James clavell

Suslev watched Grey. Neither Grey nor the Finns knew his real position, only that he was a minor member of the Vladivostok Communist Party—which was also on his SI dossier. "You have some information for me?" Grey asked. "Yes, tovarich, and also, with your permission, a few questions. I was told to ask about your implementation of Directive 72/Prague." This highly secret directive put top priority on infiltrating covert, hard-core experts into positions as shop stewards, in every car-manufacturing plant throughout the U.S. and the West—the motor industry, because of its countless allied industries, being the core of any capitalist society.

"We're full speed ahead," Grey told him enthusiastically. "Wildcat strikes are the way of the future. With wildcats we can get around union hierarchies without disrupting existing unionism. Our unions're fragmented. Deliberately. Fifty men can be a separate union and that union can dominate thousands—and so long as there's never a secret ballot, the few will always rule the many!" He laughed. "We're ahead of schedule, and now we've fraternal brothers in Canada, New Zealand, Rhodesia, Australia—particularly Australia. Within a few years we'll have trained agitators in every key machine-shop union in the English-speaking world. A Brit will lead the workers wherever there's a strike—Sydney, Vancouver, Johannesburg, Wellington. It'll be a Brit!"

"And you're one of the leaders, tovarich! How marvelousl" Suslev let him continue, leading him on, disgusted that it was so easy to flatter him. How dreadful traitors are, he told himself. "Soon you'll have the democratic paradise you seek and there'll be peace on earth."

"It won't be long," Grey said fervently. "We've cut the armed services and we'll cut them even more next year. War's over forever. The bomb's done that. It's only the rotten Americans and their arms race who stand in the way but soon we'll force even them to lay down their arms and we'll all be equal."

"Did you know America's secretly arming the Japanese?"

"Eh?" Grey stared at him.

"Oh, didn't you know?" Suslev was well aware of Grey's three and a half years in Japanese POW camps. "Didn't you know the U. S. has a military mission there right now asking them if they'd accept nuclear weapons?"

"They'd never dare."

"But they have, Mr. Grey," Suslev said, the lie coming so easily. "Of course it's all totally secret."

"Can you give me details I could use in Parliament?"

"Well, I'll certainly ask my superiors to furnish that to you if you think it'd be of value."

"Please, as soon as possible. Nuclear bombs... Christ!"

"Are your people, your trained experts, in British nuclear plants too?"

"Eh?" Grey concentrated with an effort, heaving his mind off Japan. "Nuclear plants?"

"Yes. Are you getting your Brits?"

"Well, no, there's only one or two plants in the U. K. and they're unimportant. The Yanks're really arming the Japs?"

"Isn't Japan capitalist? Isn't Japan a U. S. protege? Aren't they building nuclear plants too? If it wasn't for America..."

"Those American sods! Thank God you've the bombs too or we'd all have to kowtow!"

"Perhaps you should concentrate some effort on your nuclear plants, eh?" Suslev said smoothly, astounded that Grey could be so gullible. "Why?"

"There's a new study out, by one of your countrymen. Philby."

"Philby?" Grey remembered how shocked and frightened he had been at Philby's discovery and flight, then how relieved he was that Philby and the others had escaped without giving lists of the inner core of the BCP that they must have had. "How is he?"

"I understand he's very well. He's working in Moscow. Did you know him?"

"No. He was Foreign Office, stratosphere. None of us knew he was one of us."

"He points out in this study that a nuclear plant is self-sustaining, that one plant can generate fuel for itself and for others. Once a nuclear plant is operating, in effect it is almost perpetual, it requires only a few highly skilled, highly educated technicians to operate it, no workers, unlike oil or coal. At the moment all industry in the West's dependent on coal or oil. He suggests it should be our policy to encourage use of oil, not coal, and completely discourage nuclear power. Eh?"

"Ah, I see his point!" Grey's face hardened. "I shall get myself on the parliamentary committee to study atomic energy."

"Will that be easy?"

"Too easy, comrade! Brits are lazy, they want no problems, they just want to work as little as possible for as much money as possible, to go to the pub and football on Saturdays—and no unpaid work, no tedious committees after hours, no arguments. It's too easy—when we have a plan and they don't."

Suslev sighed, very satisfied, his work almost done. "Another beer? No, let me get it, it's my honour, Mr. Grey. Do you happen to know a writer who's here at the moment, a U. S. citizen, Peter Marlowe?"

Grey's head snapped up. "Marlowe? I know him very well, didn't know he was a U. S. citizen though. Why?" Suslev kept his interest hidden and shrugged. "I was just asked to ask you, since you are English and he originally was English."

"He's a rotten upper-class sod with the morals of a barrow boy. Hadn't seen him for years, not since '45, until he turned up here. He was in Changi too. I didn't know he was a writer until yesterday, or one of those film people. What's important about him?"

"He's a writer," Suslev said at once. "He makes films. With television, writers can reach millions. Centre keeps track of Western writers as a matter of policy. Oh yes, we know about writers in Mother Russia, how important they are. Our writers have always pointed the way for us, Mr. Grey, they've formed our thinking and feeling, Tolstoy, Dostoevski, Chekhov, Bunin..." He added with pride, "Writers with us are pathfinders. That's why nowadays we must guide them in their formation and control their work or bury it." He looked at Grey. "You should do the same."

"We support friendly writers, Captain, and damn the other shower whichever way we can, publicly and privately. When I get home, I'll put Marlowe on our formal BCP media shit list. It'll be easy to do him some harm—we've lots of friends in our media." Suslev lit a cigarette. "Have you read his book?"

"The one about Changi? No, no I haven't. I'd never heard of it until I got here. It probably wasn't published in England. Besides, I don't have much time to read fiction and if he did it, it's got to be upper-class shit and a penny-dreadful and... well Changi's Changi and best forgotten." A shudder went through him that he did not notice. "Yes, best forgotten."

But I can't, he wanted to shout. I can't forget and it's still a never-ending nightmare, those days of the camp, year after year, the tens of thousands dying, trying to enforce the law, trying to protect the weak against black market filth feeding off the weak, everyone starving and no hope of ever getting out, my body rotting away and only twenty-one with no women and no laughter and no food and no drink, twenty-one when I was caught in Singapore in 1942 and twenty-four, almost twenty-five when the miracle happened and I survived and got back to England—home gone, parents gone, world gone and my only sister sold out to the enemy, now talking like the enemy, eating like them, living like them, married to one, ashamed of our past, wanting the past dead, me dead, nobody caring and oh Christ, the change. Coming back to life after the no-life of Changi, all the nightmares and the no sleeping in the night, terrified of life, unable to talk about it, weeping and not knowing why I was weeping, trying to adjust to what fools called normal. Adjusting at length. But at what cost, oh dear sweet Jesus at what a cost... Stop it!

With an effort Grey pulled himself off the descending spiral of Changi.

Enough of Changi! Changi's dead. Let Changi stay dead. It's dead—Changi's got to stay dead. But Ch— "What?" he said, jerked into the present again.

"I just said, your present government is completely vulnerable now."

"Oh? Why?"

"You remember the Profumo scandal? Your minister of war?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Some months ago, MI-5 began a very secret, very searching investigation into the alleged connection between the now famous call girl, Christine Keeler, and Commander Yevgeny Ivanov, our naval attache, and other London social figures."

"Is it finished?" Grey asked, suddenly attentive.

"Yes. It documents conversations the woman had with Commander Ivanov. Ivanov had asked her to find out from Profumo when nuclear weapons would be delivered to Germany. It claims," Suslev said, deliberately lying now to excite Grey, "that Profumo had been given security warnings by MI-5 about Ivanov some months before the scandal broke—that Commander Ivanov was KGB and also her lover."

"Oh Christ! Will Commander Ivanov substantiate it?"

"Oh no. Absolutely not. That would not be correct—or necessary. But MI-5's report tells the facts accurately," Suslev lied smoothly. "The report's true!"

Grey let out a shout of laughter. "Oh Christ, this'll blow the government off the front bench and bring about a general election!"

"And Labour in!"

"Yes! For five wonderful years! Oh yes and once we're in... oh my God!" Grey let out another bellow of laughter. "First he lied about Keeler! And now you say he knew about Ivanov all the time!

Oh bloody Christ, yes, that'll cause the government to fall! This'll be worth all the years of taking the shit from those middle-class sods. You're sure?" he asked with sudden anxiety. "It's really true?"

"Would I lie to you?" Suslev laughed to himself.

"I'll use it. Oh God will I use it." Grey was beside himself with joy. "You're absolutely sure? But Ivanov. What happened to him?"

"Promotion of course for a brilliantly executed manoeuvre to discredit an enemy government. If his work helps to bring it down, he'll be decorated. He's presently in Moscow waiting for reassignment. By the way, at your press conference tomorrow, do you plan to mention your brother-in-law?"

Grey was suddenly on guard. "How did you know about him?"

Suslev stared back calmly. "My superiors know everything. I was told to suggest you might consider mentioning your connection at the press conference, Mr. Grey."

"Why?"

"But if you know about him," Grey said, his voice hard, "you also know about my sister and me, that we've an agreement not to mention it. It's a family matter."

"Matters to do with the State take preference over family matters, Mr. Grey."

"Who are you?" Grey was suddenly suspicious. "Who are you really?"

"Just a messenger, Mr. Grey, really." Suslev put his great hands on Grey's shoulders and held him warmly. "Tovarich, you know how we must use everything in our power to push the cause. I'm sure my superiors were only thinking of your future. A close family connection with such a capitalist family would help you in Parliament. Wouldn't it? When you and your Labour Party get in next year they'll need well-connected men and women, eh? For cabinet rank you need connections, you said so yourself. You'll be the Hong Kong expert, with special connections. You can help us tremendously to contain China, put her back on the right track, and put Hong Kong and all Hong Kong people where they belong—in the sewer. Eh?"

Grey thought about that, his heart thumping. "We could obliterate Hong Kong?"

"Oh yes." Suslev smiled. The smile broadened. "There is no need to worry, you wouldn't have to volunteer anything about the tai-pan or break your word to your sister. I can arrange for you to be asked a question. Eh?"
54
11:05 PM
Dunross was waiting for Brian Kwok in the Quance Bar of the Mandarin, sipping a long brandy and Perrier. The bar was men only and almost empty. Brian Kwok had never been late before but he was late now.

Too easy to have an emergency in his job, Dunross thought, unperturbed.

I'll give him a couple more minutes.

Tonight Dunross did not mind waiting. He had plenty of time to get to Aberdeen and Four Finger Wu and as Penn was safely en route to England, there was no pressure to get back.

The trip will be good for her, he told himself. London, the theatre, and then Castle Avisyard. It will be grand there. Soon autumn and crisp mornings, your breath visible, the grouse season, and then Christmas. It will be grand to be home for Christmas in the snow. I wonder what this Christmas will bring and what I'll think when looking back to this time, this bad time. Too many problems now. The plan working but creaking already, everything bad and not in control, my control. Bartlett, Casey, Gornt, Four Fingers, Mata, Tightfist, Havergill, Johnjohn, Kirk, Crosse, Sinders, AMG, his Riko, all moths around the flame—and now a new one, Tiptop, and Hiro Toda arriving tomorrow instead of Saturday.

This afternoon he had talked at length to his Japanese friend and shipbuilding partner. Toda had asked about the stock market and about Struan's, not directly English style but obliquely, politely Japanese style. Even so, he had asked. Dunross had heard the gravity under the smooth, American-tinged voice—the product of two years postgraduate school at Harvard.

"Everything's going to be fine, Hiro," Dunross had told him. "It's a temporary attack. We take delivery of the ships as planned."

Will we?

Inexorably his mind turned back to Jacques. Is Jacques truly a Communist traitor? And Jason Plumm and Tuke? And R. Is he Roger Crosse or Robert Armstrong? Surely neither of them and surely not Jacques! For God's sake I've known Jacques most of my life—I've known the deVilles for most of my life. It's true Jacques could have given Bartlett some of the information about our inner workings, but not all of it. Not the company part, that's tai-pan knowledge only. That means Alastair, Father, me or old Sir Ross. All unthinkable.

Yes.

But someone's a traitor and it isn't me. And then there's Sevrin.

His eyes went across the room to the portraits of Dirk and his half-brother Robb beside another painting of the American trader Jeff Cooper, and landscapes of the Peak and the pray a in 1841. I wonder what Dirk would say if he could see his creation now. Thriving, building, reclaiming, still the centre of the world, the Asian world which is the only world. "Another, tai-pan?"

"No thanks, Feng," he said to the Chinese barman. "Just a Perrier, please."

A phone was nearby. He dialled. "Police headquarters," the woman's voice said. "Superintendent Kwok please."

"Just a moment, sir."

As Dunross waited he tried to decide about Jacques. Impossible, he thought achingly, not without help. Sending him to France to pick up Susanne and Avril isolates him for a week or so. Perhaps I'll talk to Sinders, perhaps they already know. Christ almighty, if AMG hadn't put the R down I'd've gone directly to Crosse. Is it possible that he could be Arthur?

Remember Philby of the Foreign Office, he told himself, revolted that an Englishman of that background and in such a high position of trust could be a traitor. And the other two equally, Burgess and Maclean. And Blake. How far to believe AMG? Poor bugger. How far to trust Jamie Kirk?

"Who's calling Superintendent Kwok please?" a man's voice asked on the phone.

"Mr. Dunross of Struan's."

"Just a moment please." A short wait then a man's voice that he recognised at once. "Evening, tai-pan. Robert Armstrong... sorry but Brian's not available. Was it anything important?"

"No. We just had a date for a drink now and he's late."

"Oh, he never mentioned it—he's usually spot on about something like that. When did you make the date?"

"This morning. He called to tell me about John Chen. Anything new on those bastards?"

"No. Sorry. Brian had to go out of town—a quick trip, you know how it is."

"Oh of course. If you talk to him tell him I'll see him Sunday at the hill climb, if not before."

"Do you still intend to go to Taiwan?"

"Yes. With Bartlett. Sunday, back Tuesday. I hear we can use his plane."

"Yes. Please make sure he comes back on Tuesday."

"If not before."

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"No thank you, Robert."

"Tai-pan, we've, we've had another rather disturbing encounter, here in Hong Kong. Not to worry you but take it easy until tomorrow with Sinders, eh?"

"Of course. Brian said the same. And Roger. Thanks, Robert. Night." Dunross hung up. He had forgotten that he had an SI bodyguard following him. The fellow must be better than the others.

I didn't notice him at all. Now what to do about him? He's certainly unwelcome with Four Fingers.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said.

"Yes, tai-pan," the barman said.

Dunross went out and strolled to the men's room, watching without watching. No one followed him. When he had finished he went into the noisy crowded mezzanine, across and down the main staircase to the newsstand in the foyer to buy an evening paper. There were crowds everywhere. Coming back, he zeroed in on a slight, bespectacled Chinese who was watching him over a magazine from a chair in the foyer. Dunross hesitated, went back to the foyer and saw the eyes following him. Satisfied, he went back up the crowded stairs. "Oh hello, Marlowe," he said, almost bumping into him.

"Oh hello, tai-pan."

At once Dunross saw the great weariness in the other man's face. "What's up?" he asked, instantly sensing trouble, stepping out of the way of the crowds.

"Oh nothing... nothing at all."

"Something's up." Dunross smiled gently.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. "It's, it's Fleur." He told him about her.

Dunross was greatly concerned. "Old Tooley's a good doctor so that's one thing." He related to Marlowe how Tooley had filled him, Bartlett and Casey full of antibiotics. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just a touch of the runs. Nothing to worry about for a month or so." Peter Marlowe told him what Tooley had said about hepatitis. "That doesn't worry me, it's Fleur and the baby, that's the worry."

"Do you have an amah?"

"Oh yes. And the hotel's marvellous, the room boys are all pitching in."

"Have you time for a drink?"

"No, no thanks, I'd better be getting back. The amah's not... there's no room for her so she's just baby-sitting. I've got to drop by the nursing home on the way back, just to check."

"Oh, then another time. Please give your wife my regards. How's the research going?"

"Fine, thank you."

"How many more of our skeletons have you wheedled out of our Hong Kong yan?"

"Lots. But they're all good." Peter Marlowe smiled faintly. "Dirk Struan was one helluva man. Everyone says you are too and they all hope you'll best Gornt, that you'll win again."

Dunross looked at him, liking him. "Do you mind questions about Changi?" He saw the shadow pass across the rugged used face that was young-old.

"That depends."

"Robin Grey said you were a black marketeer in the camp. With an American. A corporal."

There was a long pause and Peter Marlowe's face did not change. "I was a trader, Mr. Dunross, or actually, an interpreter for my friend who was a trader. He was an American corporal. He saved my life and the life of my friends. There were four of us, a major, a group captain, a rubber planter and me. He saved dozens of others too. His name was King and he was a king, King of Changi in a way." Again the faint smile. "Trading was against Japanese law—and camp law."

"You said Japanese, not Jap. That's interesting," Dunross said at once. "After all those horrors at Changi, you don't detest them?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe shook his head. "I don't detest anyone. Even Grey. It takes all of my mind and energy to appreciate that I'm alive. Night!" He turned to go.

"Oh, Marlowe, one last thing," Dunross said quickly, making a decision. "Would you like to go to the races Saturday? My box? There'll be a few interesting people... if you're researching Hong Kong you might as well do it in style, eh?"

"Thank you. Thank you very much but Donald McBride's invited me. I'd like to stop by for a drink though, if I may. Any luck on the book?"

"Sorry?"

"The book on the history of Struan's, the one you're going to let me read."

"Oh yes, of course. I'm having it retyped," Dunross said. "It seems there's only one copy. If you'll bear with me?"

"Of course. Thanks."

"Give my best to Fleur." Dunross watched him go, glad that Marlowe understood the difference between trading and black marketeering. His eyes fell on the Chinese SI man who still watched him over the magazine. He walked slowly back to the bar as though lost in thought. When he was safe inside he said quickly, "Feng, there's a bloody newsman downstairs I don't want to see."

At once the barman opened the countertop. "It's a pleasure, tai-pan," he said, smiling, not believing the excuse at all. His customers frequently used the servants' exit behind the bar. As women were not allowed inside the bat, it was usual that it was a woman who was to be avoided outside. Now what whore would the tai-pan want to avoid? he asked himself, bemused, watching him leave a generous tip and hurry away through the exit.

Once on the street in the side alley Dunross walked quickly around the corner and got a taxi, hunching down into the back.

"Aberdeen," he ordered and gave directions in Cantonese.

"Ayeeyah, like an arrow, tai-pan," the driver said at once, brightening as he recognised him. "May I ask what are the chances for Saturday? Rain or no rain?"

"No rain, by all the gods."

"Eeeee, and the winner of the fifth?"

"The gods haven't whispered it to me, nor the foul High Tigers who bribe jockeys or drug horses to cheat honest people out of an honest gamble. But Noble Star will be trying."

"All the fornicators'll be trying," the driver said sourly, "but who's the one chosen by the gods and by the High Tiger of Happy Valley Racetrack? What about Pilot Fish?"

"The stallion's good."

"Butterscotch Lass? Banker Kwang needs a change of luck."

"Yes. The Lass's good too."

"Will the market go down more, tai-pan?"

"Yes, but buy Noble House at a quarter to three on Friday."

"At what price?"

"Use your head, Venerable Brother. Am I Old Blind Tung?"

Orlanda and Linc Bartlett were dancing very close in the semi-darkness of the nightclub, feeling the length of each other. The music was soft and sensual, the beat good, the band Filipino, and the great mirrored luxurious room was deftly pool lit, with private alcoves and low deep chaises around low tables and tuxedoed waiters with pencil flashlights like so many fireflies. Many girls in colourful evening dresses sat together chatting or watching the few dancers. From time to time singly or in pairs they would join a man or men at the tables to ply them with laughter and conversation and drinks and, after a quarter of an hour or so, move on, their movements delicately orchestrated by the ever-watchful mama-san and her helpers. The mama-san here was a lithe attractive Shanghainese woman in her fifties, well dressed and discreet. She spoke six languages and was responsible to the owner for the girls. On her depended the success or failure of the business. The girls obeyed her totally. So did the bouncers and waiters. She was the nucleus, the queen of her domain, and as such, fawned upon.