James clavell

"Is it possible for me to come by the office? I could leave now and be there in half to three quarters of an hour? I have something to talk over with you. I'll make it as short as possible."

"All right. I may have to keep you waiting a moment or two but come on over." He put the phone down, frowning. What's up there?

The door opened. Jacques deVille came in. He looked careworn and tired. "You wanted me, tai-pan?"

"Yes, sit down, Jacques. I understood you were going to be on the plane last night."

"We talked, Susanne and I, and she thought it best for Avril if I waited a day or two...."

Dunross listened with fascination as they began to talk, still astounded that Jacques could be a Communist plant. But now he had thought through the possibility. It was easily possible for Jacques, being young, an idealist and in the Maquis during the hated and terrible Nazi occupation of France to have had his idealistic nationalism and anti-Nazi feelings channelled into communism—Christ, wasn't Russia our ally in those days? Wasn't communism fashionable everywhere in those days even in America? Didn't Marx and Lenin seem so sensible then? Then. Before we knew the truth about Stalin, about gulags and KGB and police state and mass murders and mass conquests and never freedom.

But how could all that Communist nonsense last for someone like Jacques? How could someone like Jacques retain such convictions and keep them buried for so long—if indeed he is the Sevrin plant AMG claimed?

"What did you think of Grey?" Dunross asked. "A total cretin, tai-pan. He's far too left-wing for me. Even Broadhurst's a little too left for my taste. As I'm... I'm staying now, can I take over Bartlett and Casey again?"

"No, for the time being I'll deal with them, but you take care of the contract."

"It's being drawn up now. I've already been on to our solicitors. One slight problem. Dawson met with Bartlett's lawyer, Mr. Steigler, this morning. Mr. Steigler wants to renegotiate the payment schedule and put off signing till next weekend."

A wave of fury rushed through Dunross. He tried to keep it off his face. That's got to be the reason for Casey wanting a meeting, he thought. "I'll deal with that," he said, putting the problem aside for the more pressing one: Jacques deVille, who should be innocent until proven guilty.

He looked at him, liking the craggy, chunky man, remembering all the fine times they had had in Avisyard and in France. He, Penelope, Jacques and Susanne, their children along for Christmas or summer holidays, good food and good wine and good laughter and great plans for the future. Jacques certainly the wisest, the most close-mouthed, and until the AMG accusation, possibly the next in line. But now you're not, not until you've proved yourself and I'm certain. Sorry my friend, but you must be tested.

"I'm making some organisational changes," he said. "Linbar went to Sydney today as you know. I'm going to leave him there for a month to try to get the Woolara merger fixed. I don't hope for much. I want you to take over Australia." He saw Jacques's eyes widen momentarily but could not read if it was concern or happiness. "I've pushed the button on our Toda plan and I w—"

"How did he take it?"

"Hook, line and bait."

"Merde, but that is great." Dunross saw Jacques beam and read no guile in him. The man had been one of the main planners for the shipping scheme, working out the intricacies of the financing. "What a shame poor John's not alive to know," Jacques said.

"Yes." John Chen had been working closely with Jacques deVille. "Have you seen Phillip?"

"I had dinner with him last night. Poor fellow, he's aged twenty years."

"So have you."

A Gallic shrug. "Life, man ami! But yes, yes I am sad about poor Avril and poor Borge. Please excuse me, I interrupted you."

"I'd like you to take over Australasia—effective today—and be responsible for putting into effect all our Australian and New Zealand plans. Keep this to yourself for the month—I'll tell Andrew only—but get yourself organised and be prepared to leave then."

"Very well." Jacques hesitated.

"What? Susanne never did like Hong Kong—you'll have no problem there, will you?"

"Oh no, tai-pan. Since the accident... frankly I was going to ask you if I could move for a while. Susanne's not been happy here and... But I was going to ask if I could take over Canada for a year or so."

Dunross was startled at the new thought. "Oh?"

"Yes. I thought that perhaps I could be useful there. My contacts among French-Canadians are good, very good. Perhaps we could shift Struan's Canadian office from Toronto to Montreal or to Ottawa. I could help very much from there. If our Japanese connection goes through, we'll need wood pulp, woods, copper, wheat, coal and a dozen other Canadian raw materials." He smiled wanly, then rushed onward. "We both know how Cousin David's been chomping to get back out here and I thought, if I moved there, he could return. Actually he's better equipped to be here, to deal with Australasia, non? He speaks Cantonese, a little Japanese and reads and writes Chinese which I don't. But whatever you say, tai-pan. I'll take Australasia if you wish. It is true I would like a change."

Dunross let his mind range. He had decided to isolate Jacques from Hong Kong while he found out the truth. It would be too easy to tell Crosse or Sinders secretly and ask them to use their sources to investigate, to watch and to probe. But Jacques was a member of the Inner Court. As such he was party to all sorts of skeletons and private informations which would be put to risk. No, Dunross thought, much better to deal with our own. Perhaps it will take longer but I will find out the truth if he is or isn't. One way or another, I'll know about Jacques deVille.

But Canada?

Logically Jacques'd be better there. So would Struan's—I should have thought of that myself—there's never been any reason to question his business loyalty, or acumen. Good old David's certainly been screaming for two years to come back. The switch would be easier. Jacques's right. David's better equipped to do Australasia, and Australia and New Zealand are far more important to us than Canada, far more important—they're vital and the treasure house of all Asia. If Jacques's innocent he can help us in Canada. If he's not, he can harm us less there. "I'll think about that," he said, having already decided to make the change. "Keep this all to yourself and we'll finalise it Sunday."

Jacques got up and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man ami. "

Dunross shook the hand. But in his heart he wondered whether it was the hand of his friend—or his Judas.

Alone once more, the weight of his burdens swamped him. The phone rang and he dealt with that problem, then another and another—Tiptop's phone still engaged—and he asked for Phillip to come up, and all the time it seemed as though he were sinking into a pit. Then his eyes caught the eye of Dirk Struan on the wall, looking out of the oil painting at him, half-smiling, supremely confident, arrogant, master of clipper ships—the loveliest craft ever built by man. As always, he was comforted.

He got up and stood before the tai-pan. "Christ, I don't know what I'd do without you," he said out loud, remembering that Dirk Struan had been beset by far greater burdens and had conquered them. Only to have the tempest, the wrath of nature, kill him at the zenith of his life, just forty-three, undisputed warlord of Hong Kong and Asia.

Is it always "those whom the gods love die young"? he asked himself. Dirk was just my age when the Devil Winds of the Great Typhoon tore our brand-new three-story residence in Happy Valley to pieces and buried him in the rubble. Is that old or young? I don't feel old. Was that the only way for Dirk to die? Violently? In storm? Young? Killed by nature? Or does the expression mean, those whom the gods love die young in heart?

"Never mind," he said to his mentor and friend. "I wish I'd known you. I tell you openly, tai-pan, I hope to God there is a life after death so that in some eon of time, I can thank you personally."

Confident again, he went back to his desk. In his top drawer was Four Finger Wu's matrix. His fingers touched it, caressing it. How do I squeeze out of this one? he asked himself grimly.

There was a knock. Phillip Chen came in. He had aged in the last few days. "Good God, tai-pan, what are we going to do? 9.50!" he said in a rush, a nervous screech in his voice. "I could tear my hair out! Dew neh loh moh because of the boom, you remember I bought in at 28.90, every penny of spare cash and a lot more and Dianne bought at 28.80 and sold at 16.80 and demands I make up the difference. Oh ko what're we going to do?"

"Pray—and do what we can," Dunross said. "Have you got hold of Tiptop?"

"Eh... no, no, tai-pan. I've been trying every few minutes but the phone's still out of order. The phone company says the phone's been left off the hook. I had my cousin in the phone company check it personally. Both lines into his house are off the hook."

"What do you advise?"

"Advise? I don't know, I think we should send a messenger but I didn't want to until I'd consulted with you... what with our stock crash and the bank run and poor John and the reporters pestering... all my stocks are down, all of them!" The old man went into a paroxysm of Cantonese obscenities and curses on Gornt, his ancestors and all his future generations. "If the Vic goes, what are we going to do, tai-pan?"

"The Vic won't go. The governor will certainly declare Monday a bank holiday if Tiptop fails us." Dunross had already apprised his compradore of his conversations with Tiptop, Yu, Johnjohn and Havergill. "Come on, Phillip, think!" he added with pretended anger, deliberately sharpening his voice to help the old man. "I can't just send a god-cursed messenger there to say 'you've deliberately left your bloody phone off the hook'!"

Phillip Chen sat down, the rare anger pulling him a little together. "Sorry, yes, sorry but everything... and John, poor John..."

"When's the funeral?"

"Tomorrow, tomorrow at ten, the Christian one, Monday's the Chinese one. I was... I was wondering if you'd say a few words, tomorrow."

"Of course, of course I will. Now, what about Tiptop?"

Phillip Chen concentrated, the effort hard for him. At length he said, "Invite him to the races. To your box. He's never been and that would be great face. That's the way. You could say... No, sorry, I'm not thinking clearly. Better, much better, tai-pan, I will write. I'll write the note asking him for you. I'll say you wanted to ask personally but unfortunately his phone is out of order—then if he wants to come, or is forbidden by his superiors, his face is saved and so is yours. I could add that 'by the way, the Noble House has already telexed firm orders to Sydney for the thoriums...' " Phillip Chen brightened a little. "That will be a very good trade for us, tai-pan, the price offered.... I've checked prices and we can supply all their needs easily and get very competitive bids from Tasmania, South Africa and Rhodesia. Ah! Why not send young George Trussler from Singapore to Johannesburg and Salisbury on an exploratory mission for thoriums..." Phillip Chen hesitated. "... and er, certain other vital aerospace metals and materials. I did some quick checking, tai-pan. I was astounded to discover that, outside Russia, almost 90 percent of all the Free World's supply of vanadium, chrome, platinums, manganese, titanium—all vital and essential in aerospace and rocketry—come from the southern part of Rhodesia and South Africa. Think of that! 90 percent outside Russia. I never realised how vastly important that area is to the Free World, with all the gold, diamonds, uranium, thorium and God knows what other essential raw materials. Perhaps Trussler could also investigate the possibility of opening an office there. He's a sharp young man and due for promotion." Now that his mind was fully occupied, the old man was breathing easier. "Yes. This trade and, er, Mr. Yu's, could be immense for us, tai-pan. I'm sure it can be handled delicately." He looked up at Dunross. "I'd also mention to Tiptop about Trussler, that we were sending an executive, one of the family, in preparation."

"Excellent. Do it immediately." Dunross clicked on the intercom. "Claudia, get George Trussler please." He glanced back at Phillip. "Why would Tiptop cut himself off?"

"To bargain, to increase the pressure on us, to get more concessions."

"Should we keep on calling him?"

"No. After the hand-delivered note, he will call us. He knows we're not fools."

"When will he call?"

"When he has permission, tai-pan. Not before. Sometime before Monday at 10:00 A.M. when the banks are due to open. I suggest you tell that lump of dogmeat Havergill and Johnjohn not to call—they'll muddy already dark waters. You don't use a tadpole to catch a shark."

"Good. Don't worry, Phillip," he said compassionately, "we're going to get out of this mess."

"I don't know, tai-pan. I hope so." Phillip Chen rubbed his red-rimmed eyes tiredly. "Dianne... those damned shares! I see no way out of the morass. Th—"

Claudia interrupted on the intercom. "Master Trussler on line two."

"Thank you, Claudia." He stabbed line two. "Hello, George, how's Singapore?"

"Afternoon, sir. Fine, sir, hot and rainy," the breezy, enthusiastic voice said. "This's a pleasant surprise, what can I do for you?"

"I want you to get on the next plane to Johannesburg. Leave at once. Telex me your flight and hotel and call me as soon as you arrive at the hotel in Johannesburg. Got it?"

There was a slight hesitation and slightly less breeziness. "Johannesburg, South Africa, tai-pan?"

"Yes. The next plane out."

"I'm on my way. Anything else?"

"No."

Dunross put the phone down. Power's a marvellous device, he thought with great satisfaction, but being tai-pan's better.

Phillip got up. "I'll deal with that letter at once."

"Just a minute, Phillip. I've another problem that I need your advice on." He opened the desk and brought out the matrix. Apart from himself and previous tai-pans who were still alive, only Phillip Chen in all the world knew the secret of the four coins. "Here. This was giv— Dunross stopped, paralysed, totally unprepared for the effect the matrix had on his compradore. Phillip Chen was staring at it, his eyes almost popped from their sockets, his lips stretched back from his teeth. As though in a dream, everything in slow motion, Phillip Chen reached out and took the matrix, his fingers trembling, and peered at it closely, mouthing soundlessly.

Then Dunross's brain detonated and he realised the half-coin must have belonged to Phillip Chen, that it had been stolen from him. Of course, Dunross wanted to shout. Sir Gordon Chen must have been given one of the four coins by Jin-qua! But why? What was the connection between the Chen family and a Co-hong Mandarin that would make Jin-qua give the Eurasian son of Dirk Struan so valuable a gift?

Still in slow motion, he saw the old man raise his head to squint up at him. Again the mouth moved. No sound. Then in a strangled gasp, "Bar... Bartlett gave this... this to you already?"

"Bartlett?" Dunross echoed incredulously. "What in the name of Christ's Bartlett got to d—" He stopped as another explosion seemed to shatter his head and more pieces of the jigsaw slammed into place. Bartlett's secret knowledge! Knowledge that could only come from one of seven men, all of them unthinkable, Phillip Chen the most unthinkable of all!

Phillip Chen's the traitor! Phillip Chen's working in conjunction with Bartlett and Casey... it's Phillip Chen who's sold us out and passed over our secrets and passed over the coin.

A blinding rage overcame him. It took all of his training to hold the fury bottled. He saw himself get up and stride to the window and stare out of it. He did not know how long he stood there. But when he turned, his mind was purged clean and the vast error in his logic now clear to him. "Well?" His voice was chilling.

"Tai-pan... tai-pan..." the old man began brokenly, wringing his hands.

"Tell the truth, compradore. Now!" The word frightened Phillip. "It... it was John," he gasped, tears spilling. "It wasn't me I sw—"

"I know that! Hurry up for chrissake!"

Phillip Chen spewed out everything, how he had taken his son's key and opened his son's safety deposit box and discovered the letters to and from Bartlett and the second key and how, at dinner the night of the tai-pan's party, he had suddenly had a premonition about his oh so secret safe buried in the garden and how, after digging it up, he had discovered the worst. He even told the tai-pan about his quarrel with Dianne and how they thought the coin might be on John Chen somehow, and how, when the Werewolf phoned, she suggested calling his cousin, Four Finger Wu, to get his street fighters to follow him, then to follow them....

Dunross gasped but Phillip Chen did not notice it, rambling on in tears, telling how he had lied to the police and had paid over the ransom to the Werewolf youths he would never recognise again and how the street fighters of Four Fingers who were supposed to be guarding him had not intercepted the Werewolves or recaptured John or recaptured his money. "That's the truth, tai-pan, all of it," he whimpered, "there's no more... nothing. Nothing until this morning and my poor son's body at Sha Tin with that filthy sign on his chest...."

Helplessly Dunross was trying to collect his wits. He had not known that Four Fingers was Phillip's cousin, nor could he fathom how the old seaman could have got the coin—unless he was the chief Werewolf or in league with them, or in league with John Chen who had masterminded a supposed kidnapping to squeeze money out of the father he hated and then Four Fingers and John Chen had quarrelled or... or what? "How did John know our secrets, get all those secrets to pass them over to Bartlett—how the House's structured? Eh?"

"I don't know," the old man lied.

"You must have told John—there's only you, Alastair, my father, Sir Ross, Gavallan, deVille or me who know, and of those, only the first four know the structure!"

"I didn't tell him—I swear I didn't."

Dunross's blinding rage began to swell again but once more he held it into place.

Be logical, he told himself. Phillip's more Chinese than European. Deal with him as a Chinese! Where's the link? The missing part of the jigsaw?

While he was trying to work out the problem, his eyes bored into the old man. He waited, knowing that silence too was a vast weapon, in defence or attack. What's the answer? Phillip would never tell John anything that secret, therefore...

"Jesus Christ!" he burst out at the sudden thought. "You've been keeping records! Private records! That's how John found out! From your safe! Eh?"

Petrified by the tai-pan's devil rage, Phillip blurted out before he could stop himself, "Yes... yes... I had to agree..." He stopped, fighting for control.

"Had to? Why? Come on goddamnit!"

"Because... because my father, before he... he passed the House over to me and the coin to me... made me swear to keep... to record the private dealings of... of the Noble House to protect the House of Chen. It was just that, tai-pan, never to use against you or the House, just a protection...."

Dunross stared at him, hating him, hating John Chen for selling Struan's out, hating his mentor Chen-chen for the first time in his life, sick with rage at so many betrayals. Then he remembered one of Chen-chen's admonitions years ago when Dunross was almost weeping with anger at the unfair way his father and Alastair were treating him: "Don't get angry, young Ian, get even. I told Culum the same thing, and the Hag when they were equally young—Culum never listened but the Hag did. That's the civilised way: Don't get angry, get even! "So Bartlett has our structure, our balance sheets. What else's he got?"

Phillip Chen just shivered and stared back blankly.

"Come on for chrissake, Phillip, think! We've all got skeletons, a lot of skeletons! So've you, the Hag, Chen-chen, Shitee T'Chung, Dianne... for chrissake, how much more's documented that John could have passed over?" A wave of nausea went through him as he remembered his theory about the connection between Banastasio, Bartlett, Par-Con, the Mafia and the guns. Christ, if our secrets get into the wrong hands! "Eh?"

"I don't know, I don't know... What, what did Bartlett ask? For the coin?" Then Phillip cried out, "It's mine, it belongs to me!"

He saw the uncontrollable trembling of Phillip's hands and a sudden tinge of grey in his face. There was brandy and whiskey in decanters on the sideboard and Dunross fetched some brandy and gave it to him. Gratefully the old man drank, choking a little. "Than... thank you."

"Go home and fetch everything and th—" Dunross stopped and stabbed an intercom button. "Andrew?"

"Yes, tai-pan?" Gavallan said.

"Would you come up a second? I want you to go home with Phillip, he's not feeling too well and there're some papers to bring back."

"On my way."

Dunross's eyes had never left Phillip's.

"Tai-pan, what did, did Bar—"

"Stay away from them on your life! And give Andrew everything—John's letters, Bartlett's letters, everything," he said, his voice chilling.

"Tai-pan..."

"Everything." His head ached, he had so much rage in him. He was going to add, I'll decide about you and the House of Chen over the weekend. But he did not say it. "Don't get mad, get even" kept ringing in his ears.

Casey came in. Dunross met her halfway. She carried an umbrella and was again wearing her pale green dress that set off her hair and eyes perfectly. Dunross noticed the shadows behind her eyes. They made her somehow more desirable. "Sorry to keep you waiting." His smile was warm but he enjoyed none of its warmth. He was still appalled over Phillip Chen.

Casey's hand was cool and pleasant. "Thanks for seeing me," she said. "I know you're busy so I'll come to the point."

"First tea. Or would you like a drink?"

"No liquor thanks, but I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble, I'm going to have tea anyway .4:40's tea time." As though by magic the door opened and a liveried houseboy brought in a silver tray with tea for two—with thin buttered toast and hot scones in a silver warmer. The man poured and left. The tea was dark brown and strong. "It's Darjeeling, one of our House blends. We've been trading it since 1830," he said sipping it gratefully, as always thanking the unknown genius Englishman who had invented afternoon tea, which, somehow, always seemed to settle the cares of the day and put the world into perspective. "I hope you like it."

"It's great, maybe a mite too strong for me. I had some around 2:00 A.M., and it certainly woke me up."

"Oh? You still on jet lag?'

She shook her head and told him about Peter Marlowe.

"Oh! What bad joss!" He stabbed the intercom. "Claudia, call the Nathan Nursing Home and see how Mrs. Marlowe is. And send some flowers. Thanks."

Casey frowned. "How'd you know she was at the Nathan?"

"Doc Tooley always uses that place in Kowloon." He was watching her closely, astonished that she seemed so friendly when obviously Par-Con was trying to sabotage their deal. If she's been up most of the night, that accounts for the shadows, he thought. Well, shadows or not, watch out, young lady, we shook on the deal. "Another cup?" he asked solicitously.

"No thanks, this's fine."

"I recommend the scones. We eat them like this: a big dollop of Devonshire clotted cream on top, a teaspoon of homemade strawberry jam in the centre of the cream and... magic! Here!"