James clavell

"Nosy bugger!" Gornt said.

"Eh? Who? Oh Marlowe?" Sir Dunstan Barre chuckled. "He's not nosy, just wants to know everything about Hong Kong. It's your murky past that fascinates him, old boy, yours and the tai-pan's."

"You've no skeletons, Dunstan?" Gornt asked softly. "You're saying you and your family're lily white?"

"God forbid!" Barre was hastily affable, wanting to turn Gornt's sudden venom into honey. "Good God no! Scratch an Englishman find a pirate. We're all suspect! That's life, what?"

Gornt said nothing. He despised Barre but needed him. "I'm having a bash on my yacht on Sunday, Dunstan. Would you care to come—you'll find it interesting."

"Oh? Who's the honoured guest?"

"I thought of making it stag only—no wives, eh?"

"Ah! Count me in," Barre said at once, brightening. "I could bring a lady friend?"

"Bring two if you like, old chap, the more the merrier. It'll be a small, select, safe group. Plumm, he's a good sort and his girl friend's lots of fun." Gornt saw Marlowe change direction as he was called over to a group of stewards dominated by Donald McBride. Then, at a sudden thought, he added, "I think I'll invite Marlowe too."

"Why if you think he's nosy?"

"He might be interested in the real stories about the Struans, our founding pirates and the present-day ones." Gornt smiled with the front of his face and Barre wondered what devilment Gornt was planning.

The red-faced man mopped his brow. "Christ, I wish it would rain. Did you know Marlowe was in the Hurricanes—he got three of the bloody Boche in the Battle of Britain before he got sent out to Singapore and that bloody mess. I'll never forgive those bloody Japs for what they did to our lads there, here, or in China."

"Nor will I," Gornt agreed darkly. "Did you know my old man was in Nanking in '37, during the rape of Nanking?"

"No, Christ, how did he get out?"

"Some of our people hid him for a few days—we'd had associates there for generations. Then he pretended to the Japs that he was a friendly correspondent for the London Times and talked his way back to Shanghai. He still has nightmares about it."

"Talking about nightmares, old chap, were you trying to give Ian one last night by going to his party?"

"You think he got even by taking care of my car?"

"Eh?" Barre was appalled. "Good God! You mean your car was tampered with?"

"The master cylinder was ruptured by a blow of some kind. The mechanic said it could've been done by a rock thrown up against it."

Barre stared at him and shook his head. "lan's not a fool. He's wild, yes, but he's no fool. That'd be attempted murder."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"If I were you I'd not say that sort of thing publicly, old chap."

"You're not public, old chap. Are you?"

"No. Of cour—"

"Good." Gornt turned his dark eyes on him. "This is going to be a time when friends should stick together."

"Oh?" Barre was instantly on guard.

"Yes. The market's very nervous. This Ho-Pak mess could foul up a lot of all our plans."

"My Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms's as solid as the Peak."

"You are, providing your Swiss bankers continue to grant you your new line of credit."

Barre's florid face whitened. "Eh?"

"Without their loan you can't take over Hong Kong Docks and Wharves, Royal Insurance of Hong Kong and Malaya, expand into Singapore or complete a lot of other tricky little deals you've on your agenda—you and your newfound friend, Mason Loft, the whiz kid of Threadneedle Street. Right?"

Barre watched him, cold sweat running down his back, shocked that Gornt was privy to his secrets. "Where'd you hear about those?"

Gornt laughed. "I've friends in high places, old chap. Don't worry, your Achilles' heel's safe with me."

"We're... we're in no danger."

"Of course not." Gornt turned his binoculars back on his horse. "Oh by the way, Dunstan, I might need your vote at the next meeting of the bank."

"On what?"

"I don't know yet." Gornt looked down at him. "I just need to know that I can count on you."

"Yes, Yes of course." Barre was wondering nervously what Gornt had in mind and where the leak was. "Always happy to oblige, old chap."

"Thank you. You're selling Ho-Pak short?"

"Of course. I got all my money out yesterday, thank God. Why?"

"I heard Dunross's Par-Con deal won't go through. I'm considering selling him short too."

"Oh? The deal's not on? Why?"

Gornt smiled sardonically. "Because, Dunstan—"

"Hello, Quillan, Dunstan, sorry to interrupt," Donald McBride said, bustling up to them, two men in tow. "May I introduce Mr. Charles Biltzmann, vice-president of American Superfoods. He'll be heading up the new General Stores-Superfoods merger and based in the Colony from now on. Mr. Gornt and Sir Dunstan Barre."

The tall, sandy-haired American wore a grey suit and tie and rimless glasses. He stuck out his hand affably. "Glad to meet you. This's a nice little track you've got here."

Gornt shook hands without enthusiasm. Next to Biltzmann was Richard Hamilton Pugmire, the present tai-pan of H. K. General Stores, a steward of the Turf Club, a short arrogant man in his late forties who carried his smallness as a constant challenge. "Hello, you two! Well, who's the winner of the fifth?"

Gornt towered over him. "I'll tell you after the race."

"Oh come on, Quillan, you know it'll be fixed before the horses even parade."

"If you can prove that I'm sure we'd all like to know. I certainly would, wouldn't you, Donald?"

"I'm sure Richard was just joking," Donald McBride replied. He was in his sixties, his Eurasian features pleasing, and the warmth of his smile pervaded him. He added to Biltzmann, "There're always these rumours about race fixing but we do what we can and when we catch anyone—off with his head! At least off the course he goes."

"Hell, races get fixed in the States too but I guess here where it's all amateur and wide open, it's got to be easier," Biltzmann said breezily. "That stallion you have, Quillan. He's Australian, partial pedigree, isn't he?"

"Yes," Gornt said abruptly, detesting his familiarity.

"Don here was explaining some of the rules of your racing. I'd sure like to be part of your racing fraternity—hope I can get to be a voting member too."

The Turf Club was very exclusive and very tightly controlled. There were two hundred voting members and four thousand non-voting members. Only voting members could get into the members' box. Only voting members could own horses. Only voting members could propose two persons a year to be nonvoting members—the stewards' decision, approval or nonapproval being final, their voting secret. And only voting members could become a steward.

"Yes," Biltzmann repeated, "that'd be just great."

"I'm sure that could be arranged," McBride said with a smile. "The club's always looking for new blood—and new horses."

"Do you plan to stay in Hong Kong, Mr. Biltzmann?" Gornt asked.

"Call me Chuck. I'm here for the duration," the American replied. "I suppose I'm Superfoods of Asia's new tai-pan. Sounds great, doesn't it?"

"Marvellous!" Barre said, witheringly.

Biltzmann continued happily, not yet tuned to English sarcasm, "I'm the fall guy for our board in New York. As the man from Missouri said, the buck stops here." He smiled but no one smiled with him. "I'll be here at least a couple of years and I'm looking forward to every minute. We're getting ready to settle in right now. My bride arrives tomorrow an—"

"You're just married, Mr. Biltzmann?"

"Oh no, that's just a, an American expression. We've been married twenty years. Soon as our new place's fixed the way she wants it, we'd be happy for you to come to dinner. Maybe a barbecue? We got the steaks organised, all prime, T-bones and New Yorks, being flown over once a month. And Idaho potatoes," he added proudly.

"I'm glad about the potatoes," Gornt said and the others settled back, waiting, knowing that he despised American cooking—particularly charcoaled steaks and hamburgers and "gooped-up baked potatoes," as he called them. "When does the merger finalise?"

"End of the month. Our bid's accepted. Everything's agreed. I certainly hope our American know-how'll fit into this great little island."

"I presume you'll build a mansion?"

"No sir. Dickie here," Biltzmann continued, and everyone winced, "Dickie's got us the penthouse of the company's apartment building on Blore Street, so we're in fat city."

"That's convenient," Gornt said. The others bit back their laughter. The oldest and most famous of the Colony's Houses of Easy Virtue had always been on Blore Street at Number One. Number One, Blore Street, had been started by one of Mrs. Fotheringill's "young ladies," Nellie Blore, in the 1860's, with money reportedly given her by Culum Struan, and was still operating under its original rules—European or Australian ladies only and no foreign gentlemen or natives allowed.

"Very convenient," Gornt said again. "But I wonder if you'd qualify."

"Sir?"

"Nothing. I'm sure Blore Street is most apt."

"She's a plumber too?" Gornt asked.

The American laughed. "Hell no, but she's mighty handy around the house."

"If you'll excuse me I have to see my trainer." Gornt nodded to the others and turned away with, "Donald, have you a moment? It's about Saturday."

"Of course, see you in a moment, Mr. Biltzmann."

"Sure. But call me Chuck. Have a nice day."

McBride fell into step beside Gornt. When they were alone Gornt said, "You're surely not seriously suggesting he should be a voting member?"

"Well, yes." McBride looked uncomfortable. "It's the first time a big American company's made a bid to come into Hong Kong. He'd be quite important to us."

"That's no reason to let him in here, is it? Make him a nonvoting member. Then he can get into the stands. And if you want to invite him to your box, that's your affair. But a voting member? Good God, he'll probably have 'Superfoods' as his racing colours!"

"He's just new and out of his depth, Quillan. I'm sure he'll learn. He's decent enough even though he does make a few gaffes. He's quite well off an—"

"Since when has money been an open sesame to the Turf Club? Good God, Donald, if that was the case, every upstart Chinese property gambler or stock market gambler who'd made a killing on our market'd swamp us. We wouldn't have room to fart."

"I don't agree. Perhaps the answer's to increase the voting membership."

"No. Absolutely not. Of course you stewards will do what you like. But I suggest you reconsider." Gornt was a voting member but not a steward. The two hundred voting members elected the twelve stewards annually by secret ballot. Each year Gornt's name was put on the open list of nominees for steward and each year he failed to get enough votes. Most stewards were reelected by the membership automatically until they retired, though from time to time there was lobbying.

"Very well," McBride said, "when his name's proposed I'll mention your opposition."

Gornt smiled thinly. "That'll be tantamount to getting him elected."

McBride chuckled. "I don't think so, Quillan, not this time. Pug asked me to introduce him around. I must admit he gets off on the wrong foot every time. I introduced him to Paul Havergill and Biltzmann immediately started comparing banking procedures here with those in the States, and not very pleasantly either. And with the tai-pan..." McBride's greying eyebrows soared. "... he said he was sure glad to meet him as he wanted to learn about Hag Struan and Dirk Struan and all the other pirates and opium smugglers in his past!" He sighed. "Ian and Paul'll certainly blackball him for you, so I don't think you've much to worry about. I really don't understand why Pug sold out to them anyway."

"Because he's not his father. Since old Sir Thomas died General Stores've been slipping. Still, Pug makes 6 million U.S. personally and has a five-year unbreakable contract—so he has all the pleasure and none of the headaches and the family's taken care of. He wants to retire to England, Ascot and all that."

"Ah! That's a very good deal for old Pug!" McBride became more serious. "Quillan, the fifth race—the interest's enormous. I'm worried there'll be interference. We're going to increase surveillance on all the horses. There're rumours th—"

"About doping?"

"Yes."

"The stewards agreed last night that we'd institute a new rule: in future we'll have an obligatory chemical analysis before and after each race, as they do at the major tracks in England or America."

"In time for Saturday? How're you going to arrange that?"

"Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, has agreed to be responsible—until we have an expert arranged."

"Good idea," Gornt said.

McBride sighed. "Yes, but the Mighty Dragon's no match for the Local Serpent." He turned and left.

Oornt hesitated, then went to his trainer who stood beside Pilot Fish talking with the jockey, another Australian, Bluey White. Bluey White was ostensibly a manager of one of Gornt's shipping divisions—the title given to him to preserve his amateur status.

"G'day, Mr. Gornt," they said. The jockey touched his forelock.

"Morning." Gornt looked at them a moment and then he said quietly, "Bluey, if you win, you've a 5,000 bonus. If you finish behind Noble Star, you're fired."

The tough little man whitened. "Yes, guv!"

"You'd better get changed now," Gornt said, dismissing him.

"I'll win," Bluey White said as he left.

The trainer said uneasily, "Pilot Fish's in very good fettle, Mr. Gornt. He'll be try—"

"If Noble Star wins you're fired. If Noble Star finishes ahead of Pilot Fish you're fired."

"My oath, Mr. Gornt." The man wiped the sudden sweat off his mouth. "I don't fix who ge—"

"I'm not suggesting you do anything. I'm just telling you what's going to happen to you." Gornt nodded pleasantly and strode off. He went to the club restaurant, which overlooked the course, and ordered his favourite breakfast, eggs Benedict with his own special hollandaise that they kept for his exclusive use, and Javanese coffee that he also supplied.

On his third cup of coffee the waiter came over. "Excuse me, sir, you're wanted on the telephone."

He went to the phone. "Gornt."

"Hello, Mr. Gornt, this's Paul Choy... Mr. Wu's nephew.... I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Gornt covered his surprise. "You're calling rather early, Mr. Choy."

"Yes sir, but I wanted to be in early the first day," the young man said in a rush, "so I was the only one here a couple of minutes ago when the phone rang. It was Mr. Bartlett, Linc Bartlett, you know, the guy with the smuggled guns, the millionaire."

Gornt was startled. "Bartlett?"

"Yes sir. He said he wanted to get hold of you, implied it was kinda urgent, said he'd tried your home. I put two and two together and came up with you might be at the workout and I'd better get off my butt. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"No. What did he say?" Gornt asked.

"Just that he wanted to talk to you, and were you in town? I said I didn't know, but I'd check around and leave a message and give him a call back."

"Where was he calling from?"

"The Vic and Albert. Kowloon side 662233, extension 773—that's his office extension, not his suite."

Gornt was very impressed. "A closed mouth catches no flies, Mr.

Choy."

"Jesus, Mr. Gornt, that's one thing you never need worry about," Paul Choy said fervently. "My old Uncle Wu wopped that into us all like there was no tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

Gornt hung up, thought a moment, then dialled the hotel. "773 please."

"Linc Bartlett."

"Good morning Mr. Bartlett, this's Mr. Gornt. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, thanks for returning my call. I've had disturbing news which sort of ties in with what we were discussing."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Does Toda Shipping mean anything to you?"

"It seems Toda have some notes due from Struan's, $6 million in three instalments—on the first, eleventh, and fifteenth of next month—and another $6 million in 90 days. Then there's another 6.8 million due on the eighth to Orlin International Bank—you know them?"

With a great effort Gornt kept his voice matter-of-fact. "I've, I've heard of them," he said, astounded that the American would have such details of the debts. "So?" he asked.

"So I heard Struan's have only 1.3 million in cash, with no cash reserves and not enough cash flow to make payment. They're not expecting a significant block of income until they get 17 million as their share of one of Kowloon Investments' property deals, not due until November, and they're 20 percent overextended at the Victoria Bank."

"That's... that's very intimate knowledge," Gornt gasped, his heart thumping in his chest, his collar feeling tight. He knew about the 20 percent overdraft—Plumm had told him—all the directors of the bank would know. But not the details of their cash, or their cash flow.

"Why're you telling me this, Mr. Bartlett?"

"How liquid are you?"

"I've already told you, I'm twenty times stronger than Struan's," he said automatically, the lie coming easily, his mind churning the marvellous opportunities all this information unlocked. "Why?"

"If I go through with the Struan deal he'll be using my cash down payment to get off the Toda and Orlin hooks—if his bank doesn't extend his credit."

"Yes."

"They always have. Why?"

"If they don't, then he's in big trouble."

"Struan's are substantial stockholders. The bank is obliged to support them."

"But he's overdrawn there and Havergill hates him. Between Chen's stock, Struan's and their nominees, they've 21 percent.,» Gornt almost dropped the phone. "Where the hell did you get that information? No outsider could possibly know that!"

"That's right," he heard the American say calmly, "but that's a fact. Could you muster the other 79 percent?"

"What?"

"If I had a partner who could put the bank against him just this once and he couldn't get credit elsewhere... bluntly: it's a matter of timing. Dunross's mortally overextended and that means he's vulnerable. If his bank won't give him credit, he's got to sell something—or get a new line of credit. In either case he's wide open for an attack and ripe for a takeover at a fire-sale price."

"Later, not now."

"When?"

"When we're down to the short strokes."

"Very. We've his balance sheets for the last seven years."

In spite of his resolve Gornt gasped. "That's impossible!"

"Want to bet?"

Gornt was really shaken now and he tried to get his mind working. Be cautious, he admonished himself. For chrissake control yourself. "If... if you've all that, if you know that and get one last thing... their interlocking corporate structure, if you knew that we could do anything we want with Struan's."

"We've got that too. You want in?"

Gornt heard himself say calmly, not feeling calm at all, "Of course. When could we meet? Lunch?"

"How about now? But not here, and not at your office. This has to be kept very quiet."

Gornt's heart hurt in his chest. There was a rotten taste in his mouth and he wondered very much how far he could trust Bartlett. "I'll... I'll send a car for you. We could chat in the car."

"Good idea, but why don't I meet you Hong Kong side. The Golden Ferry Terminal in an hour."

"Excellent. My car's a Jag—license's 8888. I'll be by the taxi rank." He hung up and stared at the phone a moment, then went back to his table.

"Not bad news I hope, Mr. Gornt?"

"Er, no, no not at all. Thank you."

"Some more of your special coffee? It's freshly made."

"No, no thank you. I'd like a half bottle of the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. The "55." He sat back feeling very strange. His enemy was almost in his grasp—if the American's facts were true and if the American was to be trusted and not in some devious plot with Dunross.

The wine came but he hardly tasted it. His whole being was concentrated, sifting, preparing.

Gornt saw the tall American come through the crowds and, for a moment, he envied him his lean, trim figure and the easy, careless dress—jeans, open-neck shirt, sports coat—and his obvious confidence. He saw the elaborate camera, smiled sardonically, then looked for Casey. When it was obvious Bartlett was alone he was disappointed. But this disappointment did not touch the glorious anticipation that had possessed him ever since he had put the phone down.

Gornt leaned over and opened the side door. "Welcome Hong Kong side, Mr. Bartlett," he said with forced joviality, starting the engine. He drove off along Gloucester Road toward Glessing's Point and the Yacht Club. "Your inside information's astonishing."

"Without spies you can't operate, can you?"

"You can, but then that's amateur. How's Miss Casey? I thought she'd be with you."

"She's not in this. Not yet."

"Oh?"

"She knows nothing of this? Not even your call to me?"

"No. Nothing at all."

After a pause he said, "I thought she was your executive VP... your right arm you called her."

"She is, but I'm boss of Par-Con, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt saw the level eyes and, for the first time, felt that that was true and that his original estimation was wrong. "I've never doubted it," he said, waiting, his senses honed, waiting him out.

Then Bartlett said, "Is there somewhere we can park—I've got something I want to show you."

"Certainly." Gornt was driving along the sea front on Gloucester Road in the usual heavy traffic. In a moment he found a parking place near Causeway Bay typhoon shelter with its massed, floating islands of boats of all sizes.

"Here." Bartlett handed him a typed folder. It was a detailed copy of Struan's balance sheet for the year before the company went public. Gornt's eyes raced over the figures. "Christ," he muttered. "So Lasting Cloud's cost them 12 million?"

"It almost broke them. Seems they had all sorts of wild-assed cargo aboard. Jet engines for China, uninsured."

"Of course they'd be uninsured—how the hell can you insure contraband?" Gornt was trying to take in all the complicated figures. His mind was dazed. "If I'd known half of this I'd've got them the last time. Can I keep it?"

"When we've made a deal I'll give you a copy." Bartlett took the folder back and gave him a paper. "Try this one on for size." It showed, graphically, Struan's stockholdings in Kowloon Investments and detailed how, through nominee companies, the tai-pan of Struan's exercised complete control over the huge insurance-property-wharfing company that was supposedly a completely separate company and quoted as such on the stock exchange.

"Marvellous," Gornt said with a sigh, awed by the beauty of it. "Struan's have only a tiny proportion of the stock publicly held but retain 100 percent control, and perpetual secrecy."