James clavell

"Just a habit, Linc, Casey, when I want to talk private," Banastasio said quietly.

Bartlett stared at him. "You think this place's bugged?"
"Maybe, maybe not. You never know who could be listening, huh?"

Bartlett glanced at Casey then back at Banastasio. "What's on your mind, Vincenzo?"

Banastasio smiled. "How's Par-Con?" the man asked.

"Same as ever—great," Bartlett said. "Our growth rate will be better'n forecast."

"By 7 percent," Casey added, all her senses equally sharpened.

"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"

"We're working on it." Bartlett covered his surprise. "Isn't this new for you, Vincenzo? Asking about deals before they happen?"

"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"

Bartlett watched the cold eyes and the strangely menacing smile. Casey was equally shocked. "When the deal's done I'll tell you. The same time I tell the other stockholders."

The smile did not change. The eyes got colder. "The boys and I'd like to get invol—"

"What boys?"

Banastasio sighed. "We've got a good piece of change in Par-Con, Linc, and now we'd like to figure in some of the up-front decisions. We figure I should have a seat on the board. And on the Finance Committee and the New Acquisitions Committee."

Bartlett and Casey stared at him openly. "That was never part of the stock deal," Bartlett told him. "Up front you said it was just an investment."

"That's right," Casey added, her voice sounding thin to her. "You wrote us you were just an investor an—"

"Times've changed, little lady. Now we want in. Got it?" The man's voice was harsh. "Just one seat, Linc. That much stock in General Motors and I'd have two seats."

"We're not General Motors."

"Sure. Sure, we know. But what we want isn't out of line. We want Par-Con to grow faster. Maybe I ca—"

"It's growing just fine. Don't you think it'd be bet—" Again Banastasio turned his bleak gaze on her. Casey stopped. Bartlett's fists began to clench but he held them still. Carefully.

Banastasio said, "It's settled." The smile came back. "I'm on the board from today, right?"

"Wrong. Directors get elected by the stockholders at the annual general meeting," Bartlett said, his voice raw. "Not before. There's no vacancy."

Banastasio laughed. "Maybe there will be."

"Do you want to say that again?"

Abruptly Banastasio hardened. "Listen, Linc, that's not a threat, just a possibility. I can be good on the board. I've got connections. And I want to put in my two cents' worth here and there."

"About what?"

"Deals. For instance, Par-Con goes with Gornt."

"And if I don't agree?"

"A little nudge from us and Dunross'll be on the street. Gornt's our boy, Linc. We checked and he's better."

Bartlett got up. Casey followed, her knees very weak. Banastasio didn't move. "I'll think about all this," Bartlett said. "As of right now it's a toss-up if we make a deal with either one."

Banastasio's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I'm not convinced that either's good for us. Right, Casey?"

"Yes, Linc."

"My vote says Gornt. Got it?"

"Go screw." Bartlett turned to go.

"Just a minute!" Banastasio stood up and came closer. "No one wants trouble, not me, not the boys, n—"

"What boys?"

Again the other man sighed. "C'mon, Linc, you're over twentyone. You've had a good ride. We don't want to make waves, just money."

"We have that in common. We'll buy back your stock and give you a profit of si—"

"No deal. It's not for sale." Another sigh. "We bought in when you needed dough. We paid a fair price and you used our cash to expand. Now we want a piece of the exec action. Got it?"

"I'll put it to the stockholders at the annual gen—"

"Goddamnit, now!"

"Goddamnit no!" Bartlett was ready and very dangerous. "Got it?"

Banastasio looked at Casey, his eyes flat like a reptile's. "That your vote too, Miss Executive Vice-President and Treasurer?"

"Yes," she said, surprised that her voice sounded firm. "No seat on the board, Mr. Banastasio. If it comes to a vote, my stock's against you and totally against Gornt."

"When we get control, you're fired."

"When you get control, I'll already have left." Casey walked toward the door, astonished that her legs worked.

Bartlett stood in front of the other man, on guard. "See you around," he said.

"You'd better change your mind!"

"You'd better stay the hell out of Par-Con." Bartlett turned and followed Casey out of the room.

At the elevator he said, "Jesus!"

"Yes," she muttered as helplessly.

"We'd... we'd better talk."

"Sure. I think I need a drink. Jesus, Linc, that man petrified me. I've never been so frightened in my whole life." She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. "That was like a goddamn nightmare."

In the bar on the top floor she ordered a martini and he a beer and when the drinks had been silently consumed, he ordered another round. All the while their minds had been sifting, pitting facts against theories, changing the theories.

Bartlett shifted in his chair. She looked across at him. "Ready for what I think?" she asked.

"Sure, sure, Casey. Go ahead."

"There's always been a rumour he's Mafia or connected with Mafia and after our little talk I'd say that's a good bet. Mafia jumps us to narcotics and all sorts of evil. Theory: maybe it also jumps us somehow to the guns?" The tiny lines beside Bartlett's eyes crinkled. "I reached that too. Next?"

"Fact: if Banastasio's scared of being bugged that jumps us to surveillance. That means FBI."

"Or CIA."

"Or CIA. Fact: if he's Mafia and if the CIA or FBI're involved, we're in a game we've no right to be in, with nowhere to go but down. Now, as to what he wan—" Casey stopped. She gasped.

"What?"

"Got to be. Sure. And if..." He stopped too. "Come to think of it, Ian brought up Banastasio out of the blue too. Tuesday, in the lobby when you were at the phone, just before we went to the gold vaults."

After a pause she said, "Maybe we're in real deep shit! Fact: we got a murder, kidnapping, guns, Banastasio, Mafia, John Chen. Come to think of it, John Chen and Tsu-yan were very friendly with that bum." Her eyes widened. "Banastasio and John Chen's killing. Does that tie? From what the papers've said, the Werewolves don't sound like Chinese—the ear bit. That's, that's brutal."

Bartlett sipped his beer, lost in thought. "Gornt? What about Gornt? Why did Banastasio go for him and not Struan's?"

"I don't know."

"Try this for size, Casey. Say Banastasio's end play is guns, or narcotics, or both guns and narcotics. Both companies would be good for him. Struan's have ships and a huge complex at the airport that dominates inward and outward cargoes, great for smuggling. Gornt has ships and wharfing too. And Gornt's got All Asia Airways. An in with Asia's major feeder airline would give him—them —what they need. The airline goes to Bangkok, India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan—wherever!"

"And connects here with Pan-Am, TWA, JAL and all places east, west, north and south! And if we help Gornt to smash Struan's, the two companies together give them everything."

"So, back to the sixty-four-dollar question: what do we do?" Bartlett asked.

"Couldn't we play a waiting game? The Struan-Gornt contest will be solved next week at the latest."

"For this skirmish, we need information—and the right counter-forces. Different guns, big guns, guns we don't have." He sipped his beer, even more thoughtful. "We'd better get some top-level advice. And help. Fast. It's Armstrong and the English cops—or Rosemont and the CIA."

"Or both?"

"Or both."

Dunross got out of the Daimler and hurried into police headquarters. "Evening, sir," the young Australian duty inspector on the desk said. "Sorry you lost the fifth—I heard Bluey White was carpeted for interference. Can't trust a bloody Aussie, eh?"

Dunross smiled. "He won, Inspector. The stewards ruled the race was won fair and square. I've an appointment with Mr. Crosse."

"Yes sir, square but not fair dinkum. Top floor, third on the left. Good luck next Saturday, sir."

Crosse met him on the top floor. "Evening. Come on in. Drink?"

"No thanks. Good of you to see me at once. Evening, Mr. Sind-ers." They shook hands. Dunross had never been in Crosse's office before. The walls seemed as drab as the man and when the door was shut on the three of them the atmosphere seemed to close in even more.

"Please sit down," Crosse said. "Pity about Noble Star—we were both on her."

"She'll be worth another flutter on Saturday."

"You're going to ride her?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Both men smiled.

"What can we do for you?" Crosse asked.

Dunross put his full attention on Sinders. "I can't give you new files—the impossible I can't do. But I can give you something—I don't know what, yet, but I've just received a package from AMG." Both men were startled. Sinders said, "Hand-delivered?" Dunross hesitated. "Hand-delivered. Now, please, no more questions till I've finished."

Sinders lit his pipe and chuckled. "Just like AMG to have a bolt-hole, Roger. He always was clever, damn him. Sorry, please go on."

"The message from AMG said the information was of very special importance and to be passed on to the prime minister personally or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, at my convenience—and if I considered it politic." In the dead silence, Dunross took a deep breath. "Since you understand barter, I'll trade you—you directly, in secret, in the presence of the governor alone—whatever the hell 'it' is. In return Brian Kwok is allowed out and over the border, if he wants to go, so we can deal with Tiptop."

The silence deepened. Sinders puffed his pipe. He glanced at Crosse. "Roger?"

Roger Crosse was thinking about it—and what information was so special that it was for Sinders or the P. M. only. "I think you could consider Ian's proposal," he said smoothly. "At leisure."

"No leisure," Dunross said sharply. "The money's urgent, and the release is clearly considered urgent. We can't delay past Monday at 10:00 A.M. when the ban—"

"Perhaps Tiptop and money don't come into the equation at all," Sinders interrupted, his voice deliberately brittle. "It doesn't matter a jot or a tittle to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots. Have you any idea the sort of value a senior superintendent in SI-especially a man with Brian Kwok's qualifications and experience—could have to the enemy, if in fact Brian Kwok is under arrest as you think and this Tiptop claims? Have you also considered that such an enemy traitor's information to us about his contacts and them could be of great importance to the whole realm? Eh?"

"Is that your answer?"

"Did Mrs. Gresserhoff hand-deliver the package?"

"Are you prepared to barter?"

Crosse said irritably, "Who's Gresserhoff?"

"I don't know," Sinders told him. "Other than that she's the vanished recipient of the second phone call from AMG's assistant, Kiernan. We're tracing her with the help of the Swiss police." His mouth smiled at Dunross. "Mrs. Gresserhoff delivered the package to you?"

"No," Dunross said. That's not a real lie, he assured himself. It was Riko Anjin.

"Who did?"

"I'm prepared to tell you that after we have concluded our deal."

"No deal," Crosse said.

Dunross began to get up.

"Just a moment, Roger," Sinders said and Dunross sat back. The MI-6 man tapped the pipe stem against his tobacco-discoloured teeth. Dunross kept his face guileless, knowing he was in the hands of experts.

At length Sinders said, "Mr. Dunross, are you prepared to swear formally under the perjury conditions of the Official Secrets Act that you do not have possession of the original AMG files?"

"Yes," Dunross said at once, quite prepared to twist the truth now—AMG had always had the originals, he had always been sent the top copy. If and when it came to a formal moment under oath, that would be another matter entirely. "Next?"

"Monday would be impossible."

Dunross kept his eyes on Sinders. "Impossible because Brian's being interrogated?"

"Any captured enemy asset would immediately be questioned, of course."

"And Brian will be a very hard nut to take apart."

"If he's the asset, you'd know that better than us. You've been friends a long time."

"Yes, and I swear to God I still think it's impossible. Never once has Brian been anything other than an upright, staunch British policeman. How is it possible?"

"How were Philby, Klaus Fuchs, Sorge, Rudolf Abel, Blake and all the others possible?"

"How long would you need?"

Sinders shrugged, watching him.

Dunross watched him back. The silence became aching.

"You destroyed the originals?"

"No, and I must tell you I also noticed the difference between all the copies I gave you and the one you intercepted. I'd planned to call AMG to ask him why the difference."

"How often were you in contact with him?"

"Once or twice a year."

"What did you know about him? Who suggested him to you?"

"Mr. Sinders, I'm quite prepared to answer your questions, I realise it's my duty to answer them, but the time's not appropriate tonight be—"

"Perhaps it is, Mr. Dunross. We're in no rush."

"Ah, I agree. But unfortunately I've got guests waiting and my association with AMG has nothing to do with my proposal. My proposal requires a simple yes or no."

"Or a maybe."

Dunross studied him. "Or a maybe."

"I'll consider what you've said."

Dunross smiled to himself, liking the cat-and-mouse of the negotiation, aware he was dealing with masters. Again he let the silence hang until exactly the right moment. "Very well. AMG said at my discretion. At the moment I don't know what 'it' is. I realise I'm quite out of my depth and should not be involved in SI or MI-6 matters. It's not of my choosing. You intercepted my private mail. My understanding with AMG was quite clear: I had his assurance in writing that he was allowed to be in my employ and that he would clear everything with the government in advance. I'll give you copies of our correspondence if you wish, through the correct channels, with the correct secrecy provisions. My enthusiasm for my offer diminishes, minute by minute." He hardened his voice. "Perhaps it doesn't matter to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots but it does to me, so I'm making the offer a last time." He got up. "The offer's good to 8:30 P.M."

Neither of the other men moved. "Why 8:30, Mr. Dunross? Why not midnight or midday tomorrow?" Sinders asked, unperturbed. He continued to puff his pipe but Dunross noticed that the tempo had been interrupted the moment he laid down the challenge. That's a good sign, he thought.

"I have to call Tiptop then. Thanks for seeing me." Dunross turned for the door.

Crosse, sitting behind the desk, glanced at Sinders. The older man nodded. Obediently Crosse touched the switch. The bolts sneaked back silently. Dunross jerked to a stop, startled, but recovered quickly, opened the door and went out without a comment, closing it after him.

"Cool bugger," Crosse said, admiring him.

"Too cool."

"Not too cool. He's tai-pan of the Noble House."

"And a liar, but a clever one and quite prepared to finesse us. Would he obliterate 'it'?"

"Yes. But I don't know if H hour's 8:30 P.M." Crosse lit a cigarette. "I'm inclined to think it is. They'd put immense pressure on him—they have to presume we'd thrust the client into interrogation. They've had plenty of time to study Soviet techniques and they've got a few twists of their own. They must presume we're fairly efficient too."

"I'm inclined to think he hasn't got any more files and 'it' is genuine. If 'it' comes from AMG it must have special value. What's your counsel?"

"I repeat what I said to the governor: If we have possession of the client until Monday at noon we'll have everything of importance out of him."

"But what about them? What can he tell them about us when he recovers?"

"We know most of that now. Concerning Hong Kong, we can certainly cover every security problem from today. It's standard SI policy never to let any one person know master plans an—"

"Except you."

Crosse smiled. "Except me. And you in the UK of course. The client knows a lot, but not everything. We can cover everything here, change codes and so on. Don't forget, most of what he passed on's routine. His real danger's over. He's uncovered, fortunately in time. Sure as God made little apples, he'd've been the first Chinese commissioner, and probably head of SI en route. That would have been catastrophic. We can't recover the private dossiers, Fong-fong and others, or the riot and counterinsurrection plans. A riot is a riot and there are only so many contingency plans. As to Sevrin, he knows no more than we knew before we caught him. Perhaps the 'it' could provide keys, possibly keys to questions we should put to him."

"That occurred to me instantly too. As I said, Mr. Dunross is too bloody cool." Sinders lit another match, smoked the match a moment, then tamped the used-up tobacco. "You believe him?"

"About the files, I don't know. I certainly believe he has an 'it' and that AMG came back from the dead. Sorry I never met him. Yes. The 'it' could easily be more important than this client—after Monday at noon. He's mostly a husk now."

Since they had returned, the interrogation of Brian Kwok had continued, most of it rambling and incoherent but details here and there of value. More about atomics and names and addresses of contacts in Hong Kong and Canton, security risks here and patterns of information about the Royal Mounted Police, along with an immensely interesting reiteration of vast Soviet infiltration into Canada.

"Why Canada, Brian?" Armstrong had asked.

"Northern border, Robert... the weakest fence in the world, there isn't any. Such great riches in Canada... ah I wish... there was this girl I almost married, they said my duty... if Soviets can disrupt Canadians... they're so gullible, and wonderful up there.... Can I have a cigarette... oh thanks... Can I have a drink my... So we have counterespionage cells everywhere to disrupt Soviet cells and find out... then there's Mexico... The Soviets are making a big push there too... Yes they have plants everywhere... did you know Philby..."

An hour had been enough.

"Curious he should break so quickly," Sinders said.

Crosse was shocked. "I guarantee that he's not controlled, not lying, that he's telling absolutely everything he believes, what has happened and will continue to do so un—"

"Yes of course," Sinders said somewhat testily. "I meant curious that a man of his quality should crumble so soon. I'd say he'd been wavering for years, that his dedication was now nonexistent or very small and he was probably ready to come over to us but somehow couldn't extract himself. Pity. He could have been very valuable to us." The older man sighed and lit another match. "After a time it always happens to their deep-cover moles in our societies. There's always some kindness, or girl or man friend or freedom or happiness that turns their whole world upside down, poor buggers. That's why we'll win, in the end. Even in Russia the tables'll be turned and the KGB'll get their comeuppance—from Russians—that's why the pressure now. No Soviet on earth can survive without dictatorship, secret police, injustice and terror." He tapped out his pipe into the ashtray. The dottle was wet at the base. "Don't you agree, Roger?"

Crosse nodded and stared back at the intense, pale blue eyes, wondering what was behind them. "You'll phone the minister for instructions?"

"No. I can take the responsibility for this one. We'll decide at 8:30." Binders glanced at his watch. "Let's get back to Robert. It's almost time to begin again. Good fellow that, very good. Did you hear that he was a big winner?"

"Oh hello!" Dunross turned back from the other guests he was chatting with. Bartlett was alone. "You two aren't leaving, I hope—this'll go on till at least 9:30."

"Casey's staying awhile. I've a date."

Dunross grinned. "I hope she's suitably pretty."

"She is, but that comes later. First a business meeting. Do you have a minute?"

"Certainly, of course. Excuse me a moment," Dunross said to the others and led the way out of the crowded anteroom to one of the terraces. The rain had lessened in strength but continued implacably. "The General Stores takeover's almost certain at our figure, without any overbid from Superfoods. We really will make the proverbial bundle—if I can stop Gornt."

"Yes. Monday will tell."

Dunross looked at him keenly. "I'm very confident."

Bartlett smiled, tiredness and concern behind the smile. "I noticed. But I wanted to ask, are we still on for Taipei tomorrow?"

"I was going to suggest we'should postpone it till next week, next weekend? Tomorrow and Monday are rather important for both of us. Is that all right?"

Bartlett nodded, hiding his relief. "Fine with me." And that solves my problem about Orlanda, he thought. "Well then, I think I'll be off."

"Take the car. Just send Lim back when you're through with him. You're going to the hill climb if it's on? That's at 10:00 A.M. till about noon."

"Where is it?"

"New Territories. I'll send the car for you, weather permitting. Casey too if she wants."

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about Casey tonight—I'll see she gets back safely. Is she free afterwards?"

"I think so."

"Good, then I'll ask her to join us—a few of us are going for a Chinese supper." Dunross studied him. "No problem?"

"No. Nothing that can't be handled." Bartlett grinned and walked away, girding himself for the next onslaught—Armstrong. He had cornered Rosemont a few moments ago and told him about the meeting with Banastasio.

"Best leave it with us, Linc," Rosemont had said. "As far as you're concerned we're informed officially. The consulate. I'll pass it on to whomever. Leave it all lie—tell Casey, okay? If Banastasio calls either of you, stall him, call us and we'll work out a scam. Here's my card—it's good twenty-four hours a day."

Bartlett was outside the front door now and he joined the others watting impatiently for their cars.

"Oh hi, Linc," Murtagh said, hurriedly getting out of a cab, almost knocking him over. "Sorry! Party still going on?"

"Sure it is, Dave. What's the rush?"

"Got to see the tai-pan!" Murtagh dropped his voice, his excitement showing. "There's a chance that head office'll go for it, if Ian'll concede a little! Casey still here?"

"Sure," Bartlett said at once and all his senses focused, everything else forgotten. "What concessions?" he asked warily.

"Double the foreign exchange period and he's to deal direct with First Central, giving us first option on all future loans for five years."

"That's not much," Bartlett said, hiding his perplexity. "What's the whole deal now?"

"Can't stop, Linc, gotta get the tai-pan's okay. They're waiting, but it's just as Casey and me laid it out. Hell, if we pull this off the tai-pan'll owe us favours till hell freezes!" Murtagh rushed off.