James clavell

"Look down there, along the rails. The tall man."

Casually Suslev put his binoculars to his eyes. He took his time about centering the man indicated, then looked away.

"That's Stanley Rosemont, CIA. You know they're tailing you?"

"Oh yes. I can lose them if I wish to."

"The man next to him's Ed Langan, FBI. The bearded fellow's Mishauer, American Naval Intelligence."

"Mishauer? That sounds familiar. Do you have files on them?"

"Not yet but there's a deviate in the consulate who's having a jolly affair with the son of one of our prominent Chinese solicitors. By the time you're back on your next trip he'll be happy to oblige your slightest wish."

Suslev smiled grimly. "Good." Again, casually, he glanced at Rosemont and the others, cementing their faces into his memory. "What's his job?"

"Deputy chief of station. CIA for fifteen years. OSS and all that. They've a dozen more cover businesses here and safe houses everywhere. I've sent a list in microdots to 32."

"Good. Centre wants increased surveillance of all CIA movements."

"No problem. They're careless but their funding's big and growing."

"Vietnam?"

"Of course Vietnam."

Suslev chuckled. "Those poor fools don't know what they've been sucked into. They still think they can fight a jungle war with Korean or World War Two tactics."

"They're not all fools," Crosse said. "Rosemont's good, very good. By the way, they know about the Iman Air Base."

Suslev cursed softly and leaned on one hand, casually keeping it near his mouth to prevent any lip-reading.

Suslev cursed again. "How do they do it?"

"Traitors." Crosse smiled thinly.

"Why are you a double agent, Roger?"

"Why do you ask me that every time we meet?"

Suslev sighed. He had specific orders not to probe Crosse and to help him every way he could. And although he was KGB controller of all Far Eastern espionage activities, it was only last year that even he had been allowed into the secret of Crosse's identity. Crosse, in KGB files, had the highest secret classification, an importance on the level of a Philby. But even Philby didn't know that Crosse had been working for the KGB for the last seven years.

"I ask because I'm curious," he said.

"Aren't your orders not to be curious, comrade?"

Suslev laughed. "Neither of us obeys orders all the time, no? Centre enjoyed your last report so much I've been told to tell you your Swiss account will be credited with an extra bonus of $50,000 on the fifteenth of next month."

"Good. Thank you. But it's not a bonus, it's payment for value received."

"What does SI know about the visiting delegation of Parliament?"

Crosse told him what he had told the governor. "Why the question?"

"Routine check. Three are potentially very influential—Guthrie, Broadhurst and Grey." Suslev offered a cigarette. "We're manoeuvring Grey and Broadhurst into our World Peace Council. Their anti-Chinese sentiments help us. Roger, would you please put a tail on Guthrie. Perhaps he has some bad habits. If he was compromised, perhaps photographed with a Wanchai girl, it might be useful later, eh?"

Crosse nodded. "I'll see what can be done."

"Can you find the scum who murdered poor Voranski?"

"Eventually." Crosse watched him. "He must have been marked for some time. And that's ominous for all of us."

"Were they Kuomintang? Or Mao's bandits?"

"I don't know." Crosse smiled sardonically. "Russia isn't very popular with any Chinese."

"Their leaders are traitors to communism. We should smash them before they get too strong."

"Is that policy?"

"Since Genghis Khan." Suslev laughed. "But now... now we have to be a little patient. You needn't be." He jerked a thumb backward at Brian Kwok. "Why not discredit that matyeryebyels! I don't like him at all."

"Young Brian's very good. I need good people. Inform Centre that Sinders, of MI-6, arrives tomorrow from London to take delivery of the AMG papers. Both MI-6 and the CIA suspect AMG was murdered. Was he?"

"I don't know. He should have been, years ago. How will you get a copy?"

"I don't know. I'm fairly certain Sinders'll let me read them before he goes back."

"And if he doesn't?"

Crosse shrugged. "We'll get to look at them one way or another."

"Dunross?"

"Only as a last resort. He's too valuable where he is and I'd rather have him where I can see him. What about Travkin?"

"Your information was invaluable. Everything checked." Suslev told him the substance of their meeting, adding, "Now he'll be our dog forever. He'll do anything we want. Anything. I think he'd kill Dunross if necessary."

"Good. How much of what you told him was true?"

Suslev smiled. "Not much."

"Is his wife alive?"

"Oh yes, tovarich, she's alive."

"But not in her own dacha?"

"Now she is."

"And before?"

Suslev shrugged. "I told him what I was told to tell him."

Crosse lit a cigarette. "What do you know about Iran?"

Again Suslev looked at him sharply. "Quite a lot. It's one of our eight remaining great targets and there's a big operation going on right now."

"The Ninety-second U. S. Airborne's on the Soviet-Iranian border right now!"

Suslev gaped at him. "What?"

Crosse related all that Rosemont had told him about Dry Run and when he came to the part about the U. S. forces having nuclear arms Suslev whitened palpably. "Mother of God! Those god-cursed Americans'll make a mistake one day and then we'll never be able to extricate ourselves! They're fools to deploy such weapons."

"Can you combat them?"

"Of course not, not yet," Suslev said irritably. "The core of our strategy's never to have a direct clash until America's totally isolated and there's no doubt about final victory. A direct clash would be suicide now. I'll get on to Centre at once."

"Impress on them the Americans consider it just a dry run. Get Centre to take your forces away and cool everything. Do it at once or there will be trouble. Don't give the U. S. forces any provocation. In a few days the Americans will go away. Don't leak the invasion to your inward spies in Washington. Let it come first from your people in the CIA."

"The Ninety-second's really there? That seems impossible."

"You'd better get your armies more airborne, more mobile with more firepower."

Suslev grunted. "The energies and resources of three hundred million Russians are channelled to solve that problem, tovarich. If we have twenty years... just twenty more years."

"Then?"

"In the eighties we rule the world."

"Not you. You'll rule whatever province or country you want. England?"

"Sorry, the weather there's dreadful. Except for one or two days a year, most years, when it's the most beautiful place on earth."

"Ah, you should see my home in Georgia and the country around Tiflis." Suslev's eyes were sparkling. "That's Eden."

Crosse was watching everywhere as they talked. He knew they could not be overheard. Brian Kwok was sitting in the stand waiting, half-asleep. Rosemont and the others were studying him covertly. Down by the winner's circle Jacques deVille was strolling casually with Jason Plumm.

"Have you talked to Jason yet?"

"Of course, while we were in the stands."

"Good."

"That he doubted, too, if Jacques'd ever be chosen as tai-pan. After my meeting last night I agree—he's obviously too weak, or his resolve's softened." Suslev added, "It often happens with deep-cover assets who have nothing active to do but wait. That's the hardest of all jobs."

"Yes."

"He's a good man but I'm afraid he won't achieve his assignment."

"I haven't decided."

"Convert him from an inward spy to a doomed spy?"

"Only if you or the others of Sevrin are threatened." For the benefit of any watchers Suslev tipped the flask to his lips and offered it to Crosse who shook his head. Both knew the flask contained only water. Suslev dropped his voice. "I have an idea. We're increasing our effort in Canada. Clearly the French Separatist Movement is a tremendous opportunity for us. If Quebec was to split from Canada it would send the whole North American continent reeling into a completely new power structure. I was thinking that it would be perfect if deVille took over Struan's in Canada. Eh?"

Crosse smiled. "Very good. Very very good. I like Jacques too. It would be a pity to waste him. Yes, that would be very clever."

"It's even better than that, Roger. He has some very important French-Canadian friends from his Paris days just after the war, all openly separatist, all left-wing inclined. A few of them are becoming a prominent national political force in Canada."

"You'd get him to drop his deep cover?"

"No. Jacques could give the separatist issue a push without jeopardising himself. As head of an important branch of Struan's... and if one of his special friends became foreign minister or prime minister, eh?"

"Is that possible?"

"It's possible."

Crosse whistled. "If Canada swung away from the U. S. that would be a coup of coups."

"Yes."

Suslev was staring at him in shock, "Who told you my name?"

"Your superiors." Crosse watched him, his eyes suddenly pitiless. "You know me, I know you. That's fair, isn't it?"

"Of... of course. I..." The man's laugh was forced. "I haven't used that name for so long I'd... I'd almost forgotten it." He looked back at the eyes, fighting for control. "What's the matter? Why are you so edgy, eh?"

"AMG. I think we should close this meeting for now. Our cover's that I tried to subvert you but you refused. Let's meet tomorrow at seven." Seven was the code number for the apartment next to Ginny Fu's in Mong Kok. "Late. Eleven o'clock."

"Ten is better."

Crosse motioned carefully toward Rosemont and the others. "Before you go I need something for them."

"All right. Tomorrow I'll ha—"

"It must be now." Crosse hardened. "Something special—in case I can't get a look at Sinders's copy, I'll have to barter with them!"

"You divulge to no one the source. No one."

"All right."

"Never?"

Suslev thought a moment, weighing possibilities. "Tonight one of our agents takes delivery of some top-secret material from the carrier. Eh?" The Englishman's face lit up. "Perfect! Is that why you came?"

"One reason."

"When and where's the drop?"

Suslev told him, then added, "But I still want copies of everything."

"Of course. Good, that'll do just fine. Rosemont will be really in my debt. How long's your asset been aboard?"

"Two years, at least that's when he was first subverted."

"Does he give you good stuff?"

"Anything off that whore's valuable."

"What's his fee?"

"For this? $2,000. He's not expensive, none of our assets are, except you."

Crosse smiled equally mirthlessly. "Ah, but I'm the best you have in Asia and I've proved my quality fifty times. Up to now I've been doing it practically for love, old chap."

"Your costs, old chap, are the highest we have! We buy the entire NATO battle plan, codes, everything, yearly for less than $8,000."

"Those amateur bastards are ruining our business. It is a business, isn't it?"

"Not to us."

"Balls! You KGB folk are more than well rewarded. Dachas, places in Tiflis, special stores to shop in. Mistresses. But I have to tell you, squeezing money out of your company gets worse yearly. I'll expect a rather large increase for Dry Run and for the AMG matter when it's concluded."

"Talk to them direct. I've no jurisdiction over money."

"Liar."

Prosit!" He raised his flask and drained it.

Crosse said abruptly, "Please leave angrily. I can feel binoculars!"

At once Suslev began cursing him in Russian, softly but vehemently, then shook a fist in the policeman's face and walked off.

Crosse stared after him.

On the Sha Tin Road Robert Armstrong was looking down at the corpse of John Chen as raincoated police rewrapped it in its blanket, then carried it through the gawking crowds to the waiting ambulance. Fingerprint experts and others were all around, searching for clues. The rain was falling more heavily now and there was a great deal of mud everywhere.

"Everything's messed up, sir," Sergeant Lee said sourly, "There're footprints but they could be anyone's."

Armstrong nodded and used a handkerchief to dry his face. Many onlookers were behind the crude barriers that had been erected around the area. Passing traffic on the narrow road was slowed and almost jammed, everyone honking irritably. "Keep the men sweeping within a hundred-yard area. Get someone out to the nearest village, someone might have seen something." He left Lee and went over to the police car. He got in, closing the door, and picked up the communicator. "This is Armstrong. Give me Chief Inspector Donald Smyth at East Aberdeen, please." He began to wait, feeling dreadful.

The driver was young and smart and still dry. "The rain's wonderful, isn't it, sir?"

Armstrong looked across sourly. The young man blanched. "Do you smoke?"

"Yes sir." The young man took out his pack and offered it, Armstrong took the pack. "Why don't you join the others? They need a nice smart fellow like yourself to help. Find some clues. Eh?"

"Yes sir." The young man fled into the rain.

Carefully Armstrong took out a cigarette. He contemplated it Grimly he put it back and the pack into a side pocket. Hunching down into his seat, he muttered, "Sod all cigarettes, sod the rain, sod that smart arse and most of all sod the sodding Werewolves!"

In time the intercom came on crackling, "Chief Inspector Donald Smyth."

"Morning. I'm out at Sha Tin," Armstrong began, and told him what had happened and about finding the body. "We're covering the area but in this rain I don't expect to find anything. When the papers hear about the corpse and the message we'll be swamped. I think we'd better pick up the old amah right now. She's the only lead we have. Do your fellows still have her under surveillance?"

"Oh yes."

"Good. Wait for me, then we'll move in. I want to search her place. Have a team stand by."

"How long will you be?"

Armstrong said, "It'll take me a couple of hours to get there. Traffic's sodded up from here all the way back to the ferry."

"It is here too. All over Aberdeen. But it's not just the rain, old lad. There's about a thousand ghouls gawking at the wreck, then there're more bloody mobs already at the Ho-Pak, the Victoria... in fact every bloody bank in the vicinity, and I hear there's already about five hundred collecting outside the Vic in Central."

"Christ! My whole miserable bloody life savings're there."

"I told you yesterday to get liquid, old boy!" Armstrong heard the Snake's laugh. "And by the way, if you've any spare cash, sell Struan's short—I hear the Noble House is going to crash."

One of the phones jangled. She watched it but made no attempt to answer it. It rang on and on then ceased. Sandra Yi, Dunross's secretary, came in with a new batch of documents and mail and refilled the in tray. "The draught of the Par-Con contract's on the top, Elder Sister. Here's his appointments list for today, at least, the ones I know about. Superintendent Kwok called ten minutes ago." She blushed under Claudia's gaze, her chong-sam slit high and tight, her neck collar fashionably high. "He called for the tai-pan, not me, Elder Sister. Would the tai-pan please return his call."

"But I hope you talked to Honourable Young Stallion at length, Younger Sister, and swooned and sighed marvellously?" Claudia replied in Cantonese, then switched to English without noticing it, still leafing through all the notes as she talked, stacking them into two different piles. "After all, he really should be gobbled up and safely in the family before some Mealy Mouth from another clan catches him."

"Oh yes. I've also lit five candles in five different temples."

"I hope on your time and not company's time."

"Oh very yes." They laughed. "But we do have a date—tomorrow for dinner."

"Excellent! Be demure, dress conservatively, but go without a bra—like Orlanda."

"Oh, then it was true! Oh oh do you think I should?" Sandra Yi was shocked.

"For young Brian, yes." Claudia chuckled. "He has a nose that one!"

"My fortune-teller said this was going to be a wonderful year for me. Terrible about the fire wasn't it?"

"Yes." Claudia checked the appointment list. Linbar in a few minutes, Sir Luis Basilio at 8:45. "When Sir Luis arrives p—"

"Sir Luis's waiting in my office now. He knows he's early—I've given him coffee and the morning papers." Sandra Yi's face became apprehensive. "What's going to happen at ten?"

"The stock market opens," Claudia told her crisply and handed her the larger stack. "You deal with this lot, Sandra. Oh and here, he's cancelled a couple of board meetings and lunch but I'll deal with those." Both looked up as Dunross came in.

"Morning," he said. His face was graver than before, the bruises enhancing his ruggedness.

Sandra Yi said prettily, "Everyone's so happy you weren't hurt, tai-pan."

"Thank you."

She left. He noticed her walk, then Claudia's look. Some of his gravity left him. "Nothing like a pretty bird. Is there?"

Claudia laughed. "While you were out your private phone rang twice." This was his unlisted phone that, by rule, he alone picked up, the number given only to family and a handful of special people.

"Oh, thank you. Cancel everything between now and noon except Linbar, old Sir Luis Basilio and the bank. Make sure everything's VIP for Penn and Miss Kathy. Gavallan's taking her to the airport. First get Tightfist Tung on the phone. Also Lando Mata—ask if I can see him today, preferably at 10:20 at the Coffee Place. You saw my note about Zep?"

"Yes, terrible. I'll take care of everything. The governor's aide called: will you be at the noon meeting?"

"Yes." Dunross picked up a phone and dialled as Claudia left, closing the door behind her.

"Penn? You wanted me?"

"Oh Ian, yes, but I didn't phone, is that what you mean?"

"I thought it was you on the private line."

"No, but oh I'm ever so pleased you called. I heard about the fire on the early news and I... I wasn't sure if I'd dreamed it or not that you'd come back last night. I... I was quite worried, sorry. Ah Tat said you'd left early but I don't trust that old hag—she wanders sometimes. Sorry. Was it awful?"

"No. Not bad actually." He told her about it briefly. Now that he knew everything was all right with her he wanted to get off the phone. "I'll give you a blow-by-blow when I pick you up for the airport. I checked on the flight and it'll leave on time..." His intercom buzzed. "Hang on a moment, Penn... Yes, Claudia?"

"Superintendent Kwok on line two. He says it's important."

"All right. Sorry, Penn, got to go, I'll pick you up in good time for your flight. 'Bye, darling.... Anything else, Claudia?"

"Bill Foster's plane from Sydney's delayed another hour. Mr. Havergill and Johnjohn will see you at 9:30. I called to confirm. I hear they've been at the bank since six this morning."

Dunross's uneasiness grew. He had been trying to talk to Havergill since 3:00 P.M. yesterday but the deputy chairman had not been available and last night was not the time. "That's not good. There was a crowd already outside the bank when I came in at 7:30."

"The Vic won't fail, will it?"

He heard the anxiety in her voice. "If they do we're all up the spout." He stabbed line two. "Hi, Brian, what's up?" Brian Kwok told him about John Chen.

"Jesus Christ, poor John! After giving them the ransom money last night I thought... what bastards! He's been dead some days?"

"Yes. At least three."

"The bastards! Have you told Phillip or Dianne?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to tell you first."

"You want me to call them? Phillip's at home now. After the payoff last night I told him to miss the eight o'clock morning meeting. I'll call him now."

"No, Ian, that's my job. Sorry to bring bad news but I thought you should know about John."

"Yes... yes, old chum, thanks. Listen, I've a do at the governor's around seven but that'll be through by 10:30. Would you like a drink or a late snack?"

"Yes. Good idea. How about the Quance Bar at the Mandarin?"

"10:45?"

"Good. By the way, I've left word for your tai-tai to go straight through Immigration. Sorry to bring bad news. "Bye."

Dunross put down the phone, got up and stared out of the window. The intercom buzzed but he did not hear it. "Poor bugger!" he muttered. "What a bloody waste!"

There was a discreet knock, then the door opened a fraction. Claudia said, "Excuse me, tai-pan, Lando Mata on line two."

Dunross sat on the edge of his desk. "Hello Lando, can we meet at 10:20?"

"Yes, yes of course. I heard about Zeppelin. Awful! I just got out with my own life! Damned fire! Still, we got out, eh? Joss!"

"Have you been in touch with Tightfist yet?"

"Yes. He's arriving on the next ferry."

"Good. Lando, I may need you to back me today."

"But Ian, we went through that last night. I thought I ma—"

"Yes. But I want your backing today." Dunross's voice had hardened.

There was a long pause. "I'll... I'll talk to Tightfist."

"I'll talk to Tightfist too. Meanwhile I'd like to know I have your backing now."

"You've reconsidered our offer?"

"Do I have your backing, Lando? Or not."

Another pause. Mata's voice was more nervous. "I'll... I'll tell you when I see you at 10:20. Sorry, Ian, but I really must talk to Tightfist first. See you for coffee. 'Bye!"

The phone clicked off. Dunross replaced his receiver gently and muttered sweetly, "Dew neh loh moh, Lando old friend."

He thought a moment then dialled. "Mr. Bartlett please."

"No answer his phone. You want message?" the operator said.

"Please transfer me to Miss K. C. Tcholok."

"Wat?"

"Casey... Miss Casey!"

"Oh sorry, I'll call you back later...."

"Oh, Ian? No... no, that's all right, I should... should have been up hours ago..." He heard her stifle a yawn. "... Jesus, I'm tired. I didn't dream that fire did I?"

"No. Ciranoush, I just wanted to make sure you were both all right. How're you feeling?"

"Not so hot. I think I must have stretched a few muscles... don't know if it was the laughing or throwing up. You all right?"

"Yes. So far. You haven't a temperature or anything? That's what Doc Tooley said to watch out for."

"Don't think so. I haven't seen Linc yet. Did you talk to him?"