christ poor Kathy! "Yes. Well, thank God you can rest all you want," he said, keeping his voice calm like hers. "Do you mind if I talk to Tooley?"

"I think that would be all right. There's no need to be alarmed, Ian. He said I'd be all right if I took care of myself, and I told him I'd be ever so good so he needn't have any worries on that score." Kathy was surprised that her voice was calm and her hands and fingers rested in her lap so easily, betraying none of the horror she felt within. She could almost feel the disease bugs or microbes or viruses seeping through her system, feeding on her nerves, eating them away oh so slowly, second by second hour by hour until there would be more tingling and more numbness in her fingers and her toes, then her wrists and ankles and legs and and and and and Jesus Christ God almighty...

She took a little tissue out of her purse and gently dabbed beside her nose and forehead. "It's awfully humid today, isn't it?"

"Yes. Kathy, why is it so sudden?"

"Well it isn't dear, not really. They just couldn't diagnose it. That's what all the tests were for." It had begun as a slight dizziness and headaches about six months ago. She'd noticed it most when she was playing golf. She would be standing over her ball, steadying herself, but her eyes would go dizzy and she could not focus and the ball would split and become two and three and two again and they would never stay still. Andrew had laughed and told her to see an optician. But it wasn't glasses, and aspirins did not help, nor stronger pills. Then dear old Tooley, their family doctor forever, had sent her to Matilda Hospital on the Peak for tests and more tests and brain scans in case there was a tumour but they had shown nothing, nor had all the other tests. Only the awful spinal tap gave a clue. Other tests confirmed it. Yesterday. Oh sweet Jesus was it only yesterday they condemned me to the wheelchair, at length to become a helpless slobbering thing?

"You've told Andrew?"

"No dear," she said, pulled once more back from the brink. "I haven't told him yet. I couldn't, not yet. Poor dear Andrew does get into a tizzy so easily. I'll tell him tonight. I couldn't tell him before I told you. I had to tell you first. We always used to tell you everything first, didn't we? Lechie, Scotty and I? You always used to know first...." She was remembering when they were all young, all the lovely happy times here in Hong Kong and in Ayr at Castle Avisyard, at their lovely old rambling house on the crest of the hill amid the heather, overlooking the sea—Christmas and Easter and the long summer holidays, she and Ian—and Lechie, the oldest, and Scott, her twin brother—such happy days when Father wasn't there, all of them terrified of their father except Ian who was always their spokesman, always their protector, who always took the punishments—no supper tonight, and write five hundred times I will not argue anymore, a child's place is to be seen and not heard—who took all the beatings and never complained. Oh poor Lechie and Scotty...

"Oh Ian," she said, her tears welling suddenly, "I'm so sorry." Then she felt his arms wrap around her and she felt safe at last and the nightmare softened. But she knew it would never go away. Not now. Never.

Nor would her brothers come back, except in her dreams, nor would her darling Johnny. "It's all right, Ian," she said through her tears. "It's not for me, not me really. I was just thinking about Lechie and Scotty and home at Ayr when we were small, and my Johnny, and I was oh ever so sad for all of them...."

Lechie was the first to die. Second Lieutenant, Highland Light Infantry. He was lost in 1940 in France. Nothing was ever found of him. One moment he had been there beside the road, and then he was gone, the air filled with acrid smoke from the barrage that the Nazi panzers had laid down on the little stone bridge over the stream on the way to Dunkirk. For all the war years they had all lived in the hope that Lechie was now a POW in some good prison camp—not one of those terrible ones. And after the war, the months of searching but never a sign, never a witness, not even the littlest sign and then they, the family, and at length Father had laid Le-chie's ghost to rest.

Scott had been sixteen in '39 and he'd gone to Canada for safety, there to finish schooling, and then, already a pilot, the day he was eighteen, in spite of Father's howling protests, he had joined the Canadian Air Force, wanting blood vengeance for Lechie. And he had got his wings at once and joined a bomber squadron and had come over well in time for D Day. Gleefully he had blown many a town to pieces and many a city to pieces until February 14, 1945, now Squadron Leader, DFC and Bar, coming home from the supreme holocaust of Dresden, his Lancaster had been jumped by a Messerschmitt and though his copilot had brought the crippled plane to rest in England, Scotty was dead in the left seat.