James clavell

"Come in, Dimitri." Suslev motioned at the decoded cable and relocked the door after him.

The sailor was short and squat, with greying hair and a good face. He was, officially, political commissar and therefore senior officer on the ship. He picked up the decoded message. It read: "Priority One. Gregor Suslev. You will assume Voranski's duties and responsibilities at once. London reports optimum CIA and MI-6 interest in information contained in blue-covered files leaked to Ian Dunross of Struan's by the British Intelligence coordinator, AMG. Order Arthur to obtain copies immediately. If Dunross has destroyed the copies, cable feasibility plan to detain him for chemical debriefing in depth." The sailor's face closed. He looked across at Captain Suslev. "AMG? Alan Medford Grant?"

"Yes."

"May that one burn in hell for a thousand years."

"Let me go tonight in your place. You're more impor—"

"No. Thank you, old friend." Suslev clapped him warmly on the shoulders. "In case of an accident you assume command and carry out our mission. That's what we've been trained for." He touched glasses with him. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine," he said, glad he could do as he wished and very content with his job and his position in life. He was, secretly, deputy controller in Asia for the KGB's First Directorate, Department 6, that was responsible for all covert activities in China, North Korea and Vietnam; a senior lecturer in Vladivostok University's Department of Foreign Affairs, 2A-Counterintelligence; a colonel in the KGB; and, most important of all, a senior Party member in the Far East. "Center's given the order. You must guard our tails here. Eh?"

"Of course. You needn't worry about that, Gregor. I can do everything. But I worry about you," Metkin said. They had sailed together for several years and he respected Suslev very much though he did not know from where his overriding authority came. Sometimes he was tempted to try to find out. You're getting on, he told himself. You retire next year and you may need powerful friends and the only way to have the help of powerful friends is to know their skeletons. But Suslev or no Suslev your well-earned retirement will be honourable, quiet and at home in the Crimea. Metkin's heart beat faster at the thought of all that lovely countryside and grand climate on the Black Sea, dreaming the rest of his life away with his wife and sometimes seeing his son, an up-and-coming KGB officer presently in Washington, no longer at risk and in danger from within or without.

Oh God protect my son from betrayal or making a mistake, he prayed fervently, then at once felt a wave of nausea, as always, in case his superiors knew that he was a secret believer and that his parents, peasants, had brought him up in the Church. If they knew there would be no retirement in the Crimea, only some icy backwater and no real home ever again.

"Voranski," he said, as always cautiously hiding his hatred of the man. "He was a top operator, eh? Where did he slip?"

"He was betrayed, that was his problem," Suslev said darkly. "We will find his murderers and they will pay. If my name is on the next knife..." The big man shrugged, then poured more vodka with a sudden laugh. "So what, eh? It's in the name of the cause, the Party and Mother Russia!"

They touched glasses and drained them.

"When're you going ashore?"

Suslev bit on the raw liquor. Then, thankfully, he felt the great good warmth begin inside and his anxieties and terrors seemed less real. He motioned out of the porthole. "As soon as she's moored and safe," he said with his rolling laugh. "Ah, but she's a pretty ship, eh?"

"We've got nothing to touch that bastard, Captain, have we? Or those fighters. Nothing."

Suslev smiled as he poured again. "No, comrade. But if the enemy has no real will to resist they can have a hundred of those carriers and it doesn't matter."

"Yes, but Americans're erratic, one general can go off at half-cock, and they can smash us off the face of the earth."

"I agree, now they can, but they won't. They've no balls." Suslev drank again. "And soon? Just a little more time and we'll stick their noses up their asses!" He sighed. "It will be good when we begin."

"It'll be terrible."

"No, a short, almost bloodless war against America and then the rest'll collapse like the pus-infected corpse it is."

"Bloodless? What about their atom bombs? Hydrogen bombs?"

"They'll never use atomics or missiles against us, they're too scared, even now, of ours! Because they're sure we'll use them."

"Will we?"

"I don't know. Some commanders would. I don't know. We'll certainly use them back. But first? I don't know. The threat will always be enough. I'm sure we'll never need a fighting war." He lit a corner of the decoded message and put it in the ashtray. "Another twenty years of detente—ah what Russian genius invented that—we'll have a navy bigger and better than theirs, an air force bigger and better than theirs. We've got more tanks now and more soldiers, but without ships and aeroplanes we must wait. Twenty years is not long to wait for Mother Russia to rule the earth."

"And China? What about China?"

Suslev gulped the vodka and refilled both glasses again. The bottle was empty now and he tossed it onto his bunk. His eyes saw the burning paper in the ashtray twist and crackle, dying. "Perhaps China's the one place to use our atomics," he said matter-of-factly.

"There's nothing there we need. Nothing. That'd solve our China problem once and for all. How many men of military age did they have at last estimate?"

"116 million between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five."

"Think of that! 116 million yellow devils sharing 5,000 miles of our frontiers... and then foreigners call us paranoiac about China!" He sipped the vodka, this time making it last. "Atomics'd solve our China problem once and for all. Quick, simple and permanent."

The other man nodded. "And this Dunross? The papers of AMG?"

"We'll get them from him. After all, Dimitri, one of our people is family, another one of his partners, another's in Special Intelligence, there's Arthur and Sevrin everywhere he turns, and then we've a dozen decadents to call on in his parliament, some in his government." They both began laughing.

"And if he's destroyed the papers?"

Suslev shrugged. "They say he's got a photographic memory."

"You'd do the interrogation here?"

"It'd be dangerous to do an in-depth chemic quickly. I've never done one. Have you?"

"No."

Dimitri nodded, lost in thought. This morning's Guardian, lying half-crumpled on the captain's bunk, caught his eye. He went over and picked it up, his eyes alight. "Gregor—if we have to detain Dunross, why not blame them, then you've all the time you'll need?" The screaming headline read, SUSPECTS IN WEREWOLVES KIDNAP CASE. "If Dunross doesn't return... perhaps our man'd become tai-pan! Eh?"

Suslev began to chuckle. "Dimitri, you're a genius."

Rosemont glanced at his watch. He had waited long enough. "Rog, can I use your phone?"

"Certainly," Crosse said.

The CIA man stubbed out his cigarette and dialled the central CIA exchange in the consulate.

"This is Rosemont—give me 2022." That was the CIA communications centre.

"2022. Chapman—who's this?"

"Rosemont. Hi, Phil, anything new?"

"No, excepting Marty Povitz reports a lot of activity on the bridge of the Ivanov, high-powered binoculars. Three guys, Stan. One's a civilian, others're the captain and the first officer. One of their short-range radar sweep's working overtime. You want us to notify the Corregidor's captain?"

"Hell no, no need to make his tail wriggle more than needs be. Say, Phil, we get a confirm on our 40-41?"

"Sure Stan. It came in at... stand by one... it came in at 1603 local."

"Thanks, Phil, see you."

Rosemont lit another cigarette. Sourly Langan, a nonsmoker, watched him but said nothing as Crosse was smoking too.

"Rog, what are you pulling?" Rosemont asked harshly, to Langan's shock. "You got your Priority l-4a at 1603, same time as we did. Why the stall?"

"I find it presently convenient," Crosse replied, his voice pleasant.

Rosemont flushed, so did Langan. "Well I don't and we've instructions, official instructions, to pick up our copies right now."

"So sorry, Stanley."

Rosemont's neck was now very red but he kept his temper. "You're not going to obey the l-4a?"

"Not at the moment."

Rosemont got up and headed for the door. "Okay, Rog, but they'll throw the book at you." He ripped the bolt back, jerked the door open and left. Langan was on his feet, his face also set.

"What's the reason, Roger?" he asked.

Crosse stared back at him calmly. "Reason for what?"

Ed Langan began to get angry but stopped, suddenly appalled. "Jesus, Roger, you haven't got them yet? Is that it?"

"Come now, Ed," Crosse said easily, "you of all people should know we're efficient."

"That's no answer, Roger. Have you or haven't you?" The FBI man's level eyes stayed on Crosse, and did not faze Crosse at all. Then he walked out, closing the door after him. At once Crosse touched the hidden switch. The bolt slid home. Another hidden switch turned off his tape recorder. He picked up his phone and dialled. "Brian? Have you heard from Dunross?"

"No sir."

"Meet me downstairs at once. With Armstrong."

"Yes sir."

Crosse hung up. He took out the formal arrest document that was headed DETAINMENT ORDER UNDER THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT. Quickly he filled in "Ian Struan Dunross" and signed both copies. The top copy he kept, the other he locked in his drawer. His eyes roamed his office, checking it. Satisfied, he delicately positioned a sliver of paper in the crack of his drawer so that he alone would know if anyone had opened it or tampered with it. He walked out. Heavy security locks slid home after him.

"It'll make no difference to you, tai-pan. It will to me." Richard Kwang was sweating. The others watched him—Phillip Chen, Lando Mata and Zeppelin Tung.

"I disagree, Richard," Lando Mata said sharply. "Madonna, you don't seem to realise the seriousness of the run!"

"Yes," Zeppelin Tung said, his face shaking with suppressed rage.

Dunross sighed. If it wasn't for his presence he knew they would all be raving and screaming at each other, the obscenities flying back and forth as they do at any formal negotiation between Chinese, let alone one as serious as this. But it was a Noble House law that all board meetings were to be conducted in English, and English inhibited Chinese swearing and also unsettled Chinese which was of course the whole idea. "The matter has to be dealt with now, Richard."

"I agree." Lando Mata was a handsome, sharp-featured Portuguese in his fifties, his mother's Chinese blood clear in his dark eyes and dark hair and golden complexion. His long fine fingers drummed continuously on the conference table and he knew Richard Kwang would never dare disclose that he, Tightfist Tung and Smuggler Mo controlled the bank. Our bank's one enterprise, he thought angrily, but our bullion's something else. "We can't have our bullion, or our cash, in jeopardy!"

"Never," Zeppelin Tung said nervously. "My father wanted me to make that clear too. He wants his gold!"

"Madre de Dios, we've almost fifty tons of gold in your vaults."

"Actually it's over fifty tons," Zeppelin Tung said, the sweat beading his forehead. "My old man gave me the figures—it's 1,-792,668 ounces in 298,778 five-tael bars." The air in the large room was warm and humid, the windows open. Zeppelin Tung was a well-dressed, heavyset man of forty with small narrow eyes, the eldest son of Tightfist Tung, and his accent was upper-class British. His nickname came from a movie that Tightfist had seen the day of his birth. "Richard, isn't that right?"

Richard Kwang shifted the agenda paper in front of him which listed the quantity of gold and Nelson Trading's current balance. If he had to give up the bullion and cash tonight it would severely hurt the bank's liquidity and, when the news leaked, as of course it would, that would rock their whole edifice.

"What're you going to do, you dumbhead dog bone!" his wife had screamed at him just before he had left his office.

"Delay, delay and hope th—"

"No! Pretend to be sick! If you're sick you can't give them our money. You can't go to the meeting! Rush home and we'll pretend—"

"I can't, the tai-pan called personally. And so did that dog bone Mata! I daren't not go! Oh oh oh!"

"Then find out who's hounding us and pay him off! Where's your head? Who have you offended? You must have offended one of those dirty quai lohs. Find the man and pay him off or we'll lose the bank, lose our membership in the Turf Club, lose the horses, lose the Rolls and lose face forever! Ayeeyahl If the bank goes you'll never be Sir Richard Kwang, not that being Lady Kwang matters to me oh no! Do something! Find the..."

Richard Kwang felt the sweat running down his back but he kept his composure and tried to find a way out of the maze. "The gold's as safe as it could be and so's your cash. We've been Nelson Trading's bankers since the beginning, we've never had a sniff of trouble. We gambled heavily with you in the beginning—"

"Come now, Richard," Mata said, keeping his loathing hidden. "You don't gamble on gold. Certainly not on our gold." The gold belonged to the Great Good Luck Company of Macao which had also owned the gambling monopoly for almost thirty years. The present worth of the company was in excess of two billion U.S. Tightfist Tung owned 30 percent, personally, Lando Mata 40 percent personally—and the descendents of Smuggler Mo, who had died last year, the other 30 percent.

And between us, Mata was thinking, we own 50 percent of the Ho-Pak which you, you stupid lump of dog turd, have somehow put into jeopardy. "So sorry, Richard, but I vote Nelson Trading changes its bank—at least temporarily. Tightfist Tung is really very upset... and I have the Chin family's proxy."

"But Lando," Richard Kwang began, "there's nothing to worry about." His finger stabbed at the half-opened newspaper, the China Guardian, that lay on the table. "Haply's new article says again that we're sound—that it's all a storm in an oyster shell, all started by malicious ban—"

"That's possible. But Chinese believe rumours, and the run's a fact," Mata said sharply.

"My old man believes rumours," Zeppelin Tung said fervently. "He also believes Four Finger Wu. Four Fingers phoned him this afternoon telling him he'd taken out all his money and suggested he do the same, and within the hour we, Lando and I, we were in our Catalina and heading here and you know how I hate flying. Richard, you know jolly well if the old man wants something done now, it's done now."

Yes, Richard Kwang thought disgustedly, that filthy old miser would climb out of his grave for fifty cents cash. "I suggest we wait a day or so..."

Dunross was letting them talk for face. He had already decided what to do. Nelson Trading was a wholly owned subsidiary of Struan's so the other directors really had little say. But even though Nelson Trading had the Hong Kong Government's exclusive gold-importing licence, without the Great Good Luck Company's gold business—which meant without Tightfist Tung and Lando Mata's favour—Nelson Trading's profits would be almost zero.

Nelson Trading got a commission of one dollar an ounce on every ounce imported for the company, delivered to the jetty at Macao, a further one dollar an ounce on exports from Hong Kong. As a further consideration for suggesting the overall Hong Kong scheme to the company, Nelson Trading had been granted 10 percent of the real profit. This year the Japanese Government had arbitrarily fixed their official rate of gold at 55 dollars an ounce—a profit of 15 dollars an ounce. On the black market it would be more. In India it would be almost 98 dollars.

Dunross glanced at his watch. In a few minutes Crosse would arrive.

"We've assets over a billion, Lando," Richard Kwang repeated.

"Good," Dunross said crisply jumping in, finalising the meeting. "Then, Richard, it really makes no difference one way or another. There's no point in waiting. I've made certain arrangements, Our transfer truck will be at your side door at eight o'clock precisely."

"But—"

"It'll be dark then, Lando. I wouldn't want to shift 50 tons of gold in daylight. There might be a few villains around. You never know. Eh?"

"My God, you think... triads?" Zeppelin Tung was shocked. "I'll phone my father. He'll have some extra guards."

"Yes," Mata said, "call at once."

"No need for that," Dunross told him. "The police suggested that we don't make too much of a show. They said they'll be there in depth."

Mata hesitated. "Well if you say so, tai-pan. You're responsible."

"Of course," Dunross said politely.

"How do we know the Victoria's safe?"

"If the Victoria fails we might as well not be in China." Dunross picked up the phone and dialled Johnjohn's private number at the bank. "Bruce? Ian. We'll need the vault—8:30 on the dot."

"Very well. Our security people will be there to assist. Use the side door—the one on Dirk's Street."

"Yes."

"Have the police been informed?"

"Good. By the way, Ian, about... is Richard still with you?"

"Yes."

"Give me a call when you can—I'm at home this evening. I've been checking and things don't look very good at all for him. My Chinese banking friends are all very nervous—even the Mok-tung had a mini-run out at Aberdeen, so did we. Of course we'll advance Richard all the money he needs against his securities, bankable securities, but if I were you I'd get any cash you control out. Get Blacs to deal with your check first at clearing tonight." All bank clearing of checks and bank loans was done in the basement of the Bank of London, Canton and Shanghai at midnight, five days a week.

"And I'll have one for my father's balance!" Zeppelin echoed.

Richard Kwang said, "I'll send the checks over first thing in the morning."

"Tonight," Mata said, "then they can clear tonight." His eyes lidded even more. "And, of course, another for my personal balance."

"There isn't enough cash to cover those three checks—no bank could have that amount," Richard Kwang exploded. "Not even the Bank of England."

"Of course. Please call whomever you wish to pledge some of your securities. Or Havergill, or Southerby." Mata's fingers stopped drumming. "They're expecting your call."

"What?"

"Yes. I talked to both of them this afternoon."

"Even better," Dunross said. "Phillip will go with you now. You can give him all the checks. Is that all right with you, Phillip?"

"Oh, oh yes, yes, tai-pan."

"Good, thank you. Then if you'll take them right over to Blacs, they'll clear at midnight. Richard, that gives you plenty of time. Doesn't it?"

"Oh yes, tai-pan," Richard Kwang said, brightening. He had just thought of a brilliant answer. A pretended heart attack! I'll do it in the car going back to the bank and then...

Then he saw the coldness in Dunross's eyes and his stomach twisted and he changed his mind. Why should they have so much of my money? he thought as he got up. "You don't need me for anything more at the moment? Good, come along, Phillip." They walked out. There was a vast silence.

"Poor Phillip, he looks ghastly," Mata said.

"Yes. It's no wonder."

"Dirty triads," Zeppelin Tung said with a shudder. "The Werewolves must be foreigners to send his ear like that!" Another shudder. "I hope they don't come to Macao. There's a strong rumour Phillip's dealing with them already, negotiating with the Werewolves in Macao."

"There's no truth to that," Dunross said.

"He wouldn't tell you if he was, tai-pan. I'd keep that secret from everyone too." Zeppelin Tung stared gloomily at the phone. "Dew neh loh moh on all filthy kidnappers."

"Is the Ho-Pak finished?" Mata asked.

"Unless Richard Kwang can stay liquid, yes. This afternoon Dunstan closed all his accounts."

"Ah, so once again a rumor's correct!"

"Afraid so!" Dunross was sorry for Richard Kwang and the Ho-Pak but tomorrow he would sell short. "His stock's going to plummet."

"How will that affect the boom you've forecast?"

"Have I?"

"You're buying Struan's heavily, so I hear." Mata smiled thinly. "So has Phillip, and his tai-tai, and her family."

Zeppelin Tung was listening very carefully. His heart quickened. He too had heard rumours about the Noble House Chens buying today. "Did you see Old Blind Tung's column today? About the coming boom? He was very serious."

"Yes," Dunross said gravely. When he had read it this morning he had chortled, and his opinion of Dianne Chen's influence had soared. In spite of himself Dunross had reread it and had wondered briefly if the soothsayer had really been forecasting his own opinion.

"Is Old Blind Tung a relation, Zep?" he asked.

"No, tai-pan, no, not that I know of. Dew neh loh moh but it's hot today. I'll be glad to get back to Macao—the weather's much better in Macao. Are you in the motor race this year, tai-pan?"

"Yes, I hope so."

"Good! Damn the Ho-Pak! Richard will give us our checks, won't he? My old man will bust a blood vessel if one penny cash is missing."

"Yes," Dunross said, then noticed a strangeness in Mata's eyes. What's up?"

"Nothing." Mata glanced at Zeppelin. "Zep, it's really important we have your father's approval quickly. Why don't you and Claudia track him down."

"Good idea." Obediently the Chinese got to his feet and walked out, closing the door. Dunross turned his attention to Mata. "And?"

Mata hesitated. Then he said quietly, "Ian, I'm considering taking all my funds out of Macao and Hong Kong and putting them in New York."

Dunross stared at him, perturbed. "If you did that you'd rattle our whole system. If you withdraw, Tightfist will too, and the Chins, Four Fingers... and all the others."

"Which is more important, tai-pan, the system or your own money?"

"I wouldn't want the system shaken like that."

"You've closed with Par-Con?"

Dunross watched him. "Verbally yes. Contracts in seven days. Withdrawing will hurt us all, Lando. Badly. What's bad for us will be very bad for you and very very bad for Macao."