James clavell

Bartlett thought a moment. "Casey, blunt: You want in or you want out?"

"In."

"Okay." Then Bartlett beamed. "Okay, tai-pan, now who do we have to kill?"

"Yes, old man?" the impatient teller said.

He pulled out a roll of money. It was all the money he had and all the money he could borrow, leaving only enough for three inhalations of the White Powder that he would need to see him through his night shift tonight. "The double quinella, by all the gods! Eight and five in the second race, seven and one in the fifth."

The teller methodically counted out the crumpled bills .728 HK. He pressed the buttons of those numbers and checked the first ticket. It was correct: five and eight—second race; seven and one—fifth race. Carefully he counted 145 tickets, each of 5 HK, the minimum bet, and gave them to him with 3 HK change. "Hurry up, by all the gods," the next in line called out. "Are your fingers in your Black Hole?"

"Be patient!" the old man muttered, feeling faint, "this is serious business!" Carefully he checked his tickets. The first, three random ones and the last were correct, and the number of tickets correct, so he gave up his place and pushed his way out of the press into the air. Once in the air he felt a little better, still nauseated but better. He had walked all the way from his night shift of work at the construction site of the new high rise up above Kotewall Road in Mid Levels to save the fare.

Again he checked his tickets. Eight and five in this race and seven and one in the fifth, the big race. Good, he thought, putting them carefully into his pocket. I've done the best I can. Now it is up to the gods. .

His chest was hurting him very much so he fought through the crowd to the toilet and there he lit a match and inhaled the smoke from the bubbling White Powder. In time he felt better and went outside again. The second race was already on. Beside himself with anxiety he pushed and shoved his way to the rails, careless of the curses that followed him. The horses were rounding the far bend, galloping toward him into the last straight for the winning post, now past in a thundering blur as he strained his rheumy old eyes to find his numbers.

"Who's leading?" he gasped but no one paid any attention to him, just shouted their own choice on to victory in a growing seething roar that was all possessing, then vanished as the winner won.

"Who won?" Nine Carat Chu gasped, his head exploding.

"Who cares!" someone said with a stream of curses. "It wasn't mine! All gods piss on that jockey forever!"

"I can't read the tote, who won?"

"It was a photo finish, old fool, can't you see! There were three horses bunched together. Fornicate all photo finishes! We must wait."

"But the numbers.... what are the numbers?"

"Five and eight and four, Lucky Court, my horse! Come on you son of a whore's left tit! Four and eight for the quinella by all the gods!"

They waited. And waited. The old man thought he would faint so he put his mind on to better things, like his conversation with Noble House Chen this morning. Three times he had called and each time a servant had answered and hung up. It was only when he had said "Werewolf that Noble House Chen himself had come to the phone.

"Please excuse me for mentioning the terrible slayers of your son," he had said. "It wasn't me, Honoured Sir, oh no. I am just the father of your late honourable son's mistress, Wisteria Su, to whom he has written his undying love in the letter that was printed in all the newspapers."

"Eh? Liar! All lies. Do you think I'm a fool to be squeezed by any dogmeat caller? Who are you?"

"My name is Hsi-men Su," he had said, the lie coming easily. "There are two more letters, Honourable Chen. I thought you might wish to have them back even though they're all we have from my poor dead daughter and your poor dead son who I considered like my own son over all the months that he an—"

"More lies! The mealy-mouthed strumpet never had any letters from my son! Our deadly police put forgers in jail, oh yes! Am I a peasant-headed monkey from the Outer Provinces? Beware! Now I suppose you'll produce an infant that you'll claim my son sired? Eh? Eh?"

Nine Carat Chu almost dropped the phone. He had discussed and arranged that very ploy with his wife and his sons and Lily. It had been easy to find a relation who would lend a babe in arms for a fee.

"Eh," he spluttered in shock, "am I a liar? Me who fairly, for modest cash, gave his only virgin daughter to be your son's whore and only love." He used the English words carefully, his daughter Lily having coached him for hours so that he could say it properly. "By all the gods we've protected your great name at no charge! When we went to claim my poor daughter's body we did not tell the deadly police who desire, oh ko, yes, who desire to find out who the writer was to trap the Werewolves! All gods curse those evil sons of whores! Haven't four Chinese papers already offered rewards for the name of the writer, heya? It is only fair I offer the letters to you before collecting the newspapers' reward, heya?"

Patiently he had listened to the stream of invective that had begun the negotiation. Several times both sides had pretended they were going to put the phone down, but neither side broke off the bargaining. At length it was left that if a photocopy of one of the other letters was sent to Noble House Chen as proof that it and the others were no forgery, then "it might be, Honourable Su, the other letters—and this one—might be worth a very modest amount of Fragrant Grease."

Nine Carat Chu chortled to himself now. Oh yes, he thought contentedly, Noble House Chen will pay handsomely, particularly when he reads the parts about himself. Oh if those were printed surely it would hold him up to ridicule before all Hong Kong and take his face away forever. Now, how much should I settle f— A sudden roar surrounded him and he almost fell over. His heart began pounding, his breath short. He held on to the rails and peered at the distant tote. "Who... what are the numbers?" he asked, then screeched over the noise and tugged at his neighbours. "The numbers, tell me the nurrfbers!"

"The winner's eight, Buccaneer, the gelding of the Noble House. Ayeeyah, can't you see the tai-pan leading him into the winner's circle now? Buccaneer's paying 7 to 1."

"The second? Who was the second horse?"

"Number five, Winsome Lady, 3 to 1 for a place.... What's wrong, old man, have you a palsy?"

"No... no..." Weakly Nine Carat Chu groped away. At length he found a small empty patch of concrete and spread his racing form on the wet concrete and sat down, his head on his knees and arms, his mind sweeping him into the ecstasy of winning the first leg. Oh oh oh! And nothing to do now but wait, and if the time of waiting is too long I will use one more of the White Powders, yes, and that will leave me the last to see me through tonight's work. Now, all gods concentrate! The first leg was won by my own shrewdness. Please concentrate on the fifth! Seven and one! All gods concentrate....

Over by the winner's circle the stewards and owners and officials clustered. Dunross had intercepted his horse and congratulated the jockey. Buccaneer had run a fine race and now as he led the gelding into the winner's circle amid another burst of cheering and congratulations he kept his exuberance deliberately open. He wanted to let the world see his pleasure and confidence, very aware that winning this race was an immense omen, over and above the fact of winning. The omen would be doubled and tripled if he won with Noble Star. Two horses in the double quinella would absolutely set Gornt and his allies back on their heels. And if Murtagh works his magic or if Tiptop keeps his bargain to swap the money for Brian Kwok or if Tightfist or Lando or Four Fingers...

"Hey, Mr. Dunross, sir, congratulations!"

Dunross glanced at the crowd on the rails. "Oh hello, Mr. Choy," he said, recognising Four Finger Wu's Seventh Son and supposed nephew.

He went closer and shook hands. "Did you have the winner?"

"Yes sir, sure, I'm with the Noble House all the way! We're on the double quinella, my uncle and me. We just won the first leg five and eight, and we've seven and eight in the fifth. He's got 10,000 riding, me, my whole week's salary!"

"Then let's hope we win, Mr. Choy."

"You can say that again, tai-pan," the young man said with his easy American familiarity.

Dunross smiled and walked over to Travkin. "Are you sure Johnny Moore can't ride Noble Star? I don't want Tom Wong."

"I told you, tai-pan, Johnny's sicker than a drunken cossack."

"I need the win. Noble Star is to win."

Travkin saw Dunross look at Buccaneer speculatively. "No, tai-pan, please don't ride Noble Star. The going's bad, very bad and very dangerous and it'll get worse as they hack up the turf. Kristos! I suppose that'll only make you want to ride her more."

"My future could ride on that race—and the face of the Noble House."

"I know." Angrily the gnarled old Russian slapped the switch he carried perpetually against his ancient jodhpurs, shining with use. "And I know you're better than all the other jockeys but that turfs danger—"

"I don't trust anyone in this, Alexi. I can't afford any mistake." Dunross dropped his voice. "Was the first race fixed?"

Travkin stared back levelly. "They weren't doped, tai-pan. Not to my knowledge. The police doctor has put the fear of God into those who might be tempted."

"Good. But was it fixed?"

"It wasn't my race, tai-pan. I'm only interested in my horses and my races. I didn't watch that race."

"That's convenient, Alexi. Seems that none of the other trainers did either."

"Listen, tai-pan. I have a jockey for you. Me. I'll ride Noble Star."

Dunross's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the sky. It was darker than before. There'll be rain soon, he thought and there's much to do before the rain. Me or Alexi? Alexi's legs are good, his hands the best, his experience immense. But he thinks more of the horse than of winning. "I'll consider it," he said. "After the fourth race I'll decide."

"I'll win," the older man said, desperate for the chance to extricate himself from his agreement with Suslev. "I'll win even if I have to kill Noble Star."

"No need to do that, Alexi. I'm rather fond of that horse."

"Tai-pan, listen, perhaps a favour? I've a problem. Can I see you tonight or Sunday, Sunday or Monday late, say at Sinclair Towers?"

"Why there?"

"We made our deal there, I'd like to talk there. But if it's not all right the day after."

"You're going to leave us?"

"Oh no, no it's not that. If you've time. Please."

"All right but it can't be tonight, or Sunday or Monday, I'm going to Taipei. I could see you Tuesday at 10:00 P.M. How's that?"

"Fine, Tuesday's fine yes, thank you."

"I'll be down after the next race."

Alexi watched the tai-pan walk for the elevators. He was near tears, an overwhelming affection for Dunross possessing him.

His eyes went to Suslev who was in the general stands nearby. Trying to appear casual he held up the prearranged number of fingers: one for tonight, two for Sunday, three Monday, four Tuesday. His eyes were very good and he saw Suslev acknowledge the signal. Matyeryebyets, he thought. Betrayer of Mother Russia and all us Russians, you and all your KGB brethren! I curse you in the name of God, for me and all Russians if the truth be known.

Never mind that! I'm going to ride Noble Star, he told himself grimly, one way or another.

Dunross got into the elevator amid more congratulations and much envy. At the top floor Gavallan and Jacques were waiting for him. "Is everything ready?" he asked.

"Yes," Gavallan replied. "Gornt's there, and the others you wanted. What's cooking?"

"Come along and you'll see. By the way, Andrew, I'm switching Jacques and David MacStruan. Jacques will take over Canada for a year, David—"

Jacques's face lit up. "Oh thank you tai-pan. Yes, thanks very much. I'll make Canada very profitable, I promise."

"What about the changeover?" Gavallan asked. "Do you want Jacques to go there first or will David come here?"

"He arrives Monday. Jacques, you hand over everything to David, then next week you can both go back together for a couple of weeks. You go via France, eh? Pick up Susanne and Avril, she should be well enough by then. There's nothing urgent in Canada at the moment—it's more urgent here."

"Oh yes, ma foi! Yes, yes thank you, tai-pan."

Gavallan said thoughtfully, "It'll be good to see old David." He liked David MacStruan very much but he was still wondering why the change, and did this mean that Jacques was out of the running to inherit the tai-pan's mantle and David in and his own position changed, changing or threatened—if there was anything left to inherit after Monday. And what about Kathy?

Joss, he told himself. What is to be will be. Oh goddamn everything!

"You two go on ahead," Dunross said. "I'll get Phillip." He turned into the Chen box. By ancient custom the compradore of the Noble House was automatically a steward. Perhaps for the last year, Dunross thought grimly. If Phillip doesn't deliver help in the form of Four Finger Wu, Lando Mata, Tightfist or something tangible by Sunday at midnight he's blackballed.

"Hello, Phillip," he said, his voice friendly, greeting the other guests in the packed box. "You ready?"

"Oh yes, yes, tai-pan." Phillip Chen was looking older. "Congratulations on the win."

"Yes, tai-pan, a marvellous omen—we're all praying for the fifth!"

Dianne Chen called out, trying equally hard to hide her apprehension, Kevin beside her, echoing her.

"Thank you," Dunross said, sure that Phillip Chen had told her about their meeting. She wore a hat with bird of paradise feathers, and too many jewels.

"Champagne, tai-pan?"

"No thanks, later perhaps. Sorry, Dianne, have to borrow Phillip for a moment or two. Won't be long."

Outside in the corridor he stopped a moment. "Any luck, Phillip?"

"I've... I've talked to all the... all of them. They're meeting tomorrow morning."

"Where? Macao?"

"No, here." Phillip Chen dropped his voice even more. "I'm sorry about... about all the mess my son's caused... yes, very sorry," he said, meaning it.

"I accept your apology. If it hadn't been for your carelessness and treachery, we'd never have become that vulnerable. Christ Jesus, if Gornt gets our balance sheets for the last few years and our interlocking corporate structures, we're up the creek without a paddle."

"I... I had a thought, tai-pan, how to extract our—how to extract the House. After the races, could I... a little time, please?"

"You're coming for drinks tonight? With Dianne?"

"Yes, if... yes please. May I bring Kevin?"

Dunross smiled fleetingly to himself. The heir apparent, officially and so soon. Karma. "Yes. Come along."

"What's this all about, tai-pan?"

"You'll see. Please say nothing, do nothing, just accept—with great confidence—-that you're part of the package, and when I leave follow me, spread the word and good cheer. If we fail, the House of Chen fails first, come hell, high water or typhoon!" He turned into the McBride box. There were more immediate congratulations and many said it was great joss.

"Good God, tai-pan," McBride said, "if Noble Star wins the fifth, wouldn't it be marvellous!"

"Pilot Fish will beat Noble Star," Gornt said confidently. He was at the bar with Jason Plumm getting a drink. "10,000 says he'll finish ahead of your filly."

"Taken," Dunross said at once. There were cheers and hoots of derision from the thirty-odd guests and once more Bartlett and Casey, who had by arrangement with Dunross ostensibly just wandered in a few minutes ago to visit Peter Marlowe, were inwardly staggered at the festive air and Dunross's high-flying confidence.

"How're you doing, Dunstan?" Dunross asked. He paid Casey and Bartlett no attention, concentrating on the big florid man who was more florid than usual, a double brandy in his hand.

"Very well, thank you, Ian. Got the first, and Buccaneer—made a bundle on Buccaneer, but blew my damned quinella. Lucky Court let me down."

The room was the same size as the Struan box but not as well decorated, though equally well filled with many of the Hong Kong elite, some invited here a moment ago by Gavallan and McBride for Dunross. Lando Mata, Holdbrook—Struan's in-house stockbroker—Sir Luis Basilio—head of the stock exchange—Johnjohn, Havergil, Southerby—chairman of Blacs—Richard Kwang, Pugmire, Biltzmann, Sir Dunstan Barre, young Martin Haply of the China Guardian. And Gornt. Dunross looked at him. "Did you get the winner of the last race too?"

"No. I didn't fancy any runner. What's all this about, Ian?" Gornt said, and everyone's attention soared. "You want to make an announcement?'

"Yes, as a courtesy I thought you should know, along with other VIPs. " Dunross turned to Pugmire. "Pug, the Noble House is formally contesting the American Superfoods takeover of your H. K. General Stores."

There was a vast silence and everyone stared at him. Pugmire had gone white. "What?"

"We're offering $5 a share more than Superfoods, we'll further improve their bid by making it 30 percent cash and 70 percent stock, everything done within thirty days!"

"You've gone mad," Pugmire burst out. Didn't I sound everyone out first, he wanted to shout, including you? Didn't you and everyone approve or at least not disapprove? Isn't that the way it's done here for God's sake—private chats at the Club, here at the races, over a private dinner or wherever? "You can't do that," he muttered.

"I already have," Dunross said.

Gornt said harshly, "All you've done, Ian, is to make an announcement.

How are you going to pay? In thirty or three hundred days."

Dunross just looked at him. "The bid's public. We complete in thirty days. Pug, you'll get the official papers by 9:30 A.M. Monday, with a cash down payment to cement the tender."

Momentarily he was drowned out as others began talking, asking questions, everyone immediately concerned how this astonishing development would affect them personally. No one had ever contested a prearranged takeover before. Johnjohn and Havergill were furious that this had been done without consultation, and the other banker, Southerby of Blacs, who was merchant-banking the Super-foods takeover, was equally upset that he had been caught off balance. But all the bankers, even Richard Kwang, were counting possibilities, for if the stock market was normal and Struan's stock at its normal level, the Struan bid could be very good for both sides. Everyone knew that Struan's management could revitalise the rich but stagnant hong, and the acquisition would strengthen the Noble House immeasurably, put their end-of-year gross up at least 20 percent and of course increase their dividends. On top of all that, the takeover would keep all the profits in Hong Kong, and not have them trickle away to an outsider. Particularly Biltzmann.

Oh my God, Barre was thinking with vast admiration and not a little envy, for Ian to make the tender here, in public, on a Saturday, with never the breath of a rumour that he was contemplating the unthinkable, with nothing to give you an inkling so that you could have bought in quietly last week at bottom to make a fortune with one phone call, was brilliant. Of course Pug's General Stores shares will soar first thing on Monday. But how in the hell did Ian and Havergill keep it quiet? Christ I could've made a bundle if I'd known, perhaps I still can! The rumours about the Victoria not supporting Struan's is obviously a lot of cobblers....

Wait a minute, Sir Luis Basilio was thinking, didn't we buy a huge block of General Stores last week for a nominee buyer? Good God, has the tai-pan outsmarted all of us? But Madonna, wait a minute, what about the run on his stock, what about the market crashing, what about the cash he'll have to put up to fix the tender, what about Even Gornt was counting, his mind flooded with fury that he had not thought of the ploy first. He knew the bid was good, perfect in fact, that he could not top it, not at the moment. But then, Ian can't complete. There's no wa— "Can we go to press on this, tai-pan?" Martin Haply's incisive Canadian voice cut through the excited uproar.

"Certainly, Mr. Haply."

"May I ask a few questions?"

"It depends what they are," Dunross said easily. Looking at the penetrating brown eyes, he was grimly amused. We could use a right rotten young bastard in the family—if he could be trusted with Adryon. "What had you in mind?"

"This's the first time a takeover's ever been contested. May I ask why you're doing it at this time?"

"Struan's have always been innovative. As to timing, we considered it perfect."

"Do you consider this Sat—"

Biltzmann interrupted harshly, "We have a deal. It's set. Dickie?" He whirled on Pugmire. "Eh?"

"It was all set, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said crisply. "But we're contesting your tender, just as it's done in the States, according to American rules. I presume you don't mind a contest? Of course we are amateurs here but we enjoy trying to learn from our peers. Until the stockholders' meeting nothing's final, that's the law isn't it?"

"Yes, but... but it was set!" The tall grey-haired man turned to Pugmire, hardly able to speak he was so angry. "You said it was all agreed."

"Well, the directors had agreed," Pugmire said uneasily, conscious of everyone listening, particularly Haply, one half of him ecstatic with the vastly improved offer, the other furious that he, too, had had no advance warning so he could have bought in heavily. "But, er, but of course it has to be ratified by the stockholders at the Friday meeting. We had no idea there'd be a... Er, Ian, er, Chuck, don't you think this is hardly the place to dis—"

"I agree," the tai-pan said. "But at the moment there's little to discuss. The offer's made. By the way, Pug, your own deal stands, except that it's extended from five to seven years, with a seat on Struan's board for the same period."

Pugmire's mouth dropped open. "That's part of the tender?"

"We'd need your expertise, of course," Dunross said airily, and everyone knew Pugmire was hooked and landed. "The rest of the package as negotiated by you and Superfoods stands. The papers will be on your desk by 9:30. Perhaps you'll put our tender to your stockholders on Friday." He went over to Biltzmann and put out his hand. "Good luck. I presume you'll be coming back with a counteroffer at once."

"Well, er, I have to check with head office, Mr., er, tai-pan." Biltzmann was flushed and angry. "We... we put our best foot forward and... That's a mighty fine offer you made. Yes. But with the run on your stock, the run on the banks and the market going down, that's going to be kinda hard to close, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said, gambling everything that Bartlett would not renege on the promise of cash, that he would close with Par-Con, extricate himself from Gornt and put his stock back into its rightful place by next weekend. "We can close with no trouble at all."

Biltzmann's voice sharpened. "Dickie, I think you'd better consider our bid carefully. It's good till Tuesday," he said, confident that by Tuesday Struan's would be in a shambles. "Now I'll make me a bet on the next race." He stalked out. Tension in the box went up several decibels.