James clavell

"Unless it's a microdot transfer and we've missed it so far, it must be in him," Armstrong said.

At once the men holding the Russian bent him over and Sun got out the surgical gloves and surgical salve and probed deeply. The man flinched and moaned and tears of pain seeped from his eyes.

"Dew neh loh moh," Sun said happily. His fingers drew out a small tube of cellophane wrapping.

"Don't let go of him!" Armstrong rapped.

When he was sure the man was secure he peered at the cylindrical package. Inside he could see the double-ended circles of a film cartridge. "Looks like a Minolta," he said absently.

Using some tissues he wrapped the cellophane carefully and sat down opposite the man again. "Mr. Metkin, you're charged under the Official Secrets Act for taking part in an espionage act against Her Majesty's Government and her allies. Anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you. Now, sir," he continued gently, "you're caught. We're all Special Intelligence and not subject to normal laws, any more than your own KGB is. We don't want to hurt you but we can hold you forever if we want, in solitary if we want. We would like a little cooperation. Just the answers to a few questions. If you refuse we will extract the information we require. We use a lot of your KGB techniques and we can, sometimes, go a little better." He saw a flash of terror behind the man's eyes but something told him this man would be hard to crack.

"What's your real name? Your official KGB name?"

The man stared at him.

"What's your KGB rank?"

The man still stared.

Armstrong sighed. "I can let my Chinese friends have at you, old chum, if you prefer. They really don't like you at all. Your Soviet armies ran all over Malcolm Sun's village in Manchuria and wiped it out and his family. Sorry, but I really must have your official KGB name, your rank on the Sovetsky Ivanov and official position."

Another hostile silence.

Armstrong shrugged. "Go ahead, Malcolm."

Sun reached up and jerked the ugly-looking crowbar from its clip and as the four men turned Metkin roughly onto his stomach and spread-eagled him, Sun inserted the tip. The man screamed. "Wait... wait..." he gasped in guttural English, "wait... I'm Dimitri..." Another scream. "Nicoli Leonov, major, political commis-saaaar..."

"That's enough, Malcolm," Armstrong said, astonished by the importance of their catch.

"But sir..."

"That's enough," Armstrong said harshly, deliberately protective as Sun was deliberately hostile and angrily slammed the crowbar back into its clips. "Pull him up," he ordered, sorry for the man, the indignity of it. But he had never known the trick to fail to produce a real name and rank, if done at once. It was a trick because they would never probe deeply and the first scream was always from panic and not from pain. Unless the enemy agent broke at once they would always stop and then, at headquarters, put him through a proper monitored interrogation. Torture wasn't necessary though some zealots used it against orders. This is a dangerous profession, he thought grimly. KGB methods are rougher, and Chinese have a different attitude to life and death, victor and vanquished, pain and pleasure—and the value of a scream.

"Don't take it badly, Major Leonov," he said kindly when the others had pulled him up and sat him back on the bench, still holding him tightly. "We don't want to harm you—or let you harm yourself."

Metkin spat at him and began to curse, tears of terror and rage and frustration running down his face. Armstrong nodded at Malcolm Sun who took out the prepared pad and held it firmly over Metkin's nose and mouth.

The heavy, sick-sweet stench of chloroform filled the stuffy atmosphere. Metkin struggled impotently for a moment, then subsided. Armstrong checked his eyes and his pulse to make sure he was not feigning unconsciousness. "You can let him go now," he told them. "You all did very well. I'll see a commendation goes on all your records. Malcolm, we'd better take good care of him. He might suicide."

"Yes." Sun sat back with the others in the swaying van. It was grinding along in the heavy traffic irritatingly, stopping and starting. Later he said what was in all their minds. "Dimitri Metkin, alias Nicoli Leonov, major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. What's a big fish like that doing on a small job like this?"
48
7:05 PM
Linc Bartlett chose his tie carefully. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and light tan suit and the tie was tan with a red stripe. A beer was open on the chest of drawers, the can pearled from the cold. All day he had debated with himself whether he should call for Orlanda or not call for her, whether he should tell Casey or not tell Casey.

The day had been fine for him. First, breakfast with Orlanda and then out to Kai Tak to check his aeroplane and make sure he could use it, for the flight with Dunross to Taipei. Lunch with Casey, then the excitement of the exchange. After the exchange had closed he and Casey had caught the ferry to Kowloon. Canvas storm shades lashed against the rain shut out the view and made the deck claustrophobic and the crossing not pleasant. But it was pleasant with Casey, his awareness of her heightened by the knowledge of Orlanda, and the dilemma.

"Ian's had it, hasn't he, Linc?"

"I'd think so, sure. But he's smart, the battle's not over yet, only the first attack."

"How can he get back? His stock's at bargain prices."

"Compared to last week, sure, but we don't know his earning ratio. This exchange's like a yo-yo—you said so yourself—and dangerous. Ian was right in that."

"I'll bet he knows about the 2 million you put up with Gornt."

"Maybe. It's nothing he wouldn't do if he had the chance. You meeting Seymour and Charlie Forrester?"

"Yes. The Pan Am flight's on time and I've a limo coming. I'll leave soon as we get back. You think they'll want dinner?"

"No. They'll be jet-lagged to hell." He had grinned. "I hope." Both Seymour Steigler III, their attorney, and Charlie Forrester, the head of their foam division, were socially very hard going. "What time's their flight in?"

"4:50. We'll be back around six."

At six they had had a meeting with Seymour Steigler—Forrester was unwell and had gone straight to bed.

Their attorney was a New Yorker, a handsome man with wavy black-grey hair and dark eyes and dark rings under his eyes. "Casey filled me in on the details, Linc," he said. "Looks like we're in great shape."

By prior arrangement, Bartlett and Casey had laid out the whole deal to their attorney, excluding the secret arrangement with Dunross about his ships.

"There're a couple of clauses I'd want in, to protect us, Linc," Steigler said.

"All right. But I don't want the deal renegotiated. We want a wrap by Tuesday, just as we've laid it out."

"What about Rothwell-Gornt? Best I should feel them out, huh? We can kite Struan's."

"No," Casey had said. "You leave Gornt and Dunross alone, Seymour." They had not told Steigler about Bartlett's private deal with Gornt either. "Hong Kong's more complicated than we thought. Best leave it as it is."

"That's right," Bartlett said. "Leave Gornt and Dunross to Casey and me. You just deal with their attorneys."

"What're they like?"

"English. Very proper," Casey said. "I met with John Dawson at noon—he's their senior partner. Dunross was supposed to be there but he sent Jacques deVille instead. He's one of Struan's directors, deals with all their corporate affairs, and some financing. Jacques is very good but Dunross runs everything and decides everything. That's the bottom line."

"How about getting this, er, Dawson on the phone right now? I'll meet with him over breakfast, say here at eight."

Bartlett and Casey had laughed. "No way, Seymour!" she had said. "It'll be a leisurely in by ten and a two-hour lunch. They eat and drink like there's no tomorrow, and everything's the 'old boy' bit."

"Then I'll meet him after lunch when he's mellow and maybe we can teach him a trick or two," Seymour Steigler had said, his eyes hardening. He stifled a yawn. "I've got to call New York before I hit the sack. Hey, I've got all the papers on the GXR merger an—"

"I'll take those, Seymour," Casey said.

"And I bought the 200,000 block of Rothwell-Gornt at 23.50-what're they today?"

"21."

"Jesus, Linc, you're down 300 grand," Casey said, perturbed. "Why not sell and buy back? If and when."

"Good idea. Casey, you'll fix me with Dawson?"

"First thing. They'll see you in the morning sometime. The tai-pan... Ian Dunross's told them our deal's top priority."

"It should be," Steigler said. "Our down payment gets Dunross off the hook."

"If he survives," Casey said.

"Here today, gone tomorrow so let's enjoy!"

It was one of Steigler's standard sayings and the phrase was still ringing in Bartlett's head. Here today, gone tomorrow... like the fire last night. That could've been bad. I could've bashed my head in the way that poor bastard Pennyworth did. You never know when it's your turn, your accident, your bullet or your act of God. From outside or inside. Like Dad! Jesus—bronzed and healthy, hardly sick a day in his life, then the doc says he's got the big C and in three months he's wasted away and stinking and dying in great pain.

Bartlett felt a sudden sweat on his forehead. It had been a bad time then, during his divorce, burying his father, his mother distraught and everything falling apart. Then finalising the divorce. The settlement had been vicious but he had just managed to retain control of the companies, to pay her off without having to sell out. He was still paying even though she'd remarried—along with an escalating maintenance for his children as well as future settlements—every cent still hurting, not the money itself but the unfairness of California law, the attorney in for a third until death us do part, screwed by my attorney and hers. One day I'll have vengeance on them, Bartlett grimly promised himself again. On them and all the other goddamn parasites. With an effort he thrust them aside. For today. Here today, gone tomorrow, so let's enjoy, he repeated as he sipped his beer, tied his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. Without vanity. He liked living within himself and he had made his peace with himself, knowing who he was and what he was about. The war had helped him do that. And surviving the divorce, surviving her, finding out about her and living with it—Casey the only decent thing that whole year.

Casey.

What about Casey?

Then why is it I'm all uptight now that I've decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?

He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.

There was a half-hearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. "Missee," the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.

"Oh hi, Casey," Bartlett said. "I was just going to phone you."

"Hi, Linc," she called out and then said, "Dohjeh," in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. "Got some stuff for you." She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting grey pants and flat grey shoes with a grey silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. "The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It's all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There's a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M. in L.A.—that gives us plenty of time to get back. I've ask—"

"Turn down bed, Master?" Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.

Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. "Urn ho, " she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. "Chaz'er, dohjeh. " No thank you, please do it later.

Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. "Wat?"

Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. "Turn down bed, heya? Now heya?" he asked in bad English.

Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, "Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later."

Nighttime Song beamed, having made her lose face. "Yes, Mis-see." He closed the door with just enough of a slam to make his point.

"Asshole," she muttered. "He had to understand me, I know I said it right, Linc. Why is it they insist on not understanding? I tried it on my maid and all she said was Va?' too." She laughed in spite of herself as she aped the coarse guttural, "Wat you say, heya?"

Bartlett laughed. "They're just ornery. But where'd you learn Chinese?"

"It's Cantonese. I got a teacher—fitted in an hour this morning—thought I should at least be able to say, Hi, Good morning, Give me the bill please... ordinary things. Goddamn but it's complicated. All the tones. In Cantonese there are seven tones—seven ways of saying the same word. You ask for the check, it's mai dan, but if you say it just a little wrong, it means fried eggs, they're mai dan too, and one'll get you fifty the waiter'll bring you the fried eggs just to put you down." She sipped her martini and added an extra olive. "I needed that. You want another beer?"

Bartlett shook his head. "This's fine." He had read all the telexes.

Casey sat on the sofa and opened her notepad. "Vincenzo Banastasio's secretary phoned and asked me to confirm his suite for Saturday an—"

"I didn't know he was due in Hong Kong. You?"

"I think I remember him saying something about going to Asia the last time we saw him... at the track last month—at Del Mar—the time John Chen was there. Terrible about John, isn't it?"

"I hope they get those Werewolves. Bastards to murder him and put that sign on him like that."

"I wrote a condolence note for us to his father and to his wife Dianne—you remember we met her at Ian's and at Aberdeen-Jesus, that seems like a million years ago."

"Yes." Bartlett frowned. "I still don't remember Vincenzo saying anything. He staying here?"

"No, he wants to be Hong Kong side. I confirmed the booking at the Hilton by phone and I'll do it in person tomorrow. He's on JAL's Saturday morning flight from Tokyo." Casey peered at him over her glasses. "You want me to schedule a meeting?"

"How long's he staying?"

"Over the weekend. A few days. You know how vague he is. How about Saturday after the races? We'll be Hong Kong side and it's an easy walk from Happy Valley if we can't get a ride."

Bartlett was going to say, Let's make it Sunday, but then he remembered Taipei on Sunday. "Sure, Saturday after the races." Then he saw her look. "What?"

"I was just wondering what Banastasio's about."

"When he bought 4 percent of our Par-Con stock," he said, "we ran it through Seymour, the SEC and a few others and they're all satisfied his money was clean. He's never been arrested or charged, though there're a lot of rumours. He's never given us any trouble, never wanted in on any board, never turns up for any shareholder meetings, always gives me his proxy, and he came through with the money when we needed it." He stared at her. "So?"

"So nothing, Linc. You know my opinion of him. I agree we can't take the stock back. He bought it free and clear and asked first, and we sure as hell needed his money and put it to great use." She adjusted her glasses and made a note. "I'll fix the meeting and be polite as always. Next: Our company account at the Victoria Bank's operating. I put in 25,000 and here's your chequebook. We've established a revolving fund and First Central's ready to transfer the initial 7 million to the account whenever we say so. There's a confirm telex there. I also opened a personal account for you at the same bank—here's your chequebook with another 25 grand—-20 in an HK treasury bill on a daily rollover." She grinned. "That should buy a couple of bowls of chop suey and a good piece of jade though 1 hear the phonies are hard to tell from the real ones."

"No jade." Bartlett wanted to look at his watch but he did not, just sipped his beer. "Next?"

"Next: Clive Bersky called and asked a favour."

"You told him to blow it out of his muffler?"

She laughed. Clive Bersky was chief executive of their branch of the First Central of New York. He was very meticulous, pedantic and drove Bartlett crazy with his need for perfect documentation. "He asks that if the Struan deal goes through, we put our funds through the..." She referred to her pad. "... the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank here."

"Why them?"

"I don't know. I'm checking them out. We've a date for a drink with the local chief exec at eight. The First Central's just bought his bank—it's got branches here, Singapore, Tokyo."

"You deal with him, Casey."

"Sure. I can drink and run. You want to eat afterwards? We could go down to the Escoffier or up to the Seven Dragons or maybe walk up Nathan Road for some Chinese chow. Somewhere close—the weatherman says more rain's expected."

"Thanks but not tonight. I'm going Hong Kong side."

"Oh? Wh—" Casey stopped. "Fine. When are you leaving?"

"About now. No hurry." Bartlett saw the same easy smile on her face as her eyes went down the list but he was sure she had instantly realised where he was going and suddenly he was furious. He kept his voice calm. "What else do you have?"

"Nothing that won't wait," she said in the same nice voice. "I've an early meeting with Captain Jannelli about your Taipei trip-Armstrong's office sent over the documentation temporarily lifting the impounding on the aeroplane. All you have to do is sign the form agreeing to come back to H. K. I put Tuesday on it. Is that right?"

"Sure. Tuesday's D Day."

She got up. "That's it for tonight, Linc. I'll deal with the banker and the rest of this stuff." She finished her martini and put the glass back on the mirrored cabinet. "Hey that tie, Linc! Your blue one'd go better. See you at breakfast." She blew him her usual kiss and walked off as she usually did and closed the door with her usual, "Sweet dreams, Linc!"

"Why the hell'm I so goddamn mad?" he muttered angrily, out loud. "Casey's done nothing. Son of a bitch!" Unaware, he had crushed his empty beer can. Son of a bitch! Now what? Do I forget it and go or what?

Casey was walking up the corridor toward her own room, seething. I'll bet my life he's going out with that goddamn tramp. I should've drowned her while I had the chance.

Then she noticed that Nighttime Song had opened her door for her and was holding it wide with a smile she read as a smirk.

"Andyoucanblowitoutofyourasstoo!" she snarled at him before she could stop herself, then slammed the door and threw her papers and pad on the bed and was about to cry. "You're not to cry," she ordered herself out loud, tears on the words. "No goddamn man is going to get you down no way. No way!" She stared down at her fingers, which were trembling with the rage that possessed her.

"Oh shit on all men!"

"Thank you, John." Sir Geoffrey Allison turned back to Dunross and the others. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?"

They were in Government House, the governor's official residence above Central, the French doors open to the cool of the evening, the air fresh and washed, trees and shrubs dripping nicely, and the governor walked across the crowded anteroom where pre-dinner cocktails and snacks were being served, very pleased with the way the evening had gone so far. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There was banter and good conversation, some laughter and no friction yet between the Hong Kong tai-pans and the MPs. At his request, Dunross had gone out of his way to soothe Grey and Broadhurst, and even Grey seemed to have mellowed.

The aide closed the door of his study, leaving him alone with the telephone. The study was dark green and pleasing, with blue flock wallpaper, fine Persian carpets from his two-year sojourn in the Teheran embassy, cherished crystal and silver and more showcases with fine Chinese porcelains. "Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir," Crosse said.

"Oh hello, Roger." The governor felt his chest tighten. "No bother," he said.

"Two rather good pieces of information, sir. Somewhat important. I wonder if I might drop by?"

Sir Geoffrey glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantel over the fireplace. "Dinner's served in fifteen minutes, Roger. Where are you now?"

"Just three minutes away from you, sir. I won't delay your dinner. But, if you prefer, I could make it afterwards."

"Come now, I could use some good news. With this whole banking affair and the stock market... Use the garden door if you wish. John will meet you."

"Thank you, sir." The phone clicked off. By custom, the head of SI had a key to the iron garden gate which was set into the high surrounding walls.

In exactly three minutes Crosse was crossing the terrace, walking lightly. The ground was very wet. He dried his feet carefully before he came through the French windows. "We've caught a rather big fish, sir, an enemy agent, caught him with his hands in the honey pot," he said softly. "He's a major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. We caught him in the middle of an espionage act with an American computer expert off the nuclear carrier."

The governor's face had gone red. "That blasted Ivanov! Good God, Roger, a major? Have you any idea of the diplomatic and political storm this will precipitate with the USSR, the U. S. and London?"

"Yes sir. That's why I thought I'd better consult at once."

"What the devil was the fellow doing?"

Crosse gave him the broad facts. He ended, "Both of them are sedated now and very safe."

"What was on the film?"

"It was blank, sir, fogged. Wh—"

"What?"

"Yes. Of course both men denied any espionage was involved. The sailor denied there was a drop, denied everything, said he'd won the $2,000 U. S. we found on him playing poker. Childish to lie once you're caught, childish to make things difficult, we always get the truth eventually. I thought we'd either missed the real film or it was a microdot transfer. We re-searched their clothing and I ordered immediate emetics and stool examinations. Major... the KGB agent passed the real negative film an hour ago." Crosse offered the big manila envelope. "These're eight-by-ten prints, sir, frame by frame."

"One set shows part of the ship's radar guidance system manual." Crosse hesitated. "The other set's a photocopy of a complete manifest of the carrier's arsenal, ammunition, missiles and warheads. Quantities, qualities, their numbers and where stored in the ship."

"Jesus Christ! Including nuclear warheads? No, please don't answer that." Sir Geoffrey stared at Crosse. After a pause he said, "Well, Roger, it's marvellous that the information didn't get into enemy hands. You're to be congratulated. Our American friends will be equally relieved, and they'll owe you a number of very great favours. Good God, in expert hands that knowledge would lay bare the ship's entire strike capability!"