James clavell

"Of course."

There was a small silence within the muted thunder of the diesel engines below. Immediately sensing Gornt wanted privacy, Orlanda got up with a smile. "Excuse me a second, I just want to powder my nose."

"Use the forward cabins, the forward gangway, Orlanda," Gornt said, watching her.

"Thank you," she said and walked off, in one way glad, in another hurt. The forward cabins were for guests. She would have automatically gone down this gangway to the main cabin, to the toilet off the master suite—the suite that once was theirs. Never mind. The past is the past and now there's Linc, she thought, going forward.

Bartlett sipped his wine, wondering why Orlanda had seemed to hesitate. He concentrated on Gornt. "How many does this boat sleep?"

"Ten comfortably. There's a regular crew of four—captain-engineer, a deckhand, cook and steward. I'll show you around later if you like." Gornt lit a cigarette. "You don't smoke?"

"No, no thanks."

"We can cruise for a week without refuelling. If necessary. We still conclude our deal on Tuesday?"

"That's still D Day."

"Have you changed your mind? About Struan's?"

"Monday'll still decide the battle. Monday at 3:00 P.M. When the market closes, you've got Ian or you haven't and it's a standoff again."

"This time it won't be a standoff. He's ruined."

"It sure as hell looks that way."

"Are you still going to Taipei with him?"

"That's still the plan."

Gornt took a deep drag of his cigarette. His eyes checked the lie of his ship. They were well out into the main channel. Gornt got up and stood beside the captain a moment but the captain had also seen the small unlit junk ahead and he skirted it without danger. "Full ahead," Gornt said and came back. He refilled the glasses, chose one of the deep-fried dim sum and looked at the American. "Linc, may I be blunt?"

"Sure."

Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"As you probably know, she and I were very good friends once. Very good. Hong Kong's a very gossipy place and you'll hear all sorts of rumours, but we're still friends though we haven't been together for three years." Gornt looked at him under his shaggy black-grey eyebrows. "I just wanted to say that I wouldn't want her harmed." His teeth glinted with his smile in the gimbaled light over the table. "And she's as fine a person and companion as you could find."

"I agree."

"Sorry, don't want to belabour anything, just wanted to make three points, one man to another. That was the first. The second's that she's as closed-mouthed as any woman I've ever known. The third's that she's nothing to do with business—I'm not using her, she's not a prize, or bait or anything like that."

Bartlett let the silence hang. Then he nodded. "Sure."

"You don't believe me?"

Bartlett laughed. It was a good laugh. "Hell, Quillan, this's Hong Kong! I'm out of my depth in more ways than you can shake a stick at. I don't even know if Pok Liu Chau's the name of the restaurant, a part of Hong Kong or in Red China." He drank the wine, enjoying it. "As to Orlanda, she's great and you've no need to worry. I got the message."

"I hope you don't mind my mentioning it."

Bartlett shook his head. "I'm glad you did." He hesitated, then because the other man was open he decided to get everything into the open. "She told me about the child."

"Good."

"Why the frown?"

Bartlett felt the power of the eyes watching him and he tried to read if there was envy there. "I hope she does. She said you'd been great to her since you split. And to her folks."

"They're nice people. It's rough in Asia to raise five children, raise them well. It was always our company policy to help families where we could." Gornt sipped his wine. "The first time I saw Orianda was when she was ten. It was a Saturday at the races in Shanghai. In those days everyone would dress up in their best clothes and stroll the paddocks. It was her first formal coming out. Her father was a manager in our shipping division—a good fellow, Eduardo Ramos, third-generation Macao, his wife pure Shang-hainese. But Orlanda..." Gornt sighed. "Orlanda was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. Her dress was white... I don't remember seeing her after that until she came back from school. She was almost eighteen then and, well, I fell madly in love with her." Gornt looked up from his glass. "I can't tell you how lucky I felt all those years with her." His eyes hardened. "Did she tell you I broke the man who seduced her?"

"Yes."

Bartlett felt a sudden warmth toward the other man. "I appreciate them." He leaned forward to accept more wine. "Why don't we leave it this way. Come Tuesday all debts and friendships are cancelled and we start fresh. All of us. "

"Meanwhile, which side are you on?" Gornt asked, the front of his face a smile.

"For the raid, yours, one hundred percent!" Bartlett said at once. "For Par-Con's probe into Asia? I'm in the middle. I wait for the winner. I lean toward you and I hope you're the winner, but I'm waiting."

"The two aren't the same?"

"No. I set the ground rules of the raid way back. I said the raid was a onetime operation, a fool's mate." Bartlett smiled. "Sure, Quillan, I'm a hundred percent with you on the raid—didn't I put up the 2 million with no chop, no paper, just a handshake?"

After a pause, Gornt said, "In Hong Kong, sometimes that's more valuable. I haven't the exact figures but on paper we're between 24 and 30 million HK ahead."

Bartlett raised his glass. "Hallelujah! But meanwhile how about the bank run? How will that affect us?"

Gornt frowned. "I don't think it will. Our market's very volatile but Blacs and the Vic are solid, unbreakable, the government has to support both of them. There's a rumour the governor'll declare Monday a bank holiday and close the banks for as long as needed—it's just a matter of time before cash becomes available to stop the loss of confidence. Meanwhile, a lot will get burned and a lot of banks will go to the wall but that shouldn't affect our plan."

"When do you buy back in?"

"That depends on when you dump Struan's."

"How about noon Monday? That gives you plenty of time before closing for you and your secret nominees to buy after the news leaks and the shares go down some more."

"Excellent. Chinese work on rumours, very much, so the market can swing from boom to bust or vice versa very easily. Noon is fine. You'll do that in Taipei?"

"Yes."

"Casey'll give it to you."

"She knows? About the plan?"

"Yes. Now she does. How many shares do you need for control?"

"You should have that information."

"That's the only piece missing."

"When we buy in we'll have enough to give us at least three immediate seats on the board and Ian's through. Once we're on the board Struan's is in our power, and then, very soon, I merge Struan's with Rothwell-Gornt."

"And you're tai-pan of the Noble House."

"Yes." Gornt's eyes glinted. He refilled the glasses. "Health!"

"Health!"

They drank, content with their deal. But in their secret hearts neither trusted the other, not even a little. Both were very glad they had contingency plans—if need be.

Grim-faced, the three men came out of Government House and got into Crosse's car. Crosse drove. Sinders sat in the front, Rosemont in the back and both of them held on tightly to their still unread copies of the AMG files. The night was dark, the sky scudding and the traffic heavier than usual.

Rosemont, sitting in the back, said, "You think the guv'll read the originals before he shreds them?"

"I would," Sinders replied without turning to look at him.

"Sir Geoffrey's much too clever to do that," Crosse said. "He won't shred the originals until your copy's safely in the minister's hands, just in case you don't arrive. Even so he's far too shrewd to read something that could be an embarrassment to Her Majesty's plenipotentiary and therefore Her Majesty's Government."

Again there was a silence.

Then, unable to hold back anymore, Rosemont said coldly, "What about Metkin? Eh? Where was the foul-up, Rog?"

"Bombay. The aircraft had to have been sabotaged there, if it was sabotage."

"For chrissake, Rog, gotta be. Of course someone was tipped.

Where was the leak? Your goddamn mole again?" He waited but neither man answered him. "What about the Ivanov, Rog? You going to impound her and make a sudden search?"

"The governor checked with London and they thought it unwise to create an incident."

"What the hell do those meatheads know?" Rosemont said angrily. "She's a spy ship, for chrissake! Betcha fifty to a bent hatpin we'd get current code books, a look at the best surveillance gear in the USSR and five or six KGB experts. Huh?"

"Of course you're right, Mr. Rosemont," Sinders said thinly. "But we can't, not without the necessary approval."

"Let me and my guys d—"

"Absolutely not!" Irritably Sinders took out his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Crosse offered his.

"So you're going to let 'em get away with it?"

"I'm going to invite the captain, Captain Suslev, to HQ tomorrow and ask him for an explanation," Sinders said.

"I'd like to be party to that."

"I'll consider it."

"You'll have an official okay before 9:00 A.M."

Sinders snapped, "Sorry, Mr. Rosemont, but if I wish I can override any directives from your brass while I'm here."

"We're allies for chrissake!"

Crosse said sharply, "Then why did you raid 32 Sinclair Towers, uninvited?"

Rosemont sighed and told them.

Thoughtfully Sinders glanced at Crosse, then back at Rosemont. "Who told you that it was an enemy safe house, Mr. Rosemont?"

"We've a wide network of informers here. It was part of a debriefing. I can't tell you who but I'll give you copies of the sets of fingerprints off the glass we got if you want them."

Sinders said, "That would be very useful. Thank you."

"That still doesn't absolve you from a fatuous, unauthorised raid," Crosse said coldly.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?" Rosemont flared and his chin jutted. "We all make mistakes. Like Philby, Burgess and Maclean! London's so goddamn smart, eh? We've a hot tip you've a fourth guy—higher up, equally well placed and laughing at you."

Crosse and Sinders were startled. They glanced at one another. Then Sinders craned around. "Who?"

"If I knew, he'd be jumped. Philby got away with so much of our stuff it cost us millions to regroup and recede."

Sinders said, "Sorry about Philby. Yes, we all feel very bad about him."

"We all make mistakes and the only sin's failure, right? If I'd caught a couple of enemy agents last night you'd be cheering. So I failed. I said I'm sorry, okay? I'll ask next time, okay?"

Crosse said, "You won't but it would save us all a lot of grief if you did."

"What have you heard about a fourth man?" Sinders asked, his face pale, the stubble of his beard making him appear even more soiled than he was.

"Last month we busted another Commie ring, Stateside. Shit, they're like roaches. This cell was four people, two in New York, two in Washington. The guy in New York was Ivan Egorov, another officer in the UN Secretariat." Rosemont added bitterly, "Jesus, why don't our side wake up that the goddamn UN's riddled with plants, and the best Soviet weapon since they stole our goddamn bomb! We caught Ivan Egorov and his wife Alessandra passing industrial espionage secrets, computers. The guys in Washington, both'd taken American names of real people who were dead: a Roman Catholic priest and a woman from Connecticut. The four bastards were tied in with a joker from the Soviet Embassy, an attache who was their controller. We pounced on him trying to recruit one of our CIA guys to spy for them. Sure. But before we ordered him out of the States, we frightened him enough to blow the cover on the other four. One of them tipped us that Philby wasn't kingpin, that there was a fourth man."

Sinders coughed and lit another cigarette from the stub of the other. "What did he say. Exactly?"

"Only that Philby's cell was four. The fourth's the guy who inducted the others, the controller of the cell and the main link to the Soviets. Rumour was he's up there. VVIP."

"What sort? Political? Foreign Office? Gentry?"

Rosemont shrugged. "Just VVIP."

Sinders stared at him, then went back into his shell. Crosse swung into Sinclair Road, and stopped at his own apartment to let Sinders off, then drove to the consulate that was near Government House. Rosemont got a copy of the fingerprints then guided Crosse to his office. The office was large and well stocked with liquor. "Scotch?"

"Vodka with a dash of Rose's lime juice," Crosse said, eyeing the AMG files that Rosemont had put carelessly on his desk.

"Health." They touched glasses. Rosemont drank his Scotch deeply. "What's on your mind, Rog? You've been like a cat on a hot tin roof all day."

Crosse nodded at the files. "It's them. I want that mole. I want Sevrin smashed."

Rosemont frowned. "Okay," he said after a pause, "let's see what we got."

He picked up the first file, put his feet on the desk and began reading. It took him barely a couple of minutes to finish, then he passed it over to Crosse who read equally fast. Quickly they went through the files one by one. Crosse closed the last page of the last one and handed it back. He lit a cigarette.

"Too much to comment on now," Rosemont muttered absently.

Crosse caught an undercurrent in the American's voice and wondered if he was being tested. "One thing jumps out," he said, watching Rosemont. "These don't compare in quality with the other one, the one we intercepted."

Rosemont nodded. "I got that too, Rog. How do you figure it?"

"These seem flat. All sorts of questions are unanswered. Sevrin's skirted, so's the mole." Crosse toyed with his vodka then finished it. "I'm disappointed."

Rosemont broke the silence. "So either the one we got was unique and different, written differently, or these're phonies or phonied up?"

"Yes."

"Either actually, or in his head."

"What do you mean?"

"He's supposed to have a photographic memory. He could have destroyed the real ones and prepared these, but still remember the others."

"Ah, so he could be debriefed if he... if he's cheated us."

Crosse lit another cigarette. "Yes. If the powers-that-be decided it was necessary." He looked up at Rosemont. "Of course, any such debriefing would be highly dangerous and would have to be ordered solely under the Official Secrets Act."

Rosemont's used face became even grimmer. "Should I take the ball and run?"

"No. First we have to be sure. That should be relatively easy." Crosse glanced at the liquor cabinet. "May I?"

"Sure. I'll take another shot of whiskey."

Crosse handed him the refill. "I'll make a deal with you: You really cooperate, completely, you don't do anything without telling me in advance, no secrets, no jumping the gun..."

"In return for?"

Crosse smiled his thin smile and took out some photocopies. "How would you like to influence, perhaps even control, certain presidential hopefuls—perhaps even an election?"

"I don't follow you."

Crosse passed over the letters of Thomas K. K. Lim that Armstrong and his team had acquired in the raid on Bucktooth Lo two days before. "It seems that certain very rich, very well-connected U. S. families are in league with certain U. S. generals to build several large but unnecessary airfields in Vietnam, for personal gain. This documents the how, when and who. " Crosse told him where and how the papers had been found and added, "Isn't Senator Wilf Tillman, the one that's here now, a presidential hopeful? I imagine he'd make you head of the CIA for these goodies—*if* you wanted to give them to him. These two're even juicier." Crosse put them on the desk. "These document how certain rather well-connected politicians and the same well-connected families have got congressional approval to channel millions into a totally fraudulent aid program in Vietnam .8 millions have already been paid over."

Rosemont read the letters. His face went chalky. He picked up the phone. "Get me Ed Langan." He waited a moment, then his face went suddenly purple. "I don't give a goddamn!" he rasped. "Get off your goddamn butt and get Ed here right now." He slammed the phone back onto its hook, cursing obscenely, opened his desk, found a bottle of antacid pills and took three. "I'll never make fifty at this rate," he muttered. "Rog, this joker, Thomas K. K. Lim, can we have him?"

"If you can find him, be my guest. He's somewhere in South America." Crosse put down another paper. "This's Anti-Corruption's confidential report. You shouldn't have any trouble tracking him."

Rosemont read it. "Jesus." After a pause he said, "Can we keep this between us? It's liable to blow the roof off a couple of our national monuments."

"Of course. We have a deal? Nothing hidden on either side?"

"Okay." Rosemont went to the safe and unlocked it. "One good turn deserves another." He found the file he was looking for, took out some papers, put the file back and relocked the safe. "Here, these're photocopies. You can have "em."

The photocopies were headed "Freedom Fighter" dated this month and last month. Crosse went through them quickly and whistled from time to time. They were espionage reports, their quality excellent. All the items dealt with Canton, happenings in and around that vital capital city of Kwantung Province: troop movements, promotions, appointments to the local praesidiums and Communist Party, floods, food shortages, the military, numbers and types of East German and Czechoslovak goods available in the stores. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"We've a cell operating in Canton. This's one of their reports, we get them monthly. Shall I give you a copy?"

"Yes. Yes thank you. I'll check it out through our sources for accuracy."

"They're accurate, Rog. Of course top secret, yes? I don't want my guys blown like Fong-fong. We'll keep this between you'n me, okay?"

"All right."

The American got up and put out his hand. "And Rog, I'm sorry about the raid."

"Yes."

"No thanks, I'll be off," Crosse said.

Rosemont stabbed a blunt finger at the letters. "About those, thanks. Yeah, thanks but..." He stopped a moment, near tears of rage. "Sometimes I'm so sick to my stomach what our own guys'll do for goddamn dough even if it's a goddamn pile of goddamn gold I'd like to die. You know what I mean?"

"Oh yes!" Crosse kept his voice kind and gentle but he was thinking, How naive you are, Stanley! In a moment he left and went to police HQ and checked out the fingerprints in his private files, then got back into his car and headed haphazardly toward West Point. When he was sure that he was not being followed, he stopped at the next phone booth and dialled. In a moment the phone was picked up at the other end. No answer, just breathing. At once Crosse coughed Arthur's dry hacking cough and spoke in a perfect imitation of Arthur's voice. "Mr. Lop-sing please."

"There's no Mr. Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number."

Contentedly Crosse recognised Suslev. "I want to leave a message," he said continuing the code in the same voice that both he and Jason Plumm used on the telephone, both of them finding it very useful to be able to pretend to be Arthur whenever necessary, thus further covering each other and their real identities.

When the code was complete, Suslev said, "And?"

Crosse smiled thinly, glad to be able to dupe Suslev. "I've read the material. So has Our Friend." Our friend was Arthur's code name for himself, Roger Crosse.

"Ah! And?"

"And we both agree it's excellent." Excellent was a code word meaning counterfeit or false information.

A long pause. "So?"

"Can our friend contact you, Saturday at four?" Can Roger Crosse contact you tonight at 10:00 P.M. at safe phones?

"Yes. Thank you for calling." Yes. Message understood.

Crosse replaced the receiver.

He took out another coin and dialled again.

"Hello?"

"Oh hello, Superintendent, this's a pleasant surprise," Plumm replied. "Is our bridge game still on for tomorrow?" Did you make the intercept of the AMG files?

"Yes," Crosse said, then added casually, "But instead of six could we make it eight?" Yes, but we're safe, no names were mentioned.

There was a great sigh of relief. Then Plumm said, "Shall I tell the others?" Do we meet tonight as arranged?

"No, no need to disturb them tonight, we can do that tomorrow." No. We'll meet tomorrow.

"Fine. Thank you for calling."

Crosse went back down the crowded street. Very pleased with himself, he got into his car and lit a cigarette. I wonder what Suslev—or his bosses—would think if they knew I was the real Arthur, not Jason Plumm. Secrets within secrets within secrets and Jason the only one who knows who Arthur really is!

He chuckled.

The KGB would be furious. They don't like secrets they're not party to. And they'd be even more furious if they knew it was I who inducted Plumm and formed Sevrin, not the other way around.

It had been easy to arrange. When Crosse was in Military Intelligence in Germany at the tail end of the war, information was whispered to him privately that Plumm, a signals expert, was operating a clandestine transmitter for the Soviets. Within a month he had got to know Plumm and had established the truth of this but almost immediately the war had ended. So he had docketed the information for future use—to barter with, or against a time he might want to switch sides. In espionage you never know when you're being set up, or betrayed, or being sold for something or someone more valuable. You always need secrets to barter with, the more important the secrets the safer you are, because you never know when you or an underling or overling will make the mistake that leaves you as naked and as helpless as a spiked butterfly. Like Voranski. Like Metkin. Like Dunross with his phony files. Like Rosemont with his naive idealism. Like Gregor Suslev, his fingerprints from the glass now on record with the CIA and so in a trap of my own choosing.

Crosse laughed aloud. He let in the clutch, easing out into the traffic. Switching sides and playing them all off against each other makes life exciting, he told himself. Yes, secrets really do make life very exciting indeed.

61
9:45 PM

"You're not really supposed to eat any, Linc!" Orlanda laughed. "That sort of dramatises to your host that you're full to bursting!"

"You can say that again, Orlanda! Quillan, it's been fantastic!"

"Yes, yes it was, Quillan," she echoed. "You chose beautifully." The restaurant was beside a small wharf near a fishing village—drab and lit with bare bulbs and furnished with oilcloth on the tables and bad chairs and broken tiles on the floor. Behind it was an alley of fish tanks where the daily catch of the island was kept for sale. Under the proprietor's direction they chose from what was swimming in the tanks: prawns, squid, shrimps, lobster, small crabs and fish of all kinds of shapes and sizes.