James clavell

"They got him intact."

Suslev gasped, now in real shock. He'd expected Metkin to be long since dead. "You're sure?"

"They got him intact. They got his real name, rank and serial number and right now he's on an RAF transport under heavy guard heading for London."

Suslev's mind blanked out for a moment. He had cunningly set up Metkin to take over from the agent who should have made the pickup. For months now he had found Metkin increasingly critical of him and nosy and therefore dangerous. Three times in the last year he had intercepted private reports to Centre, written by his number two, criticising the easy way he ran his ship and his job, and his liaison with Ginny Fu. Suslev was sure Metkin was preparing a trap for him, maybe even trying to guarantee his retirement to the Crimea—a plum posting—by pulling off some coup, like, for example, whispering to Centre that he suspected there was a security leak aboard the Ivanov and that it must be Suslev.

Suslev shuddered. Neither Metkin, nor Centre nor any of the others would need proof, just suspicion would damn him.

"It's definite Metkin's alive?" he asked, thinking through this new problem.

"Yes. You're absolutely sure he knows nothing about Sevrin?"

"Yes. Yes, I've already told you." Suslev sharpened his voice. "You're the only one who knows all the members of Sevrin, eh? Even Crosse doesn't know them all, does he?"

"No." Plumm went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of water. Suslev poured himself a vodka, delighted that Sevrin had so many important safety valves within it: Plumm not aware that Roger Crosse was a KGB informer on the side... Crosse alone knowing Suslev's own real position in Asia but neither Crosse nor Plumm knowing his longtime connection with deVille... none of the other members knowing each other... and none of them aware of Banastasio and the guns or of the real extent of the Soviet thrust into the Far East.

Wheels within wheels within wheels and now Metkin, one of the faulty wheels, gone forever. It had been so easy to drop the honey to Metkin that safe acquisition of the carrier's armament manifest would guarantee promotion for the agent involved. "I'm surprised they caught him alive," he said, meaning it.

"Roger told me they had the poor bugger pinioned and a neck collar on him before he could get his teeth into the lapel."

"Did they find any evidence on him?"

"Roger didn't say. He had to work so damned fast. We thought the best thing to do was to whisk Metkin out of Hong Kong as quickly as possible. We were petrified he knew about us, being so senior. It'll be easier to deal with him in London." Plumm's voice was grave.

"Crosse will resolve Metkin."

"Perhaps." Uneasily Plumm drank some more water. "How did SI get to know about the pickup?" Suslev asked, wanting to find out how much Plumm knew. "There must be a traitor aboard my ship."

"No. Roger said the leak came through an informer MI-6 has aboard the carrier. Even the CIA didn't know."

"Kristos! Why the hell did Roger have to be so efficient?"

"It was Armstrong. SI has checks and balances. But so long as Metkin knows nothing there's no harm!"

Suslev felt the Englishman's scrutiny. He kept his face guileless. Plumm was no fool. The man was strong, cunning, ruthless, a secret protege and selectee of Philby's. "I'm certain Metkin knows nothing that could damage us. Even so, Centre should be informed at once. They can deal with it."

"I've already done that. I asked for Priority One help."

"Good," Suslev said. "You've done very well, comrade. You and Crosse. Acquiring Crosse for the cause was a brilliant coup. I must congratulate you again." Suslev meant the compliment. Roger Crosse was a professional and not an amateur like this man and all the others of Sevrin.

"Perhaps I acquired him, perhaps he acquired me. I'm not sure sometimes," Plumm said thoughtfully. "Or about you, comrade. Voranski I knew. We'd done business over the years but you, you're a new, untried quantity."

"Yes. It must be difficult for you."

"You don't seem too upset about the loss of your superior."

"I'm not. I must confess I'm not. Metkin was mad to put himself in such danger. That was totally against orders. To be frank... I think there have been security leaks from the Ivanov. Metkin was the only long-term member of the crew, apart from Voranski, who had access ashore. He was considered to be beyond reproach but you never know. Perhaps he made other mistakes, a loose tongue in a bar, eh?"

"Christ protect us from fools and traitors. Where did AMG get his information?"

"We don't know. As soon as we do, that leak will be plugged."

"Are you going to be Voranski's permanent replacement?"

"I don't know. I have not been told."

"I don't like change. Change is dangerous. Who killed him?"

"Ask Crosse. I want to know too." Suslev watched Plumm back. He saw him nod, apparently satisfied. "What about Sinders and the AMG papers?" he asked.

"Roger's covered everything. No need to worry. He's sure we'll get to look at them. You'll have your copy tomorrow." Again Plumm watched him. "What if we're named in the reports?"

"Impossible! Dunross would have told Roger at once—or one of his friends in the police, probably Chop Suey Kwok," Suslev said with a sneer. "If not him, the governor. Automatically it would get back to Roger. You're all safe."

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Plumm went to the window and looked at the brooding sky. "Nothing's ever safe. Take Jacques. He's a risk now. He'll never make tai-pan."

Suslev let himself frown and then, as though it was a sudden idea, he said, "Why not guide him out of Hong Kong? Suggest to Jacques he ask to be posted to... say Struan's in Canada. He could use his recent tragedy as an excuse. In Canada he'll be in a backwater and he'll die on the vine there. Eh?"

"Very good idea. Yes, that should be easy. He has a number of good contacts there which might be useful." Plumm nodded. "I'll be a lot happier when we've read those files, and even happier when you find out how the hell AMG discovered us."

"He discovered Sevrin, not you. Listen, comrade, I assure you you're safe to continue your vital work. Please continue to do everything you can to agitate the banking crisis and the stock market crash."

"No need to worry. We all want that to happen."

The phone came to life. Both men stared at it. It only sounded once. One ring. The code, danger, leaped into their heads. Aghast Suslev grabbed the hidden gun, remembering his fingerprints were on it as he hurtled through the kitchen for the back door, Plumm close behind him. He ripped open the door, letting Plumm through first onto the exit landing. At that moment there was the pounding of approaching feet and a crash against the front door behind them which held but buckled slightly. Suslev closed the back door silently, easing a bar into place. Another crash. He peered through a crack. Another crash. The front locks shattered. For an instant he saw the silhouettes of four men against the hall light, then he fled. Plumm was already down the stairs, covering him from the next landing, automatic out, and Suslev went down the steps three at a time past him to the next landing, then turned to cover in his turn. Above him the back door buckled nauseatingly. Silently Plumm ran past him and again covered him as they fled downward to the next landing. Then Plumm pulled away some camouflaging crates from the false door exit that branched off the main one. Footsteps noisily raced up toward them from downstairs. Another crash against the back door above. Suslev guarded as Plumm squeezed through the opening into the dark and he followed, pulling the partial door closed after him. Already Plumm had found the flashlight that was waiting in a clip. Footsteps raced closer. Cautiously Plumm led the way downward, both men moving well and silently. The footsteps passed with the sound of muffled voices. Both men stopped momentarily, trying to hear what was being said. But the sound was too indistinct and muted and they could not even tell if it was English or Chinese.

Plumm turned again and led the way downward. They hurried but with great caution, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise. Soon they were near the secret exit. Without hesitation the two men lifted the false floor and went below into the cool wet of the culvert. Once they were there and safe, they stopped for breath, their hearts pounding with the suddenness of it all. When he could talk, Suslev whispered, "Kuomintang?" Plumm just shrugged. He wiped the sweat off. A car rumbled overhead. He directed his light to the dripping ceiling. There were many cracks and another avalanche of stones and mud cascaded. The floor was awash with half a foot of water that covered their shoes.

"Best we part, old chap," Plumm said softly and Suslev noticed that though the man was sweating, his voice was icy calm and the light never wavered. "I'll get Roger to deal with whatever shower that was at once. Very bloody boring."

Suslev's heart was slowing. He still found it difficult to speak. "Where do we meet tomorrow?"

"I'll let you know." The Englishman's face was stark. "First Voranski, then Metkin and now this. Too many leaks." He jerked a thumb upward. "That was too close. Maybe your Metkin knew more than you think he did."

"No. I tell you he knew nothing about Sevrin, nothing, or about that apartment or Clinker or any of it. Only Voranski and me, we're the only ones who knew. There's no leak from our side."

"I hope you're right." Plumm added grimly, "We'll find out, Roger'll find out one way or another, one day, and then God help the traitor!"

"Good. I want him too."

After a pause Plumm said, "Call me every half an hour from various phone booths, from 7:30 P.M. tomorrow."

"All right. If for any reason there's a problem I'll be at Ginny's from eleven onwards. One last thing. If we don't get to look at the AMG papers, what's your opinion about Dunross?"

"His memory's incredible."

"Then we isolate him for a chemical interrogation?"

"Why not?"

"Good, tovarich. I'll make all the preparations."

"No. We'll snatch him and we'll deliver him. To the Ivanov?"

Suslev nodded and told him Metkin's suggestion of blaming the Werewolves, not saying it was Metkin's idea. "Eh?"

Plumm smiled. "Clever! See you tomorrow." He handed Suslev the flashlight, took out a pencil light and turned, going down the culvert, his feet still under water. Suslev watched until the tall man had turned the corner and vanished. He had never followed the culvert below. Plumm had told him not to, that it was dangerous and subject to rockfalls.

He took a deep breath, now over his fright. Another car rumbled heavily overhead. That's probably a truck, he thought absently. More mud and a piece of the concrete fell with a splash, startling him. Suslev waited, then began to pick his way carefully up the slope. Another tiny avalanche. Suddenly Suslev hated the subterranean tube. It made him feel insecure and doom ridden.

11:59 P.M.: Dunross was looking at the sad hulk of the burned-out Floating Dragon restaurant that lay on her side in twenty feet of Aberdeen water. The other multistoried eating palaces that floated nearby were still blazing with lights, gaudy and noisy, filled to capacity, their new, hastily erected, temporary kitchens on barges beside their mother ships, cauldrons smoking, fires under the cauldrons, and a mass of cooks and helpers like so many bees. Waiters hurried up and down precarious gangways with trays and dishes. Sampans sailed nearby, tourists staring, Hong Kong yan gaping, the hulk a great attraction.

Part of the hulk's superstructure jutted out of the water. Salvage crews were already working on her under floodlights, salvaging her, readying to float what remained of her. On her part of the wharf and parking lot temporary roofing and kitchens were set up. Vendors were busily selling photographs of the blaze, souvenirs, foods of a hundred kinds, and a huge floodlit sign in Chinese and English proudly proclaimed that the new, ONLY TOTALLY MODERN AND FIREPROOF FLOATING RESTAURANT, THE FLOATING DRAGON would soon be in business, bigger than ever, better than ever... meanwhile sample the foods of our famous chefs. It was business as usual except that temporarily the restaurant was on land and not on the sea.

Dunross walked along the wharf toward one of the sea steps. There were clusters of sampans nearby, big and small. Most of these were for hire, each small craft with one sculler, a man, woman or child of any age, each craft with a hooped canvas covering that sheltered half of the boat from sun or rain or prying eyes. Some of the sampans were more elaborate. Those were the nighttime Pleasure Boats. Inside were reclining pillows and low tables, the better craft luxurious with plenty of room for two to eat and drink and then to pillow, the single oarsman discreetly not part of the cabin. You could hire one for an hour or a night and the boat would lazily float the byways. Other sampans would come with all manner of drinks and foods, fresh foods served piping hot, served delicately, and you and your lady could dream the night away in perfect privacy.

You could go alone if you wished. Then, out near one of the vast islands of boats, your sampans would rendezvous with Ladies of the Night and you could choose and barter and then drift. In the harbour you could satisfy any wish, any thirst, any desire—at little cost, the price fair whoever you were—if you could pay and were a man. Opium, cocaine, heroin, whatever you wanted.

Sometimes the food was bad or the singsong girl bad, but this was just joss, a regretted mistake and not deliberate. Sometimes you could lose your wallet but then only a simpleton would come among such prideful poverty to flaunt his wealth.

Dunross smiled, seeing a heavyset tourist nervously ease himself into one of the craft, helped by a chong-samed girl. You're in good hands, he thought, very glad with the hustle and bustle of business all around him, buying, selling, bartering. Yes, he told himself, Chinese are the real capitalists of the world.

What about Tiptop and Johnjohn's request? What about Lando Mata and Tightfist and Par-Con? And Gornt? And AMG and Riko Anjin and Sinders and...

Don't think about them now. Get your wits about you! Four Finger Wu hasn't summoned you to discuss the weather.

He passed the first sea steps and headed along the wharf to the main ones, the light from the streetlamps casting strong shadows. At once all the sampans there began to jostle for position, their owners calling out, beckoning. When he got to the top of the steps the commotion stopped.

"Tai-pan!"

A well-set Pleasure Boat with a Silver Lotus flag aft eased directly through them. The boatman was short, squat with many gold teeth. He wore torn khaki pants and a sweat shirt.

Dunross whistled to himself, recognising Four Finger Wu's eldest son, the loh-pan, the head of Wu's fleet of Pleasure Boats. No wonder the other boats gave him leeway, he thought, impressed that Goldtooth Wu met him personally. Nimbly he went aboard, greeting him. Goldtooth sculled swiftly away.
"Make yourself at home, tai-pan," Goldtooth said easily in perfect English-accented English. He had a B. Sc. from London University and had wanted to remain in England. But Four Fingers had ordered him home. He was a gentle, quiet, kind man whom Dunross liked.

"Thank you."

On the lacquered table was fresh tea and whiskey and glasses, brandy and bottled water. Dunross looked around carefully. The cabin was neat and lit with little lights, clean, soft and expensive. A small radio played good music. This must be Goldtooth's flagship, he thought, amused and very much on guard.

There was no need to ask where Goldtooth was taking him. He poured himself a little brandy, adding soda water. There was no ice. In Asia he never used ice.

"Christ," he muttered suddenly, remembering what Peter Marlowe had said about the possibility of infectious hepatitis. Fifty or sixty people have that hanging over their heads now, if they know it or not. Gornt's one of them too. Yes, but that sod's got the constitution of a meat axe. The bugger hasn't even had a touch of the runs. What to do about him? What's his permanent solution?

It was cool and pleasant in the cabin, half open to the breeze, the sky dark. A huge junk moved past, chugging throatily, and he lay back enjoying the tensions he felt, the anticipation. His heart was steady. He sipped the brandy, drifting, being patient.

The side of the sampan scraped another. His ears focused. Bare feet padded aboard. Two sets of feet, one nimble the other not. "Halloa, tai-pan!" Four Fingers said, grinning toothlessly. He ducked under the canopy and sat down. "How you okay?" he said in dreadful English.

"Fine and you?" Dunross stared at him, trying to hide his astonishment. Four Finger Wu was dressed in a good suit with a clean white shirt and gaudy tie and carried shoes and socks. The last time Dunross had seen him like this was the night of the fire and before that, the only other time years ago, at Shitee T'Chung's immense wedding.

More feet approached. Awkwardly Paul Choy sat down. "Evening, sir. I'm Paul Choy."

"Are you all right?" he asked, sensing great discomfort, and fear.

"Sure, yes, thank you, sir."

Dunross frowned. "Well this's a pleasure," he said, letting it pass. "You're working for your uncle now?" he asked, knowing all about Paul Choy, keeping up the pretence he and Four Fingers had agreed to, and very impressed with the young man. He had heard of his stock market coup through his old friend Soorjani.

"No sir. I'm with Rothwell-Gornt's. I just started a couple of days ago. I'm here to interpret... if you need me." Paul Choy turned to his father and explained what had been said.

Four Fingers nodded. "Blandeee?"

"It's fine, thank you." Dunross raised his glass. "Good you see, heya," he continued in English, waiting for the old man to begin in Haklo. It was a matter of face and, with the presence of Paul Choy, Dunross's latent caution had increased a thousandfold.

The old seaman chatted inconsequentially for a while, drinking whiskey. Paul Choy was not offered a drink, nor did he take one. He sat in the shadows, listening, frightened, not knowing what to expect. His father had sworn him to perpetual secrecy with hair-raising blood oaths.

Finally Wu gave up waiting the tai-pan out and started in Haklo. "Our families have been Old Friends for many years," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, aware that Dunross's Haklo was not perfect. "Very many years."

"Yes. Seaborne Wu and Struan's like brothers," the tai-pan replied cautiously.

Four Fingers grunted. "The present is like the past and the past the present. Heya?"

"Old Blind Tung says past and present same. Heya?"

"What does the name Wu Kwok mean to the tai-pan of the Noble House?"

Dunross's stomach twisted. "He your great-grandfather, heya? Your illustrious forebear. Son and chief admiral of even more illustrious sea warlord, Wu Fang Choi, whose flag, the Silver Lotus, flew all four seas."

"The very one!" Four Fingers leaned closer and Dunross's caution doubled. "What was the connection between Green-Eyed Devil... between the first tai-pan of the Noble House and the illustrious Wu Kwok?"

"They meet at sea. They meet in Pearl River Estuary off Wh—"

"It was near here, off Pok Liu Chau, between Pok Liu Chau and Aplichau." The old man's eyes were slits in his face.

"Then they meet off Hong Kong. The tai-pan went aboard Wu Kwok's flagship. He went alone and..." Dunross searched for the word. "... and he negotiate a, a bargain with him."

"Was the bargain written onto paper and chopped?"

"No."

"It is fornicating ill-mannered to ask such question from Old Friend when Old Friend opposite knows answer!"

Paul Choy jerked involuntarily at the sudden venom and slashing cut of the words. Neither man paid any attention to him.

"True, true, tai-pan," the old man said, as unafraid as Dunross. "Yes, the bargain was honoured, though twisted, part was twisted. Do you know the bargain?"

"No, not all," Dunross said truthfully. "Why?"

"The bargain was that on each of your twenty clippers we put one man to train as a captain—my grandfather was one of these. Next, Green-Eyed Devil agreed to take three of Wu Kwok's boys and send them to his land to train them as foreign devils in the best schools, everything like his own sons would be trained. Next the tai—"

Dunross's eyes widened. "What? Who? Who are these boys? Who did they become?"

Four Finger Wu just smiled crookedly. "Next, Green-Eyed Devil agreed to get for the illustrious Wu Fang Choi a foreign devil clipper ship, armed and rigged and beautiful. Wu Fang Choi paid for her but the tai-pan arranged for her and called her Lotus Cloud. But when Culum the Weak delivered her, almost two years later, your fornicating chief admiral, Stride Orlov, the Hunchback, came out of the east like an assassin in the night and murdered our ship and Wu Kwok with her."

Dunross sipped his brandy, waiting, outwardly at ease, inwardly his brain shocked. Who could those boys be? Was that truly part of the bargain? There's nothing in Dirk's diary or testament about Wu Kwok's sons. Nothing. Who co— "Heya?"

"I know about Lotus Cloud. Yes. And about men, captains. I think it was nineteen and not twenty clippers. But I know nothing about three boys. About Lotus Cloud, did my ancestor promise not to fight ship after he had give ship?"

"No. Oh no, tai-pan, no he did not promise that. Green-Eyed Devil was clever, very clever. Wu Kwok's death? Joss. We must all die. Joss. No, Green-Eyed Devil kept his bargain. Culum the Weak kept the bargain too. Will you keep his bargain?" Four Finger Wu opened his fist.

In it was the half-coin.

Dunross took it carefully, his heart grinding. They watched him like snakes, both of them, and he felt the strength of their eyes. His fingers shook imperceptibly. It was like the other half-coins that were still in Dirk's Bible, in the safe in the Great House, two still left, two gone, already redeemed, Wu Kwok's one of them. Fighting to control the trembling of his fingers, he handed the coin back. Wu took it, careless that his hand shook.

"Perhaps real," Dunross said, his voice sounding strange. "Must check. Where get it?"

"It's genuine, of course it's fornicating genuine. You acknowledge it as genuine?"

"No. Where get it?"

Four Fingers lit a cigarette and coughed. He cleared his throat and spat. "How many coins were there at first? How many did the illustrious Mandarin Jin-qua give Green-Eyed Devil?"

"I not sure."

"Four. There were four."

"Ah, one to your illustrious ancestor, Wu Kwok, paid and honoured. Why would great Jin-qua give him two? Not possible—so this stolen. From whom?"

The old man flushed and Dunross wondered if he had gone too far.

"Stolen or not," the old man spat, "you grant favour. Heya?" Dunross just stared at him. "Heya? Or is the face of Green-Eyed Devil no longer the face of the Noble House?"

"Where get it?"

Wu stared at him. He stubbed out the cigarette on the carpet. "Why should Green-Eyed Devil agree to four coins? Why? And why would he swear by his gods that he and all his heirs would honour his word, heya?"

"For another favour."

"Ah, tai-pan, yes for a favour. Do you know what favour?"

Dunross stared back at him. "Honourable Jin-qua loaned the tai-pan, my great-great-grandfather, forty lacs of silver."

"Forty lac—$4 million. One hundred twenty years ago." The old man signed. His eyes slitted even more. Paul Choy was breathless, motionless. "Was a paper asked for? A debt paper chopped by your illustrious forebear—on the chop of the Noble House?"