James clavell

Sinders hesitated, then, his face chalky, he took Dunross by the arm and guided him to the far end of the room. He put his lips very close to Dunross's ear. "Anastasia Kekilova, First Secretary of the Czechoslovak Embassy in London," he whispered, his back to Crosse and the governor.

Dunross nodded, satisfied, but Sinders held on to his arm with surprising strength and whispered even more softly, "You'd better forget that name. If the KGB ever suspect you know they'll get it out of you. Then she's dead, I'm dead and so're you."

Dunross nodded. "Fair enough."

Sinders took a deep breath, then turned and nodded at Crosse. "Now let's have this done with, Roger. Your Excellency?"

Tensely they all followed him. Johnjohn was waiting at the elevator. Three floors below were the vaults. Two plainclothes guards waited in the small hallway in front of the heavy iron gates, one man CID, the other SI. Both saluted. Johnjohn unlocked the gates and let everyone through except the guards, then relocked them. "Just a bank custom."

"Have you ever had a break-in?" Sinders asked.

"No, though the Japanese did force the gates when the keys were, er, lost."

"Were you here then, sir?"

"No. I was lucky." After Hong Kong capitulated, at Christmas , the two British banks, Blacs and the Victoria, became prime Japanese targets and were ordered to be liquidated. All the executives were separated and kept under guard and forced to assist the process. Over the months and years they were all subjected to extreme pressures. They were forced to issue bank notes illegally. And then the Kampeitai, the hated and feared Japanese secret police, had become involved. "The Kampeitai executed several of our fellows and made the lives of the rest miserable," Johnjohn said. "The usual: no food, beatings, privation, shut up in cages. Some died of malnutrition—starvation's the real word—and both Blacs and we lost our chief execs." Johnjohn unlocked another grille. Beyond were rows and rows of safe deposit boxes in several interconnecting concrete, reinforced cellars. "Ian?"

Dunross took out his passkey. "It's 16.85.94."

Johnjohn led the way. Very uncomfortable, he inserted his bank key in one lock. Dunross did the same with his. They turned both keys. The lock clicked open. Now all eyes were on the box. Johnjohn took out his key. "I'll... I'll be waiting at the gate," he said, glad it was over, and left.

Dunross hesitated. "There are other things in here, private papers. Do you mind?"

Crosse did not move. "Sorry but either Mr. Sinders or myself should ensure we get possession of all the files."

Dunross noticed the sweat on both men. His own back was wet. "Your Excellency, would you mind watching?"

"Not at all."

Reluctantly the two other men retreated. Dunross waited until they were well away, then opened the box. It was large. Sir Geoffrey's eyes widened. The box was empty but for the blue covered files. Without comment he accepted them. There were eight. Dunross slammed the box closed and the lock clicked home.

Crosse came forward, his hand out. "Shall I take them for you, sir?"

"No."

"The minister set up a procedure—approved by our American friends—which I agreed to," Sir Geoffrey said. "We will all go back to my office. We will all witness the photocopying. Two copies only. One for Mr. Sinders, one for Mr. Rosemont. Ian, I have been directly ordered by the Minister to give Mr. Rosemont copies."

Dunross shrugged, desperately hoping that he still appeared unconcerned. "If that's what the minister wants, that's perfectly all right. When you've photocopied the originals, sir, please burn them." He saw them look at him but he was watching Crosse and he thought he saw an instant of pleasure. "If the files're so special then it's better they shouldn't exist—except in the correct hands, MI-6 and the CIA. Certainly I shouldn't have a copy. If they're not special—then never mind. Most of poor old AMG was too farfetched and now that he's dead I must confess I don't consider the files special so long as they're in your hands. Please burn or shred them, Excellency."

"Very well." The governor turned his pale blue eyes on Roger Crosse. "Yes, Roger?"

"Nothing, sir. Shall we go?"

Dunross said, "I've got to get some corporate papers to check while I'm here. No need to wait for me."

"Very well. Thank you, Ian," Sir Geoffrey said and left with the other two men.

When he was quite alone Dunross went to another bank of boxes in the adjoining vault. He took out his key ring and selected two keys, grimly aware that Johnjohn would have a coronary if he knew he had a duplicate master key. The lock sprang back soundlessly. This box was one of dozens the Noble House possessed under different names. Inside were bundles of U.S. $100 notes, ancient deeds and papers. On top was a loaded automatic. As always, Dunross's psyche was unsettled, hating guns, hating Hag Struan, admiring her. In her "Instructions to Tai-pans," written just before her death in 1917, that was part of her last will and testament and in the tai-pan's safe, she had laid down more rules and one of them was that there should always be substantial amounts of secret cash for the tai-pan's use, on hand, and another that there should be at least four loaded handguns perpetually available in secret places. She wrote: "I abhor guns but I know them to be necessary. On Michaelmas Eve in 1916 when I was infirm and sick, my grandson Kelly O'Gorman, fourth tai-pan (in name only), believing I was on my deathbed, forced me from my bed to the safe in the Great House to fetch the seal-chop of the Noble House—to assign to him absolute power as tai-pan. Instead I took the gun that was secretly in the safe and shot him. He lingered two days then died. I am God-fearing and I abhor guns and some killing, but Kelly became a mad dog and it is the duty of the tai-pan to protect the succession. I regret his death not a jot or tittle. You who read this beware: kith or kin lust for power as others do. Do not be afraid to use any method to protect Dirk Struan's legacy..."

A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. He remembered the hair on the nape of his neck rising when he had first read her instructions, the night he had taken over as tai-pan. He'd always believed that Cousin Kelly—eldest son of the Hag's last daughter Rose—had died of cholera in one of the great waves that perpetually washed Asia.

There were other monstrosities she had written about: "In 1894, that most terrible of years, the second of Jin-qua's coins was brought to me. That was the year plague had come to Hong Kong, bubonic plague. Amongst our heathen Chinese, tens of thousands were dying. Our own population was equally savaged and the plague took high and low, Cousin Hannah and three children, two of Chen-chen's children, five grandchildren. Legend foretold that bubonic plague was wind-borne. Others thought it was the curse of God or a flux like malaria, the killing 'bad air' of Happy Valley. Then the miracle! The Japanese research doctors Vitasato and Aoyama we brought to Hong Kong isolated the plague bacillus and proved the pest was flea-borne, and rat-borne, and that correct sanitation and the elimination of rats would cast out the curse forever. The eyesore hillside of Tai-ping Shan that Gordon owns—Gordon Chen, son of my beloved tai-pan—where most of our heathen always lived was a stinking, festering, overcrowded, rat-breeding cauldron for all pestilences, and as much as the authorities cajoled, ordered and insisted, the superstitious inhabitants there disbelieved everything and would do nothing to improve their lot, though the deaths continued and continued. Even Gordon, now a toothless old man, could do nothing—tearing his hair at his loss of rents, saving his energy for the four young women in his household.

"In the stench of late summer when it seemed the Colony was once more doomed, with deaths mounting daily, I had Tai-ping Shan put to the torch by night, the whole monstrous stenching mountainside. That some inhabitants were consumed is on my conscience, but without the cleansing fire the Colony was doomed and hundreds of thousands more doomed. I caused Tai-ping Shan to be fired but thereby I kept troth with Hong Kong. I kept troth with the Legacy. And I kept troth with the second of the half coins.

"On the twentieth of April a man called Chiang Wu-tah presented the half coin to my darling young cousin, Dirk Dunross, third tai-pan, who brought it to me, he not knowing the secret of the coins. I sent for the man Chiang who spoke English. The favour he asked was that the Noble House should grant immediate sanctuary and succour to a young, Westerneducated Chinese revolutionary named Sun Yat-sen; that we should help this Sun Yat-sen with funds; and that we should help him as long as he lived, to the limits of our power in his fight to overthrow the alien Manchu Dynasty of China. Supporting any revolutionary against China's ruling dynasty with whom we had cordial relations and on whom depended much of our trade and revenues was against my principles, and seemingly against the interests of the House. I said no, I would not assist the overthrow of their emperor. But Chiang Wu-tah said, 'This is the favour required from the Noble House.'

"And so it was done.

"At great risk I provided funds and protection. My darling Dirk Dunross spirited Dr. Sun out of Canton to the Colony and from there abroad to America. I wanted Dr. Sun to accompany young Dirk to England—he was leaving on the tide, Master of our steamer Sunset Cloud. That was the week I wanted to hand over to him as real tai-pan but he said, 'No, not until I return.' But he was never to return. He and all hands were lost at sea somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Oh how terrible my loss, our loss!

"But death is a part of life and we the living have our duty to be done. I do not yet know to whom I should hand over. It should have been Dirk Dunross, who was named for his grandfather. His sons are too young, none of the Coopers are adequate, or deVilles, Daglish is possible, none of the MacStruans are yet ready. Alastair Struan perhaps but there's a weakness there that comes down from Robb Struan.

"I don't mind admitting to you, future tai-pan, that I am weary unto death. But I am not yet ready to die. Pray God I am given the strength for a few more years. There is not one of my line or my beloved Dirk Struan's line worthy of his mantle. And now there is this Great War to see through, the House to rebuild, our merchant fleet to refurbish—so far German U-boats have sunk thirty of our ships, almost our whole fleet. Yes, and there is the favour of the second coin still to fulfil. This Dr. Sun Yat-sen must and will be supported until he dies and so retain our face in Asia...."

And we did, Dunross thought. The Noble House supported him in all his troubles, even when he tried to join with Soviet Russia, until he died in 1925 and Chiang Kai-shek, his Soviet-trained lieutenant, assumed his mantle and launched China into the future—until his old ally but ancient enemy, Mao Tse-tung, took the future away from him to mount the Dragon Throne in Peking with bloody hands, first of a new dynasty.

Dunross took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

The air in the vault was dusty and dry and a little caught in his throat and he coughed. His hands were sweaty too and he could still feel the chill on his back. He rummaged carefully to the bottom of the deep metal box and found his corporate chop that he would need over the weekend in case the Royal Belgium-First Central deal came to pass. I certainly owe Casey more than one favour if the deal is made, he told himself.

His heart was thumping again and he could not resist making sure. With great care he lifted the secret false bottom of the safety deposit box a fraction. In the two-inch space beneath were eight blue-covered files. AMG's real files. Those that moments ago he had passed over to Sinders had been in the sealed package that Kirk and his wife had brought yesterday—those eight counterfeit files and a letter: "Tai-pan: I am terribly worried that both you and I are betrayed and that information contained in previous files may fall into the wrong hands. The enclosed substitute files are safe and very similar. They drop vital names and vital information. You may pass these over if you are forced to do it, but only then. As to the originals, you should destroy them after you have seen Riko. Certain pages contain invisible writing. Riko will give you the key. Please excuse all these diversionary tactics but espionage is not for children; it deals in death, actual and in the future. Our lovely Britain is beset with traitors and evil walks the earth. Bluntly, freedom is under siege as never in history. I beg you to emulate your illustrious ancestor. He fought for freedom to trade, to live and to worship. Sorry, but I don't think he died in a storm. We'll never know the truth but I believe he was murdered, as I will be. Not to worry, my young friend. I've done very well in my life. I've put a lot of nails in the enemy coffin, more than my fair share—I ask you to do the same." The letter was signed, "With great respect."

Poor bugger, Dunross thought sadly.

Yesterday he had smuggled the counterfeit files into the vault, replacing the originals in the other box. He would have liked to have destroyed the originals then but there was no way to do that safely and anyway he had to wait for his meeting with the Japanese woman. Better and safer to leave them where they are for the moment, he said to himself. Plenty of ti— Suddenly he felt eyes. His hand sneaked for the automatic. When his fingers had grasped it, he looked around. His stomach seemed to turn over. Crosse was watching him. And Johnjohn. They were at the entrance to the vault.

After a moment Crosse said, "I just wanted to thank you for your cooperation, Ian. Mr. Sinders and I appreciate it."

Relief poured through Dunross. "That's all right. Glad to help." Trying to be casual he relaxed his hold on the automatic and let it slide away. The false bottom fell silently into place. He saw Crosse's scrutiny but shrugged it off. From where the superintendent stood he did not think it possible for him to have seen the real files. Dunross blessed his joss that had prevented him from taking one of the files out to leaf through it. Carelessly he slammed the box shut and his breathing began again. "It really is quite stuffy in here, isn't it?"

"Yes. Again, Ian, thank you." Crosse left.

"How did you open that box?" Johnjohn asked coldly.

"With a key."

"Two keys, Ian. That's against regulations." Johnjohn held out his hand. "May I have our property please."

"Sorry, old chum," Dunross said calmly, "it's not your property."

Johnjohn hesitated. "We always suspected you had a duplicate master key. Paul is right about one thing: you've too much power, you consider this bank yours, our funds yours and the Colony yours."

"We've had a long and happy association with both, and it's only in the last few years when Paul Havergill's had some measure of power that I've had a hard time, me personally, and my House personally. But worse than that, he's old-fashioned and I voted him out for that reason only. You're not, you're modern. You'll be fairer, far-seeing, less emotional and straighter."

Johnjohn shook his head. "I doubt it. If I ever become tai-pan of the bank I'm going to see it's wholly owned by its stockholders and controlled by directors appointed by them."

"It is now. We just own 21 percent of the bank."

"You used to own 21 percent. That stock's pledged against your revolving fund which you can't and probably never will repay. Besides, 21 percent is not control, thank God."

"It very nearly is."

"My whole point." Johnjohn's voice was metallic. "That's dangerous for the bank, very dangerous."

"I don't think so."

"I do. I want 11 percent back."

"No sale, old lad."

"When I'm tai-pan, old lad, I'll get it by hook or by crook."

"We'll see."

"When I'm tai-pan I'm going to make lots of changes. All these locks for example. No master keys, privately owned."

"We'll see." Dunross smiled.

On Kowloon side, Bartlett jumped from the wharf to the pitching boat, helped Orlanda aboard. Automatically she kicked off her high heels to protect the fine teak deck.

"Welcome aboard the Sea Witch, Mr. Bartlett. Evening, Orlanda," Gornt said with a smile. He was at the helm and at once he motioned to his deckhand who cast off from the wharf that was near the Kowloon ferry terminal. "I'm delighted you accepted my invitation to dinner, Mr. Bartlett."

"I didn't know I had one until Orlanda told me half an hour ago... hey, this's a great boat!"

Gornt jovially put the engines into slow astern. "Until an hour ago I didn't know you two were going to dinner by yourselves. I presumed you'd never seen Hong Kong harbour by night so I thought it'd make a change for you. There were a couple of things I wanted to discuss privately so I asked Orlanda if she'd mind if I invited you aboard."

"I hope it was no trouble to come Kowloon side."

"No trouble, Mr. Bartlett. It's routine to pick up guests here." Gornt smiled a secret smile, thinking about Orlanda and all the other guests he had fetched from this Kowloon wharf over the years. Deftly Gornt backed the motor cruiser away from the Kowloon dock near Golden Ferry where the waves slapped the quay dangerously. He put the engine levers into half ahead and swung the tiller starboard to get out into the roads and set a westerly course.

The boat was seventy feet, trim, elegant, sparkling and she handled like a speedboat. They were on the bridge deck, glass-sided, open to the air aft, awnings overhead tight and crackling in the breeze, the wake churning. Gornt wore rough, casual sea clothes, a light reefer jacket and a jaunty peaked cap sporting the Yacht Club emblem. The clothes and his trimmed black, grey-flecked beard suited him. He swayed easily with the motion of the boat, very much at home.

Bartlett was watching him, at home too in sneakers and casual sweat shirt. Orlanda was beside him and he could feel her though they were not touching. She wore a dark evening pants suit and a shawl against the sea cold and she stood swaying easily, the wind in her hair, tiny without shoes.

He looked aft across the harbour at the ferries, junks, liners and the immense bulk of the battle-grey nuclear carrier, her decks floodlit, her flag fluttering bravely. A jet shrieked into the night sky from Kai Tak and incoming jets approaching Kowloon were stacked up.

He could not see the airport or his own aeroplane from this angle but he knew where it was parked. This afternoon he had visited it with police permission to check and fetch some papers and provisions.

Orlanda, beside him, touched him casually and he looked at her. She smiled back and he was warmed.

"Great, isn't it?"

Happily she nodded. There was no need to answer. Both knew.

"It is," Gornt said, thinking that Bartlett was talking to him and looked around at him. "It's grand to be afloat at night, master of your own craft. We go west, then almost due south around Hong Kong—about three quarters of an hour." He beckoned his captain who was nearby, a silent lithe Shanghainese wearing neat, starched white ducks.
"Shey-shey," thank you, the man said taking the helm.

Gornt waved to the chairs aft around a table. "Shall we?" He glanced at Orlanda. "You're looking very pretty, Orlanda."

"Thank you," she said.

"You're not too cold?"

"Oh no, Quillan, thank you."

A liveried steward came from below. On his tray were hot and cold canapes. In the ice bucket beside the table was an opened bottle of white wine, four glasses, two cans of American beer and some soft drinks. "What can I offer you, Mr. Bartlett?" Gornt asked. "The wine's Frascati but I hear you prefer iced cold beer out of the can?"

"Tonight Frascati—beer later, if I may?"

"Orlanda?"

"Wine please, Quillan," she said calmly, knowing that he knew she preferred Frascati to any other wine. I'll have to be very wise tonight, she thought, very strong and very wise and very clever. She had agreed to Gornt's suggestion at once for she, too, loved the water at night and the restaurant was a favourite though she would have preferred to have been alone with Linc Bartlett. But it was clearly an... No, she thought, correcting herself. It wasn't an order, it was a request. Quillan's on my side. And in this, my side and his side have the same aim in common: Linc. Oh how I enjoy Linc!

When she looked at him she saw he was watching Gornt. Her heart quickened. It was like once when Gornt had taken her to Spain and she had seen a mno a no. Yes, these two men are like matadors tonight. I know Quillan still desires me whatever he says. She smiled back at him, her excitement in place. "Wine would be fine for me."

It was dark on deck, the lighting comfortable and intimate. The steward poured, this wine as always very good, delicate, dry and enticing. Bartlett opened an air carry bag that he had brought with him. "It's an old American custom to bring a gift the first time you go to a home—I guess this is a home." He put the wine bottle on the table.

"Oh that's very kind of..." Gornt stopped. Delicately he picked up the bottle and stared at it, then got up and looked at it under the binnacle light. He sat down again. "That's not a gift, Mr. Bartlett, that's bottled magic. I thought my eyes were deceiving me." It was a Chateau Margaux, one of the great premier cru clarets from the Medoc in the province of Bordeaux. "I've never had the '49. That was a dream year for clarets. Thank you. Thank you very much."

"Orlanda said you liked red better than white but I guessed we might have some fish." Casually he put the second bottle beside the first.

Gornt stared at it. It was a Chateau Haut-Brion. In good years Chateau Haut-Brion red compared with all the great Medocs, but the white—dry, delicate and little known because it was so scarce—was considered one of the finest of all the great Bordeaux whites. The year was '55.

Gornt sighed. "If you know so much about wines, Mr. Bartlett, why do you drink beer?"

"I like beer with pasta, Mr. Gornt,—and beer before lunch. But wine with food." Bartlett grinned. "Come Tuesday, we'll have beer with the pasta, then Frascati or Verdicchio or the Umbrian Casale with... with what?"

"Piccata?"

"Great," Bartlett said, not wanting any piccata other than Orlanda's. "That's just about my favourite." He kept his attention on Gornt and did not glance at Orlanda but he knew she knew what he meant. I'm glad I tested her.

"Oh did you have a good time?" she had said when she had called for him this morning at the small hotel on Sunning Road. "Oh I do hope so, Linc, darling."

The other girl had been beautiful but there had been no feeling other than lust, the satisfaction of the joining minimal. He had told her.

"Oh then that's my fault. We chose wrong," she had said unhappily. "Tonight we'll have dinner and we'll try somewhere else."

Involuntarily he smiled and looked at her. The sea breeze was making her more beautiful. Then he noticed Gornt watching them. "Are we eating fish tonight?"

"Oh yes. Orlanda, did you tell Mr. Bartlett about Pok Liu Chau?"

"No, Quillan, just that we've been invited for a sail."

"Good. It won't be a banquet but the seafood there's excellent, Mr. Bartlett. You pi—"

"Why don't you call me Linc and let me call you Quillan? The 'mister' bit gives me indigestion."

They all laughed. Gornt said, "Linc, with your permission we'll not open your gift tonight. Chinese food's not for these great wines, they wouldn't complement each other. I'll keep them, if I may, for our dinner Tuesday?"