James clavell

"That's not much," he said.

"Oh but it is it is it is!" Orlanda had never looked prettier to him, her hat cute, much better than Casey's—he'd noticed it at once and complimented her on it. She moved forward and leaned on the railing and looked down at the winner's circle. "There's the owner, Vee Cee Ng, he's one of our Shanghainese trader-shipping millionaires. My father knew him quite well." She gave him the glasses.

Bartlett focused. The man leading the garlanded horse into the winner's circle was expensively dressed, a beaming, well-set Chinese in his fifties. Then Bartlett recognised Havergill leading in his Win-well Stag, second, defeated by a nose. In the paddock he saw Gornt, Plumm, Pugmire and many of the stewards. Dunross was near the rails talking to a smaller man. The governor was walking from group to group with his wife and aide. Bartlett watched them, envying them a little, the owners standing there with their caps and raincoats and shooting sticks and expensive women and girl friends, greeting one another, all members of the inner club, the powerhouse of Hong Kong, there and in the boxes above. All very British, he thought, all very clever. Will I fit in better than Biltzmann? Sure. Unless they want me out as much as they wanted him out. I'll be a voting member easy. Ian said as much. Would Orlanda fit there? Of course. As wife or girl friend, it's all the same.

"Who's that?" he asked. "The man talking to Ian?"

"Oh that's Alexi Travkin, he's the tai-pan's trainer...." She stopped as Robert Armstrong came up to them.

"Afternoon, Mr. Bartlett," he said politely. "Did you back the winner too?"

"No, no I lost this one. May I introduce Miss Ramos, Orlanda Ramos, Superintendent Robert Armstrong, CID."

"Hello." She smiled back at Armstrong, and he saw her immediate caution. Why are they all frightened of us, the innocent as well as the guilty? he asked himself, when all we do is try to enforce their laws, try to protect them from villains and the ungodly. It's because everyone breaks some law, even a little one, every day, most days, because a lot of laws are stupid—like our betting laws here. So everyone's guilty, even you, pretty lady with the oh so sensual walk and oh so promising smile. For Bartlett. What crime have you committed today, to snare this poor innocent? Sardonically he smiled to himself. Not so innocent in most things. But against someone trained by Quillan Gornt? A beautiful, hungry Eurasian girl with no place to go but down? Ayeeyah! But oh how I'd like to swap places! Yes, you with your guns, money, birds like Casey and this one and meetings with the offal of the world like Banastasio, oh yes—I'd give ten years of my life, more, because today I swear to God I loathe what I have to do, what only I can do for good old England.

"Did you back the favourite too?" she was asking. "No, no unfortunately."

"This's her second winner," Bartlett said proudly. "Ah, if you're on a winning streak, who do you fancy in the fifth?"

"I've been trying to decide, Superintendent. I've no tips—it's wide open. What's yours?"

"Winning Billy's tipped, I hear. I can't make up my mind either. Well, good luck." Armstrong left them, heading for the betting windows. He had put 500 on the third-placed horse, covering his other bets. He always chose a main bet and then hedged it with others, hoping to come out ahead. Most times he did. This afternoon he was a little behind, but he still hadn't touched the 40,000.

In the corridor he hesitated. The Snake, Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth, was turning away from one of the crowded winning windows, a roll of money in his hand. "Hello, Robert. How're you doing?"

"So-so. You're in the big time again?"

"I try." The Snake bent closer. "How is everything?"

"Proceeding." Once more Armstrong felt nauseated at the thought of more of the Red Room, then sitting there, letting Brian Kwok's mind spill out his most secret secrets, working against the clock that was ticking away—all of them aware that the governor was asking London for permission to trade. "You're not looking so good, Robert."

"I don't feel so good. Who's going to win the fifth?"

"I leaned on your friend Clubfoot at the Para. The word is Pilot Fish. He did tip Buccaneer in the first, though with this going anything could happen."

"Yes. Anything on the Werewolves?"

"Nothing. It's a dead end. I'm having the whole area combed but with this rain it's almost hopeless. I did interview Dianne Chen this morning—and John Chen's wife Barbara. They gave me sweet talk. I'd lay a fiver to a bent hatpin they know more than they're telling. I had a brief talk with Phillip Chen but he was equally uncooperative. Poor bugger's pretty shook." The Snake looked up at him. "By chance did Mary have any clue about John?"

Armstrong looked back at him. "I haven't had a chance to ask her. Tonight—if they give me any peace."

"They won't." Smyth's face crinkled with a twisted smile. "Put your 40 on Pilot Fish."

"What 40?"

"A dickie bird twittered that a certain golden nest egg has flown your coop—to mix metaphors." The smaller man shrugged. "Don't worry, Robert, have a flutter. There's plenty more where that came from. Good luck." He went away. Armstrong stared after him, hating him.

The bugger's right though, he thought, his chest hurting. There's plenty more but once you take the first, what about the second and though you give nothing, admit nothing, guarantee nothing, there will come a time. As sure as God made little apples there's always a return payment.

Mary. She needs that holiday, needs it so much and there's the stockbroker's bill and all the other bills and oh Christ, with this market gone crazy I'm almost wiped out. God curse money—or the lack of it.

40 on a winning quinella'd solve everything. Or do I put it all on Pilot Fish? All or half or none. If it's all, there's plenty of time to place bets at other windows.

His feet took him to one of the betting lines. Many recognised him and those who did, feeling their instant internal fear, wished the police had their own box and own windows and did not mix with honest citizens. Four Finger Wu was one of these. Hastily he put 50,000 on a quinella of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass and fled back to the members' room, gratefully to sip his brandy and soda. Dirty dogmeat police to frighten honest citizens, he thought, waiting for Venus Poon to return. Eeeee, he chortled, her Golden Gul-ley's worth every carat of the diamond I promised her last night. Two Clouds and Rain before dawn and a promise of another bout on Sunday when the yang recovers his ju— A sudden roar from outside diverted his mind. At once he shoved his way through the crowds packing the balcony. The names of the fifth racehorses and their jockeys were coming up on the board, one by one. Pilot Fish, number one, got a full-bellied cheer; then Street Vendor, an outsider, two; Golden Lady, three and a ripple of excitement went through her many backers. When Noble Star, seven, flashed up there was a great roar and when the last, number eight, the favourite, Butterscotch Lass, there was an even greater roar. Down by the rail Dunross and Travkin were grimly inspecting the turf. It was torn and slippery. The nearer the rail, the worse it was. Above, the sky was blacker and lowering. A sprinkle started and a nervous groan slipped from fifty thousand throats.

"It's rotten, tai-pan," Travkin said, "the going's rotten."

"It's the same for everyone." Dunross let his mind reestimate the odds a last time. If I ride and win, the omen will be immense. If I ride and lose, the omen will be very bad. To be beaten by Pilot Fish would be even worse. I could be hurt easily. I can't afford... the Noble House can't aiford to be headless today, tomorrow or Monday. If Travkin rides and loses or finishes behind Pilot Fish that would be bad but not as bad. That would be joss.

But I won't get hurt. I'll win. I want this race more than anything in the world. I won't fail. I'm not sure about Alexi. I can win—if the gods are with me. Yes but how much are you prepared to gamble on the gods?

"Eeee, young Ian," Old Chen-chen had told him many times, "beware of expecting help from the gods, however much you petition them with gold or promises. Gods are gods and gods go out to lunch and sleep and get bored and turn their eyes away. Gods are the same as people: good and bad, lazy and strong, sweet and sour, stupid and wise! Why else are they gods, heya?"

Dunross could feel his heart thumping and could smell the warm, acrid, sweet-sour horse sweat, could sense the mind-blinding, spirit-curdling motioning, hands gripping the whip, bunched in the corner, now into the far straight, now into the last corner, the aching, grand sweet terror of speed, wielding the whip, jamming your heels in, outstretched now, carefully bumping Pilot Fish into the rails, putting him off his stride, and now into the straight, ripping into the straight, Pilot Fish behind, winning post ahead... come on come on... winning....

"We have to decide, tai-pan. It's time."

Dunross came back slowly, bile in his mouth. "Yes. You ride," he said, putting the House before himself.

And now that he had said it he put the rest aside and clapped Travkin warmly on the shoulders. "Win, Alexi, win by God."

The older man, gnarled and leathery, peered up at him. He nodded once, then walked off to change. As he went he noticed Suslev in the stands watching him through binoculars, A tremor went through him. Suslev had promised that this Christmas Nestorova would come to Hong Kong, she would be allowed to join him in Hong Kong—and stay in Hong Kong—at Christmas. If he cooperated. If he cooperated and did what was asked.

Do you believe that? No. No, not at all, those matyeryebyets are liars and betrayers but maybe this time... Christ Jesus why should I be ordered to meet Dunross at Sinclair Towers by night, late at night? Why? Christ Jesus, what should I do? Don't think, old man. You're old and soon you'll be dead but your first duty is to win. If you win, the tai-pan will do your bidding. If you lose? If you win or lose, how can you live with the shame of betraying the man who befriended you and trusts you? He went into the jockeys' room.

Behind him Dunross had turned to glance at the tote. The odds had shortened, the total amount at risk already two and a half million. Butterscotch Lass was 3 to 1, Noble Star 7 to 1, still no jockey listed, Pilot Fish 5 to 1, Golden Lady 7 to 1. Early yet, he thought, and so much time left to gamble. Travkin will shorten the odds. A cold shaft took him. I wonder if there's a deal going on right now, a deal among the trainers and jockeys? Christ, we all better be watching this one very carefully indeed. "Ah Ian!"

"Oh hello, sir." Dunross smiled at Sir Geoffrey who came up to him then looked at Havergill who was with the governor. "Pity about Winwell Stag, Paul, I thought he ran a grand race."

"Joss," Havergill said politely. "Who's riding Noble Star?"

"Travkin."

The governor's face lit up. "Ah, very good choice. Yes, he'll make a good race of it. For a moment, Ian, I was afraid you might be tempted."

"I was. Still am, sir." Dunross smiled faintly. "If Alexi gets hit by a bus between now and then, I'm riding her."

"Well, for the sake of all of us and the Noble House, let's hope that doesn't happen. We can't afford to have you hurt. The going looks terrible." Another swirl of rain came and passed by. "We've been very lucky so far. No bad accidents. If the rain starts in earnest, it might be worthwhile considering abandoning."

"We've already discussed it, sir. We're running a little late. The race'll be delayed ten minutes. So long as the weather holds for this race most people will be satisfied."

Sir Geoffrey watched him. "Oh by the way, Ian, I tried the minister a few minutes ago but I'm afraid he was already in meetings. I left word and he'll call back the moment he can. It seems the ramifications of this damned Profumo scandal are once more tearing at the very roots of the Conservative government. The press are screaming, quite rightly, in case there have been breaches of security. Until the Commission of Enquiry comes out next month, settling once and for all security aspects and rumours that others in the government are implicated or not, there'll be no peace."

"Yes," Havergill said. "But surely the worst's over, sir. As to the report, certainly it won't be adverse."

"Adverse or not, this scandal will wreck the Conservatives," Dunross said soberly, remembering AMG's forecast in the last report.

"Good God, I hope not." Havergill was aghast. "Those two twits, Grey and Broadhurst, in power amongst all the other Socialist shower? If their press conference was any indication, we might as well all go home."

"We are home, and it all comes home to roost. Eventually," Sir Geoffrey said sadly. "Anyway, Ian made the correct decision, not to ride." He glanced at Havergill and his gaze sharpened. "As I said, Paul, it's important to make correct decisions. It would be a very poor show if the Ho-Pak's depositors were wiped out, perhaps just because of poor judgment by Richard Kwang and the lack of a benevolent decision by those who could avoid such a disaster if they wished—perhaps to great profit. Eh?"

"Yes sir."

Sir Geoffrey nodded and left them.

Dunross said, "What was that about?"

"The governor thinks we should rescue the Ho-Pak," Havergill said offhandedly.

"Why don't you?"

"Let's talk about the General Stores takeover."

"First let's finish the Ho-Pak. The governor's right, it would benefit all of us, Hong Kong—and the bank."

"You'd be in favour?"

"Yes, of course."

"You'll approve, you and your block will approve making the takeover?"

"I don't have a block but certainly I'll support a reasonable takeover."

Paul Havergill smiled thinly. "I was thinking of 20 cents on the dollar on Richard's holdings."

Dunross whistled. "That's not much."

"By Monday night he'll have zero. He'll probably settle for that—his holdings would give the bank control. We could easily stand surety for 100 percent of his depositors."

"He's got that amount of securities?"

"No, but with the normalisation of the market and our judicious management, over a year or two it's true the acquisition of the Ho-Pak could greatly benefit us. Oh yes. And there's a desperate need to restore confidence. Such a takeover would help immeasurably."

"This afternoon would be a perfect announcement time."

"I agree. Anything on Tiptop?"

Dunross studied him. "Why the sudden change around, Paul? And why discuss it with me?"

"There's no change around. I've considered the Ho-Pak very carefully. The acquisition would be good bank policy." Havergill watched him. "We'll give him face and offer him a seat on our board."

"So the rumours about the Big Bank are true?"

"Not to my knowledge," the banker said coldly. "As to why discuss it with you? Because you're a director of the bank, presently the most important one, with substantial influence on the board. That's a sensible thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yes, but."

Havergill's eyes became colder. "The interests of the bank have nothing to do with my distaste for you, or your methods. But you were right about Superfoods. You made a good offer at a perfect time and sent a wave of confidence soaring through everyone here. It's bound to spread over all Hong Kong. It was brilliant timing and now if we follow it up and announce we've assumed all the Ho-Pak responsibilities to its depositors, that's another immense vote of confidence. All we need to do is get back confidence. If Tiptop comes to our assistance with his cash, Monday is boom day for Hong Kong. So first thing on Monday morning, Ian, we buy Struan's heavily. By Monday evening we'll assume control. However I'll make you a deal right now: we'll put up the 2 million for General Foods in return for half your bank stock."

"No thanks."

"We'll have it all by next weekend. We'll guarantee that 2 million in any event to cover the takeover and guarantee the overall offer you made to Pug—if you fail to avoid your own takeover."

"I won't."

"Of course. But you don't mind if I mention it to him and to that nosy little cretin Haply?"

"You're a bastard, aren't you?"

Havergill's thin lips twisted with his smile. "This is business—I want your block of bank stock. Your forebears bought it for nothing, practically stole it from the Brocks after smashing them. I want to do the same. And I want control of the Noble House. Of course. Like a great number of others. Probably even your American friend Bartlett if the truth were known. Where's the 2 million coming from?"

"It's manna from heaven."

"We'll find out sooner or later. We're your bankers and you owe us rather a lot of money! Will Tiptop bail us out?"

"I can't be sure but I talked to him last night. He was encouraging. He agreed to come here after lunch but he hasn't arrived yet. That's ominous."

"Yes." Havergill brushed some drizzle off his nose. "We've had a very positive response from the Trade Bank of Moscow."

"Even you're not that fat-headed!"

"It's a last resort, Ian. A serious last resort."

"You'll call an immediate board meeting to discuss the Ho-Pak takeover?"

"Good lord, no." Havergill was sardonic. "You think I'm that much of a fool? If we did that you could table the other directors about an extension of your loan. No, Ian, I propose to ask them individually, like you. With your agreement I have a majority already, the others of course fall into line. I do have your agreement?"

"At 20 cents on the dollar and full payout of investors, yes."

"I might need leeway to go to 30 cents. Agreed?"

"Yes."

"Your word?"

"Thank you."

"But you'll call a board meeting before Monday's opening?"

"I agreed to consider it. Only. I've considered it and the answer now is no. Hong Kong's a freebooting society where the weak fail and the strong keep the fruits of their labours." Havergill smiled and he glanced at the tote. The odds had shortened .2 to 1 on Butterscotch Lass, well known for liking the wet. Pilot Fish now 3 to 1. While they watched, Travkin's name flashed up alongside Noble Star and a huge roar accompanied it. "I think the governor was wrong, Ian. You should have ridden. Then I'd've put my modest bet on you. Yes. You'd have gone out in a blaze of glory. Yes, you would have won. I'm not sure about Travkin. Good afternoon." He raised his hat and headed for Richard Kwang who stood with his wife and trainer to one side. "Ah Richard! Can I have a word wi—" He was drowned by a huge roar from the crowd as the first of the eight runners for the fifth race began to trickle out from under the stands. Pilot Fish led the pack, the slight drizzle making his black coat shimmer.

"Yes, Paul?" Richard Kwang asked, following him into an empty space. "I wanted to talk to you but didn't want to interrupt you with the governor and the tai-pan. Now," he said with forced joviality, "I've a plan. Let's lump all the Ho-Pak's securities together and if you'll lend me 50 mill—"

"No thank you, Richard," Havergill said crisply. "But we do have a proposal that's good till five o'clock today. We'll bail out the Ho-Pak and guarantee all your depositors. In return we'll buy your personal holdings at par an—"

"Par? That's a fiftieth of their value!" Richard Kwang screeched. "That's a fiftieth of their worth—"

"Actually it's 5 cents on the dollar which is about all their value. Is it a deal?"

"No of course not. Dew neh loh moh, am I a dogmeat madman?" Richard Kwang's heart was almost bursting. A moment ago he had thought, impossibly, that Havergill was granting him a reprieve from the disaster that by now he was convinced was absolute, however much he pretended otherwise, however much it was not his fault but the work of rumormongers and malicious fools who had led him into inept banking deals. But now he was in the vise. Oh kol Now he would be squeezed and whatever he did he could not escape the tai-pans. Oh oh oh! Disaster on disaster and now that ungrateful strumpet Venus Poon making me lose face in front of Uncle Four Fingers, Charlie Wang and even Photographer Ng and that even after I delivered to her personally the new mink coat that she trails in the mud so carelessly.

"New?" she had flared this morning. "You claim this miserable secondhand coat is new?"

"Of course!" he had shouted. "Do you think I am a monkey? Of course it's new. It cost 50,000 cash oh ko!" The 50,000 was an exaggeration but the cash wasn't and they both were well aware that it would be uncivilised not to exaggerate. The coat had cost him 14,000, through an intermediary, after much bargaining from a quai loh who had fallen on hard times and another 2,000 to the furrier who had overnight shortened and altered it enough to fit and not to be recognised, with a guarantee that the furrier would swear by all the gods that he had sold it under price at 42 even though it was actually worth 63,500.

"Paul," Richard Kwang said importantly. "The Ho-Pak's in better shape th—"

"Kindly shut up and listen," Havergill said overriding him. "The time has come to make a serious decision—for you, not us. You can go under on Monday with nothing.... I understand trading's opening on your stock first thing."

"But Sir Luis assured me th—"

"I heard it was open for trading, so by Monday night you'll have no bank, no stock, no horses, no dollymoney to pay for mink coats for Venus P—"

"Eh?" Richard Kwang blanched, aware his wife was standing not twenty paces away, lugubriously watching them. "What mink coat?"

Havergill sighed. "All right, if you're not interested." He turned away but the banker caught him by the arm.

"5 cents is ridiculous .80 is nearer what I can get on the open mar—"

"Perhaps I can go to 7."

"7?" The banker began cursing, more to give himself time to think than anything. "I'll agree to a merger. A seat on the bank's board for ten years at a salary of f—"

"For five years, provided you give me your notarized resignation, undated, in advance, that you always vote exactly as *I* wish and at a salary equal to other directors."

"No resignation in adv—"

"Then so sorry no deal."

"I agree to that clause," Richard Kwang said grandly. "Now as to money. I th—"

"No. As to money, so sorry, Richard, I don't want to enter into a protracted negotiation. The governor, the tai-pan and I agree we should rescue the Ho-Pak. It is decided. I will see you retain face. We guarantee to keep the takeover price secret and are quite prepared to call it a merger—oh by the way, I want to make the announcement at 5:00 P.M., just after the seventh race. Or not at all." Havergill’s face was grim, but inside he was filled with glee. If it hadn't been for Dunross's announcement and the way it was being received he would have never considered doing the same. That bugger's quite right! It is time to be innovative and who better than us? It'll stop Southerby in his tracks and make us equal to Blacs at long last. With Struan's in our pocket next week, by next year "57 cents and that's a steal," Kwang said.

"I'll go to 10 cents."

Richard Kwang wheedled and twisted and almost wept and inside he was ecstatic with the chance of the bail-out. Dew neh loh moh, he wanted to shout, a few minutes ago I wouldn't be able to pay for Butterscotch Lass's feed next week let alone the diamond ring and now I'm worth at least $3 1/2 million U.S. and with judicious manipulation much more. "30 by all the gods!"

"11."

"Your pardon, Lord," his Chinese trainer said in Cantonese, coming up to him. "The race's put back ten minutes. Are there any instructions you wa—"