James clavell

The rotten dogmeat foreign devil slave, she thought disgustedly.

Nothing will be left after the dance hall collects their debts. Nothing. Ayeeyah!

But never mind, she told herself as she lay down in the bath with glorious contentment. Never mind, the secret of the letters will be worth a fortune to Noble House Chen.

And Noble House Chen has more red notes than a cat has hairs.

Casey was curled up in the window of her bedroom, the lights out except for a small reading lamp over the bed. She was staring gloomily down at the street five stories below. Even this late, almost 1:30 A.M., the street was still snarled with traffic. The sky was low and misty, no moon, making the lights from the huge neon signs and columns of Chinese characters more dazzling, reds and blues and greens that reflected in the puddles and turned ugliness into fairyland. The window was open, the air cool and she could see couples darting between buses and trucks and taxis. Many of the couples were heading for the foyer of the new Royal Netherlands Hotel and a late-night snack at the European coffee shop where she had had a nightcap coffee with Captain Jannelli, their pilot.

Everyone eats so much here, she thought idly. Jesus, and so many people here, so much work to provide, so few jobs, so few at the top, one at the top of each, pile, always a man, everyone struggling to get there, to stay there... but for what? The new car the new house the new ensemble the new refrigerator the new gimmick or whatever.

Life's one long bill. Never enough of the green stuff to cope with the everyday bills let alone a private yacht or private condo on the shores of Acapulco or the Cote d'Azur, and the means to get there—even tourist.

I hate going tourist. First's worth it, worth it to me. Private jet's better, much better but I won't think about Linc....

She had taken Seymour Steigler to dinner upstairs and they had settled all the business problems, most of them legal problems he kept bringing up.

"We gotta make it watertight. Can't be too cautious with foreigners, Casey," he kept on saying. "They don't play the game according to good old Yankee rules."

As soon as dinner was finished she had feigned a load of work and left him. Her work was all done so she curled up in a chair and began to read, speed-read. Fortune, Business Week, The Wall Street Journal and several specialised business magazines. Then she had studied another Cantonese lesson, leaving the book till last. The book was Peter Marlowe's novel, Changi. She had found the dog-eared paperback in one of the dozens of street bookstalls in an alley just north of the hotel yesterday morning. It had given her great pleasure bargaining for it. The first asking price was 22 HK. Casey had bargained her down to 7.55 HK, barely $1.50 U.S. Delighted with herself and with her find she had continued window-shopping. Nearby was a modern bookshop, the windows stuffed with picture books on Hong Kong and China. Inside on a rack were three more paperbacks of Changi. New, they cost 5.75 HK.

At once Casey had cursed the old woman street seller for cheating her.

But then the old hag wasn't cheating you at all, she had reminded herself. She outtraded you. After all, only a moment ago you were chortling because you'd trimmed her profit to nothing and God knows these people need profit.

Casey watched the street and the traffic on Nathan Road below. This morning she had walked up Nathan Road to Boundary Road, a mile and a half or so. It was on her list of things to see. It was a road like any other, snarled, busy, gaudy with street signs, except that everything north of Boundary Road to the border would revert to China in 1997. Everything. In 1898 the British had taken a ninety-nine-year lease on the land that extended from Boundary Road to the Sham Chun River where the new border was to be, along with a number of nearby islands. "Wasn't that stupid, Peter?" she had asked Marlowe, meeting him by chance in the hotel foyer at teatime.

"Now it is," he said thoughtfully. "Then? Well, who knows? It must have been sensible then or they wouldn't have done it."

"Yes, but God, Peter, ninety-nine years is so short. What possessed them to make it so short? Their heads must've been... must've been elsewhere!"

"Yes. You'd think so. Now. But in those days when all the British prime minister had to do was belch to send a shock wave around the world? World power makes the difference. In those days the British Lion was still the Lion. What's a small piece of land to the owners of a quarter of the earth?" She remembered how he had smiled. "Even so, in the New Territories there was armed opposition from the locals. Of course it fizzled. The then governor, Sir Henry Blake, took care of it. He didn't war on them, just talked to them. Eventually the village elders agreed to turn the other cheek, providing their laws and customs remained in effect, providing they could be tried under Chinese law if they wished and that Kowloon City remained Chinese."

"The locals here are still tried under Chinese law?"

"Yes, historic law—not PRC law—so you have to have British magistrates skilled in Confucian law. It's really quite different. For instance, Chinese law presumes that all witnesses will naturally lie, that it's their duty to lie and cover up, and it's up to the magistrate to find out the truth. He has to be a sort of legal Charlie Chan. Civilised people don't go in for swearing to tell the truth, all that sort of barbarism—they consider us mad to do that, and I'm not sure they're wrong. They've all kinds of crazy or sensible customs, depending how you look at it. Did you know it's quite legal here, throughout the Colony, to have more than one wife—if you're Chinese."

"Bully for them!"

"Having more than one wife really does have certain advantages."

"Now listen, Peter," she had begun hotly, then realised he was merely teasing her. "You don't need more than one. You've got Fleur. How are you both doing? How's the research? Would she like lunch tomorrow if you're busy?"

"Sorry to say but she's in the hospital."

"Oh God, what's the matter?"

He had told her about this morning and Doc Tooley. "I've just seen her. She's... she's not too good."

"Oh I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No thanks. I don't think so."

"Just ask if there is. Okay?"

"Thanks."

"Linc was right to jump into the water with her, Peter. Honestly."

"Oh of course, Casey. Please don't think for a moment... Linc did what I... he did it better than I could. You too. And I think you both saved that other girl from lots of trouble. Orlanda, Orlanda Ramos."

"Yes."

"Yes. How's the research coming?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Sometime I'd like to swap impressions. Hey, by the way, I found your book—I bought it—haven't read it yet but it's on top of the pile."

"Oh!" Casey remembered how he had tried to sound offhand. "Oh. I hope you like it. Well, I've got to be off, it's the kids' teatime too."

"Remember, Peter, if there's anything, just call me. Thanks for tea, and say hi to Fleur...."

Casey stretched, an ache now in her back. She got off her perch and went back to bed. Her room was small and did not have the elegance of their suite—his suite now. He had decided to keep the second bedroom. "We can always use it as an office," he had said to her, "or keep it as a spare. Don't worry, Casey, it's all tax deductible and you never know when we might need a spare."

Orlanda? No, she wouldn't need that bed!

Casey, she ordered herself, don't be bitchy, or stupid. Or jealous. You've never been jealous, so jealous before. You set the rules. Yes, but I'm glad I moved out. That other night was tough, tough on Linc and tough on me, worse for him. Orlanda will be good for him... oh shit on Orlanda.

Her mouth felt dry. She went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of iced Perrier and the nice tang of it made her feel better. I wonder how the earth makes those bubbles, she thought idly, getting onto the bed. Earlier, she had tried to sleep but her mind was jumbled and would not stop working, too much of the new—new foods, new smells, air, mores, threats, people, customs, cultures. Dunross. Gornt. Dunross and Gornt. Dunross and Gornt and Linc. A new Linc. A new you, frightened of a pretty piece of ass... yes, ass if you want to be vulgar and that's new for you too. Before you came here you were assured, dynamic, in charge of your world, and now you're not. All over her, not just over her, over that bitch Lady Joanna too with her so upper-class English accent, "Don't you remember, dear, it's our Over Thirty Club Lunch today. I mentioned it at the tai-pan's dinner...."

Goddamn old bitch. Over thirty! I'm not even twenty-seven!

That's right, Casey. But you are all riled up like a mashed cat and it's not just her or Orlanda, it's also Linc and the hundreds of available girls you've already seen and you haven't even looked in the dance halls and bars and houses where they specialise. Didn't Jannelli wind you up too?

"Jesus, Casey," he had said with a great beam, "it's like being back on R and R in my Korean days. It's still only 20 bucks and you're the top banana!"

That evening around ten, Jannelli had called to ask if she'd like to join him and the rest of the crew at the Royal Netherlands for a night snack. Her heart had turned over when the phone rang, thinking it was Linc, and when she had found it wasn't she had pretended that she still had lots to do but had gratefully allowed herself to be persuaded. Once there she had had a double order of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and coffee that she knew she did not want.

As a protest. A protest against Asia, Hong Kong, Joanna and Orlanda, and oh Jesus I wish I'd never got interested in Asia, never suggested to Linc we should go international.

Why did you?

Because it's the only way for U. S. business to go—the only way—-the only way for Par-Con. Export. Multinational but export. And Asia's the biggest, most teeming untapped marketplace on earth and this is the century for Asia. Yes. And the Dunrosses and Gornts've got it made—if they go with us—'cause we've the greatest market in the world to back us, all the cash, technology, growth and expertise to do it.

But why did you go for Hong Kong so hot and heavy?

To get my drop dead money and to fill the time between now and my birthday—the end of the seventh year.

The rate you're going, she told herself, soon you'll have no job, no future, no Linc to say yes or no to. A sigh took her. Earlier, she had gone to the master suite and had left Bartlett a batch of telexes and letters to sign with a "hope you had a good time" note. When she had come back from her night snack she had gone there again and taken back everything she had left him. "It's Orlanda that's really got you going. Don't fool yourself," she said out loud.

Never mind, tomorrow's another day. You can dump Orlanda easy, she told herself grimly, and now, having zeroed in on her enemy she felt better.

Peter Marlowe's dog-eared paperback caught her eye. She picked it up, plumped the pillows more comfortably and began to read. The pages slid by. Abruptly the phone went. She had been so engrossed she jumped and a sudden, vast happiness flooded her. "Hi, Linc, did you have a good time?"

"Casey, it's me, Peter Marlowe, I'm terribly sorry to call so late but I checked and your room boy said your light was still on.... I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Oh, oh no Peter." Casey felt sick with disappointment. "What's up?"

"Sorry to call so late but there's a slight emergency, I've got to go to the hospital and I've... you said to call. I ho—"

"What is it?" Casey was completely zeroed in now.

"I don't know. They just asked if I'd come at once. The reason I called was about the kids. There'll be a room boy looking in every so often but I wanted to leave a note for them with your number in case they wake up, just in case they wake up, a friendly face to call so to speak. When we all met yesterday in the foyer, they both thought you a smasher. They probably won't wake but just in case. Could they call you? I'm sor—"

"Of course. Even better, why don't I come right over?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't think of it. If you j—"

"I'm not sleepy and you are right next door. It's no problem, Peter, I'm on my way. So you just go ahead to the hospital."

It took her only a minute to dress in pants and blouse and cashmere sweater. Before she even pressed the elevator button, Nighttime Song was there, wide-eyed and inquisitive. She volunteered nothing.

Downstairs, she crossed the foyer and went out onto Nathan Road, across the side road and into the foyer of the Annex. Peter Marlowe was waiting for her. "This's Miss Tcholok," he said hurriedly to the night porter. "She'll be with the kids till I return."

"Yes sir," the Eurasian said, equally wide-eyed. "The boy'll show you up, miss."

"Hope everything's okay, Peter...." She stopped. He was out the swinging doors, trying to hail a cab.

The apartment was small, on the sixth floor, the front door ajar. The floor boy, Nighttime Po, shrugged and went off muttering, cursing barbarians... as if he couldn't look after two sleeping children who played hide and seek with him every evening.

Casey closed the door and peeked into the tiny second bedroom.

Both children were fast asleep in the bunk, Jane, the little one, in the upper berth and Alexandra sprawled in the lower one. Her heart went out to them. Blond, touseled, angelic, with teddy bears clutched in their arms. Oh how I'd love to have children, she thought. Linc's children.

Would you? All the nappies, always locked in, sleepless nights and no freedom.

I don't know. I think so. Oh yes, for two like these, oh yes.

Casey didn't know whether to tuck them up or not. The air was warm so she decided to do nothing lest she wake them. In the refrigerator she found bottled water and this refreshed her and settled her racing heart. Then she sat in the easy chair. After a moment she took Peter's book out of her handbag and, once more, began to read.

Two hours later he returned. She had not noticed the time pass.

"Oh," she said, seeing his face. "She lost the baby?"

He nodded, dulled. "Sorry to be so long. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Sure, hey, Peter, let me d—"

"No. No thank you. I know where everything is. I'm sorry to put you to all this trouble."

"It's no trouble. She's all right though? Fleur?"

"They, they think so. It was the stomach cramps that did it, and the touch of enteric. Too soon to tell but there's no real danger there, that's what they said. The, the miscarriage, they said it's always a bit rough, physically and emotionally."

"I am so sorry."

He glanced back at her and she saw the strong, bent, lived-in face. "Not to worry, Casey. Fleur's all right," he said, holding his voice firm. "The, the Japanese believe that nothing's set until after birth, until after thirty days, thirty days for a boy and thirty-one for a girl, nothing's set, there's no soul, no personality, no person... up to that time there's no person." He turned back in the tiny kitchen and set the kettle to boil, trying to sound convincing. "It's, it's best to believe that, eh? How could it be anything but... but an it. There's no person till then, thirty-odd days after birth, so that doesn't make it so bad. It's still ghastly for the mother but not so bad. Sorry, I'm not making much sense."

"Oh you are. I hope she'll be all right now," Casey said, wanting to touch him, not knowing whether to or not. He looked so dignified in his misery, trying to sound so calm, yet just a little boy to her.

"Chinese and Japanese are really very sensible, Casey. Their... their superstitions make life easier. I suppose their infant mortality rate was so awful in olden days that that made some wise father invent that wisdom to save a mother's grief." He sighed. "Or more likely, some wiser mother invented it to succour a broken father. Eh?".

"Probably," she said, out of her depth, watching his hands make the tea. First boiling water into the teapot, the pot rinsed carefully, then the water thrown away. Three spoons of tea and one for the pot, the boiling water brought to the pot. "Sorry we've no tea bags, I can't get used to them though Fleur says they're just as good and cleaner. Sorry, tea's all we've got." He brought the tea tray into the living room and set it on the dining table. "Milk and sugar?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, never having had it that way.

It tasted strange. But strong and life-giving. They drank in silence. He smiled faintly. "Christ, without a cuppa, eh?"

"It's great."

His eyes saw his half-opened book. "Oh!"

"I like what I've read so far, Peter. How true is it?"

Absently he poured himself another cup. "As true as any telling about any happening fifteen years after the event. As best as I can remember the incidents are accurate. The people in the book didn't live, though people like them did and said those sort of things and did those deeds."

"It's unbelievable. Unbelievable that people, youths could survive that. How old were you then?"

"Changi began when I was just eighteen and ended when I was twenty-one—twenty-one and a bit."

"Who're you in the book?"

"Perhaps I'm not there at all."

Casey decided to let that pass. For the time being. Until she had finished. "I'd better go. You must be exhausted."

"No, I'm not. Actually, I'm not tired. I've got some notes to write up—I'll sleep after the kids're off to school. But you, you must be. I can't thank you enough, Casey. I owe you a favour."

She smiled and shook her head. After a pause she said, "Peter, you know so much about this place, who would you go with, Dunross or Gornt?"

"In business, Gornt. For the future, Dunross, if he can weather this storm. From what I hear, though, that's not likely."

"Why Dunross for the future?"

"Face. Gornt hasn't the style to be the tai-pan—or the necessary background."

"Is that so important?"

"Totally, here. If Par-Con wants a hundred years of growth, Dunross. If you're in just for a killing, a quick in-and-out raid, go with Gornt."

She finished her tea thoughtfully. "What do you know about Orlanda?"

"Lots," he said at once. "But knowing scandal or gossip about a living person isn't the same as knowing legends or gossip about ancient times. Is it?"

She watched him back. "Even for a favour?"

"That's different." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you asking for a favour?"

She set her teacup down and shook her head. "No, Peter, not now. I might later but not now." She saw his frown deepen. "What?" she asked.

"I was wondering why Orlanda was a threat to you. Why tonight? Obviously, that leads to Linc. That leads inevitably to: she's out with him now, which explains why you sounded so ghastly when I called."

"Did I?"

"Yes. Oh, of course, I'd noticed Linc looking at her at Aberdeen and you looking at him and her looking at you." He sipped some tea, his face hardening. "That was quite a party. Lots of beginnings at that party, great tensions, big drama. Fascinating, if you can disassociate yourself from it. But you can't, can you?"

"Do you always watch and listen?"

"I try to train myself as an observer. I try to use my ears and eyes and other senses, properly, as they should be used. You're the same. Not much escapes you."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Orlanda's Hong Kong-trained and Gornt-trained and if you plan a clash with her over Linc you'd better be prepared for a battle royal—if she's decided to try to grab him, which I don't know yet."

"Would Gornt be using her?"

After a pause, he said, "I'd imagine Orlanda's Orlanda's keeper. Aren't most ladies?"

"Most ladies gear their lives to a man, whether they want to or not."

"From what I know about you, you can take care of any opposition."

"What do you know about me?"

"Lots." Again the faint, easy, gentle smile. "Amongst them, that you're smart, brave and have great face."

"I'm so tired of face, Peter. In the future..." Her smile was equally warm. "From here on in, in my book, a person's going to gain ass—or arse as you call it—or lose it."

He laughed with her. "The way you say it sounds more ladylike."

"I'm no lady."

"Oh but you are." He added more gently, "I saw the way Linc looked at you at Dunross's party too. He loves you. And he'd be a fool to swap you for her."

"Thank you, Peter." She got up and kissed him and left, at peace. When she got out of the elevator on her floor, Nighttime Song was there. He padded ahead of her and opened her door with a flourish. He saw her eyes go to the door at the end of the corridor.

"Master not home," he volunteered grandly. "Not yet come back."

Casey sighed. "You've just lost more ass, old friend."

"Eh?"

The driveway curled and stopped outside an ornate Chinese mansion. Dunross got out. Another servant greeted him silently. The grounds were well kept and down a slope was a tennis court where four Chinese, two men and two women, were playing mixed doubles. They paid no attention to him and Dunross did not recognise any of them.

"Please follow me, tai-pan," the servant said.

Dunross hid his curiosity as he was shown into an anteroom. This was the first time he or anyone that he knew had ever been invited into Tiptop's home. The interior was clean and busy with the strange, careless but usual Chinese mixture of good lacquer antiques and ugly modern bric-a-brac. Walls were panelled and ornate with a few bad prints hanging on them. He sat down. Another servant brought tea and poured.

Dunross could feel that he was being observed but this too was usual. Most of these old houses had spyholes in the walls and doors—there were many even in the Great House.

When he had got back to the Great House this morning near 4:00 A.M. he had gone straight to his study and opened the safe. There was no doubt, with even a cursory glance, that one of the two remaining coins fitted the imprints that were in Four Finger Wu's beeswax matrix. No doubt at all. His fingers were trembling when he broke the half-coin from its restraining sealing wax in Dirk Struan's Bible and cleaned it. It fitted the indentations perfectly.

"Christ," he had muttered. "Now what?" Then he had put the matrix and the coin back into the safe. His eyes saw the loaded automatic and the empty space where AMG's files had been. Uneasily he had relocked the safe and went to bed. There was a message on his pillow: "Father dear: Will you wake me when you leave? We want to watch the tryouts. Love, Adryon. P.S. Can I invite Martin to the races Saturday please please please? P.P.S. I think he's super. P.P.P.S. You're super too. P.P.P.P.S. You're out late, aren't you? Now it's 3:16!!!!"

He had tiptoed to her room and opened her door but she was fast asleep. When he had left this morning he had had to knock twice to awaken her. "Adryon! It's 6:30."

"Oh! Is it raining?" she said sleepily.

"No. Soon will be. Shall I open the blinds?"

"No, Father dear, thank you... doesn't matter, Martin won't... won't mind." She had stifled a yawn. Her eyes had closed and, almost instantly, she was deep asleep again.