James clavell

"I'll consider what you say. So Par-Con's coming into Hong Kong. Very good—and if American Superfoods' takeover of the H. K. General Stores goes through, that'll add another boost to the market. Perhaps Old Blind Tung wasn't exaggerating again. Perhaps we'll be lucky. Has he ever been wrong before?"

"I don't know. Personally I don't think he has a private connection with the Almighty, though a lot of people do."

"A boom would be very good, very good indeed. Perfect timing. Yes," Mata added strangely, "we could add a little fuel to the greatest boom in our history. Eh?"

"Would you assist?"

"Ten million U. S., between myself and the Chins—-Tightfist won't be interested, I know. You suggest where and when."

"Half a million into Struan's last thing Thursday, the rest spread over Rothwell-Gornt, Asian Properties, Hong Kong Wharf, Hong Kong Power, Golden Ferries, Kowloon Investments and H. K. General Stores."

"Why Thursday? Why not tomorrow?"

"The Ho-Pak will bring the market down. If we buy in quantity Thursday just before closing, we'll make a fortune."

"When do you announce the Par-Con deal?"

Dunross hesitated. Then he said, "Friday, after the market closes."

"Good. I'm with you, Ian. Fifteen million. Fifteen instead often. You'll sell the Ho-Pak short tomorrow?"

"Of course. Lando, do you know who's behind the run on the Ho-Pak?"

"No. But Richard is overextended, and he hasn't been too wise. People talk, Chinese always distrust any bank, and they react to rumours. I think the bank will crash."

"Christ!"

"Joss." Mata's fingers stopped drumming. "I want to triple our gold imports."

Dunross stared at him. "Why? You're up to capacity now. If you push them too fast they'll make mistakes and your seizure rate will go up. At the moment you've balanced everything perfectly."

"Yes, but Four Fingers and others assure us they can make some substantial bulk shipments safely."

"No need to push them—or your market. No need at all."

"Ian, listen to me a moment. There's trouble in Indonesia, trouble in China, India, Tibet, Malaya, Singapore, ferment in the Philippines and now the Americans are going into Southeast Asia which will be marvellous for us and dreadful for them. Inflation will soar and then, as usual, every sensible businessman in Asia, particularly Chinese businessmen, will want to get out of paper money and into gold. We should be ready to service that demand."

"What've you heard, Lando?"

"Lots of curious things, tai-pan. For example, that certain top U. S. generals want a full-scale confrontation with the Communists. Vietnam's chosen."

"But the Americans'll never win there. China can't let them, any more than they could in Korea. Any history book will tell them China always crosses her borders to protect her buffer zones when any invader approaches."

"Even so, the confrontation will take place."

Dunross studied Lando Mata whose enormous wealth and longtime involvement in the honourable profession of trading, as he described it, gave him vast entree into the most secretive of places. "What else have you heard, Lando?"

"The CIA has had its budget doubled."

"That has to be classified. No one could know that."

"Yes. But I know. Their security's appalling. Ian, the CIA's into everything in Southeast Asia. I believe some of their misguided zealots are even trying to wheedle into the opium trade in the Golden Triangle for the benefit of their friendly Mekong hill tribes—to encourage them to fight the Viet Cong."

"Christ!"

"Yes. Our brethren in Taiwan are furious. And there's a growing abundance of U. S. Government money pouring into airfields, harbours, roads. In Okinawa, Taiwan and particularly in South Vietnam. Certain highly connected political families are helping to supply the cement and steel on very favourable terms."

"Who?"

"Good sweet Christ, are you sure?"

Mata smiled humorlessly. "I even heard that part of a very large government loan to South Vietnam was expended on a nonexistent airfield that's still impenetrable jungle. Oh yes, Ian, the pickings are already huge. So please order triple shipments from tomorrow. We institute our new hydrofoil services next month—that'll cut the time to Macao from three hours to seventy-five minutes."

"Wouldn't the Catalina still be safer?"

"No. I don't think so. The hydrofoils can carry much more gold and can outrun anything in these waters—we'll have constant radar communications, the best, so we can outrun any pirates.". After a pause, Dunross said, "So much gold could attract all sorts of villains. Perhaps even international crooks."

Mata smiled his thin smile. "Let them come. They'll never leave. We've long arms in Asia." His fingers began drumming again. "Ian, we're old friends, I would like some advice."

"Glad to—anything."

"Do you believe in change?"

"Business change?"

"Yes."

At length Mata said, "In a few weeks the Macao Government is obliged to put the gambling concession up for bids again...." Instantly Dunross's attention zeroed. All big business in Macao was conducted on monopoly lines, the monopoly going to the person or company that offered the most taxes per year for the privilege. "... This's the fifth year. Every five years our department asks for closed bids. The auction's open to anyone but, in practice, we scrutinise very particularly those who are invited to bid." The silence hung a moment, then Mata continued, "My old associate, Smuggler Mo's already dead. His offspring're mostly profligate or more interested in the Western world, gambling in southern France or playing golf, than in the health and future of the syndicate. For the Mo it's the age-old destiny: one-in-ten-thousand coolie strikes gold, harbours money, invests in land, saves money, becomes rich, buys young concubines who use him up quickly. Second generation discontented, spend money, mortgage land to buy face and ladies' favours. Third generation sell land, go bankrupt for same favours. Fourth generation coolie." His voice was calm, even gentle. "My old friend's dead and I've no feeling for his sons, or their sons. They're rich, hugely rich because of me, and they'll find their own level, good, bad or very bad. As to Tightfist..." Again his fingers stopped. "Tightfist's dying."

Dunross was startled. "But I saw him only a week or so ago and he looked healthy, frail as always, but full of his usual piss and vinegar."

"He's dying, Ian. I know because I was his interpreter with the Portuguese specialists. He didn't want to trust any of his sons—that's what he told me. It took me months to get him to go to see them but both doctors were quite sure: cancer of the colon. His system's riddled with it. They gave him a month, two months... this was a week ago." Mata smiled. "Old Tightfist just swore at them, told them they were wrong and fools and that he'd never pay for a wrong diagnosis." The lithe Portuguese laughed without-humor. "He's worth over 600 million U.S. but he'll never pay that doctor bill, or do anything but continue to drink foul-smelling, foul-tasting Chinese herbal brews and smoke his occasional opium pipe. He just won't accept a Western, a quai loh diagnosis—you know him. You know him very well, eh?"

"Yes." When Dunross was on his school holidays his father would send him to work for certain old friends. Tightfist Tung had been one of them and Dunross remembered the hideous summer he had spent sweating in the filthy basement of the syndicate bank in Macao, trying to please his mentor and not to weep with rage at the thought of what he had to endure while all his friends were out playing. But now he was glad for that summer. Tightfist had taught him much about money—the value of it, how to make it, hold on to it, about usury, greed and the normal Chinese lending rate, in good times, of 2 percent a month.

"Take twice as much collateral as you need but if he has none then look at the eyes of the borrower!" Tightfist would scream at him. "No collateral, then of course charge a bigger interest. Now think, can you trust him? Can he repay the money? Is he a worker or a drone? Look at him, fool, he's your collateral! How much of my hard-earned money does he want? Is he a hard worker? If he is, what's 2 percent a month to him—or 4? Nothing. But it's my money that'll make the fornicator rich if it's his joss to be rich. The man himselfs all the collateral you ever need! Lend a rich man's son anything if he's borrowing against his heritage and you have the father's chop—it'll all be thrown away on singsong girls but never mind, it's his money not yours! How do you become rich? You save! You save money, buy land with one third, lend one third and keep one third in cash. Lend only to civilised persons and never trust a quai loh..." he would cackle.

Dunross remembered well the old man with his stony eyes, hardly any teeth—an illiterate who could read but three characters and could write but three characters, those of his name—who had a mind like a computer, who knew to the nearest copper cash who owed him what and when it was due. No one had ever defaulted on one of his loans. It wasn't worth the incessant hounding.

That summer he had been thirteen and Lando Mata had befriended him. Then, as now, Mata was almost a wraith, a mysterious presence who moved in and out of Macao's government spheres as he wished, always in the background, hardly seen, barely known, a strange Asian who came and went at whim, gathered what he liked, harvesting unbelievable riches as and when it pleased him. Even today there were but a handful of people who knew his name, let alone the man himself. Even Dunross had never been to his villa on the Street of the Broken Fountain, the low sprawling building hidden behind the iron gates and the huge stone encircling walls, or knew anything about him really—where he came from, who his parents were or how he had managed to acquire those two monopolies of limitless wealth.

"I'm sorry to hear about old Tightfist," Dunross said. "He was always a rough old bastard, but no rougher to me than to any of his own sons."

"Yes. He's dying. Joss. And I've no feeling for any of his heirs. Like the Chins, they'll be rich, all of them. Even Zeppelin," Lando Mata said with a sneer. "Even Zeppelin'll get 50 to 75 million U.S."

"Christ, when you think of all the money gambling makes..."

Mata's eyes lidded. "Should I make a change?"

"If you want to leave a monument, yes. At the moment the syndicate only allows Chinese gambling games: fan-tan, dominoes and dice. If the new group was modern, far-seeing, and they modernised... if they built a grand new casino, with tables for roulette, vingt-et-un, chemin de fer, even American craps you'd have all Asia flocking to Macao."

"What're the chances of Hong Kong legalising gambling?"

"None—you know better than I do that without gambling and gold Macao'd drift into the sea and it's a cornerstone of British and Hong Kong business policy never to let that happen. We have our horse racing—you've the tables. But with modern ownership, new hotels, new games, new hydrofoils you'd have so much revenue you'd have to open your own bank."

Lando Mata took out a slip of paper, glanced at it, then handed it over. "Here are four groups of three names of people who might be allowed to bid. I'd like your opinion."

Dunross did not look at the list. "You'd like me to choose the group of three you've already decided on?"

Mata laughed. "Ah, Ian, you know too much about me! Yes, I've chosen the group that should be successful, if their bid is substantial enough."

"Do any of the groups know now that you might take them as partners?"

"No."

"If Tightfist dies before the auction, a new syndicate will come to pass. If not, the change will be made but differently."

Dunross glanced at the list. And gasped. All the names were well-known Hong Kong and Macao Chinese, all substantial people, some with curious pasts. "Well, they're certainly all famous, Lando."

"Yes. To earn such great wealth, to run a gambling empire needs men of vision." Dunross smiled with him. "I agree. Then why is it I'm not on the list?"

"Resign from the Noble House within the month and you can form your own syndicate. I guarantee your bid will be successful. I take 40 percent."

"Sorry, that's not possible, Lando."

"You could have a personal fortune of 500 million to a billion dollars within ten years."

Dunross shrugged. "What's money?"

"Moh cfting moh meng!" No money no life.

"Yes, but there's not enough money in the world to make me resign. Still, I'll make a deal with you. Struan's'll run the gambling for you, through nominees."

"Sorry, no. It has to be all or nothing."

"We could do it better and cheaper than anyone, with more flair."

"If you resign. All or none, tai-pan."

Dunross's head hurt at the thought of so much money, but he heard Lando Mata's finality. "Fair enough. Sorry, I'm not available," he said.

"I'm sure you'd, you personally, would be welcomed as a... as a consultant."

"If I choose the correct group?"

"Perhaps." The Portuguese smiled. "Well?"

Dunross was wondering whether or not he could risk such an association. To be part of the Macao gambling syndicate was not like being a steward of the Turf Club. "I'll think about that and let you know."

"Good, Ian. Give me your opinion within the next two days, eh?"

"All right. Will you tell me what the successful bid is—if you decide to change?"

"An associate or consultant should have that knowledge. Now a last item and I must go. I don't think you'll ever see your friend Tsu-yan again."

Dunross stared at him. "What?"

"He called me from Taipei, yesterday morning, in quite a state. He asked if I'd send the Catalina for him, to pick him up privately. It was urgent he said, he'd explain when he saw me. He'd come straight to my home, the moment he arrived." Mata shrugged and examined his perfectly manicured nails. "Tsu-yan's an old friend, I've accommodated old friends before, so I authorised the flight. He never appeared, Ian. Oh he came with the flying boat—my chauffeur was on the jetty to meet him." Mata looked up. "It's all rather unbelievable. Tsu-yan was dressed in filthy coolie rags with a straw hat. He mumbled something about seeing me later that night and jumped into the first taxi and took off as though all the devils from hell were at his heels. My driver was stunned."

"There's no mistake? You're sure it was he?"

"Oh yes, Tsu-yan's well known—fortunately my driver's Portuguese and can take some initiative. He charged in pursuit. He says Tsu-yan's taxi headed north. Near the Barrier Gate the taxi stopped and then Tsu-yan fled on foot, as fast as he could run, through the Barrier Gate into China. My man watched him run all the way up to the soldiers on the PRC's side and then he vanished into the guardhouse."

Dunross stared at Mata in disbelief. Tsu-yan was one of the best-known capitalists and anti-Communists in Hong Kong and Taiwan. Before the fall of the Mainland he had been almost a minor warlord in the Shanghai area. "Tsu-yan'd never be welcome in the PRC," he said. "Never! He must be top of their shit list."

Mata hesitated. "Unless he was working for them."

"It's just not possible."

"Anything's possible in China."

Twenty stories below, Roger Crosse and Brian Kwok were getting out of the police car, followed by Robert Armstrong. A plain-clothes SI man met them. "Dunross's still in his office, sir."

"Good." Robert Armstrong stayed at the entrance and the other two went for the elevator. On the twentieth floor they got out.

"Ah good evening, sir," Claudia said and smiled at Brian Kwok. Zeppelin Tung was waiting by the phone. He stared at the policemen in sudden shock, obviously recognising them.

Roger Crosse said, "Mr. Dunross's expecting me."

"Yes sir." She pressed the boardroom button and, in a moment, spoke into her phone. "Mr. Crosse's here, tai-pan."

Dunross said, "Give me a minute, then show him in, Claudia." He replaced his phone and turned to Mata. "Crosse's here. If I miss you at the bank tonight, I'll catch up with you tomorrow morning."

"Yes. I'm... please call me, Ian. Yes. I want a few minutes with you privately. Tonight or tomorrow."

"At nine tonight," Dunross said at once. "Or anytime tomorrow."

"Call me at nine. Or tomorrow. Thank you." Mata walked across the room and opened a hardly noticeable door that was camouflaged as part of the bookshelves. This opened onto a private corridor which led to the floor below. He closed the door behind him.

Dunross stared after him thoughtfully. I wonder what's on his mind? He put the agenda papers in a drawer and locked it, then leaned back at the head of the table trying to collect his wits, his eyes on the door, his heart beating a little quicker. The phone rang and he jumped.

"Yes?"

"I'll be late. Ask her to go ahead. I'll get something on the run. What time did you get in last night?" he asked, remembering that he had heard her car return just before dawn.

"Early," she said, and he was going to give her both barrels but he heard unhappiness under her voice.

"What's up, pet?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"What's up?"

"Nothing really. I had a grand day, had lunch with your Linc Harriett—we went shopping but that twit Martin stood me up."

"What?"

Dunross beamed. "You just can't rely on some people, can you, Adryon? Fancy! Standing you up! What cheek!" he told her, suitably grave, delighted that Haply was going to get what for.

"He's a creep! A twenty-four-carat creep!"

The door opened. Crosse and Brian Kwok came in. He nodded to them, beckoned them. Claudia shut the door after them.

"Got to go, darling. Hey pet, love you! 'Bye!" He put the phone down. "Evening," he said, no longer perturbed.

"The files please, Ian."

"Certainly, but first we've got to see the governor."

"First I want those files." Crosse pulled out the warrant as Dunross picked up the phone and dialled. He waited only a moment. "Evening, sir. Superintendent Crosse's here... yes sir." He held out the phone. "For you."

Crosse hesitated, hard-faced, then took it. "Superintendent Crosse," he said into the phone. He listened a moment. "Yes sir. Very well, sir." He replaced the phone. "Now, what the hell shenanigans are you up to?"

"None. Just being careful."

Crosse held up the warrant. "If I don't get the files, I've clearance from London to serve this on you at six P. M. today, governor or no."

Dunross stared back at him, just as hard. "Please go ahead."

"You're served, Ian Struan Dunross! Sorry, but you're under arrest!"

Dunross's jaw jutted a little. "All right. But first by God we will see the governor!"

His Excellency, Sir Geoffrey Allison, D. S. O., O. B. E., was a sandy-haired man in his late fifties, neat, soft-spoken and very tough. He sat at an antique desk and watched them. "Evening," he said easily and waved them to seats. His equerry closed the door, leaving them. "It seems we have a problem, Roger. Ian has some rather private property that he legally owns and is reluctant to give you—that you want."

"Legally want, sir. I've London's authority under the Official Secrets Act."

"Yes, I know that, Roger. I talked to the minister an hour ago. He said, and I agree, we can hardly arrest Ian and go through the Noble House like a dose of salts. That really wouldn't be very proper, or very sensible, however serious we are in obtaining the AMG files. And, equally, it wouldn't be very proper or sensible to acquire them with cloaks and daggers—that sort of thing. Would it?"

Crosse said, "With Ian's cooperation none of that would be necessary. I've pointed out to him that Her Majesty's Government was completely involved. He just doesn't seem to get the message, sir. He should cooperate."

"I quite agree. The minister said the same. Of course when Ian came here this morning he did explain his reasons for being so, so cautious... quite proper reasons if I may say so! The minister agrees too." The grey eyes became piercing. "Just exactly who is the deep-cover Communist agent in my police? Who are the Sevrin plants?"

There was a vast silence. "I don't know, sir."

"Then would you be kind enough to find out very quickly. Ian was kind enough to let me read the AMG report you rightly intercepted." The governor's face mottled, quoting from it, " '... this information should be leaked privately to the police commissioner or governor should they be considered loyal...' Bless my soul! What's going on in the world?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well you're supposed to, Roger. Yes." The governor watched them. "Now. What about the mole? What sort of man would he be?"

"You, me, Dunross, Havergill, Armstrong—anyone," Crosse said at once. "But with one characteristic: I think this one's so deep that he's probably almost forgotten who he really is, or where his real political interest and loyalty lie. He'd be very special—like all of Sevrin." The thin-faced man stared at Dunross. "They must be special—Si's checks and balances are really very good, and the CIA's, but we've never had a whiff of Sevrin before, not a jot or a tittle."

Dunross said, "How're you going to catch him?"

"How're you going to catch your plant in Struan's?"

"I've no idea." Would the Sevrin spy be the same as the one who betrayed our secrets to Bartlett? Dunross was asking himself uneasily. "If he's top echelon, he's one of seven—all unthinkable."

"There you have it," Crosse said. "All unthinkable, but one's a spy. If we get one, we can probably break the others out of him if he knows them." Both the other men felt icy at the calm viciousness in his voice. "But to get the one, someone has to make a slip, or we have to get a little luck."

The governor thought a moment. Then he said, "Ian assures me there's nothing in the previous reports that names anyone—or gives any clues. So the other reports wouldn't help us immediately."

"They could, sir, in other areas, sir."

"I know." The words were quietly spoken but they said Shut up, sit down and wait till I've finished. Sir Geoffrey let the silence hang for a while. "So our problem seems to be simply a matter of asking Ian for his cooperation. I repeat, I agree that his caution is justified."

His face tightened. "Philby, Burgess and Maclean taught us all a fine lesson. I must confess every time I make a call to London I wonder if I'm talking to another bloody traitor." He blew his nose in a handkerchief. "Well, enough of that. Ian, kindly tell Roger the circumstances under which you'll hand over the AMG copies."

"I'll hand them, personally, to the head or deputy head of MI-6 or MI-5, providing I have his Excellency's guarantee in writing that the man I give them to is who he purports to be."