James clavell

"No need to apologise. I should never have invited him—thanks for being such a gentleman about it, he clearly provoked you."

"Quite right," Pugmire said to more agreement. "If I'd been you I'd've given him one. Whatever happened is in the past."

"Oh yes," Casey said quickly, "what an awful man! If you hadn't stopped it, Quilian, Grey wou— "Enough of that berk," Gornt said warmly, wanting the spectre laid to rest. "Let's forget him, let's not allow him to spoil a wonderful afternoon." He put his arm around Casey and gave her a hug. "Eh?" He saw the admiration in her eyes and he knew, gleefully, he was getting there fast. "It's too cold for a swim. Shall we just cruise leisurely home?"

"Good idea!" Dunstan Barre said. "I think I'm going to have a siesta."

"Smashing idea!" someone said to laughter. The girls joined in but the laughter was forced. Everyone was still unsettled and Gornt felt it strongly. "First some brandy! Marlowe?"

"No thank you, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt studied him. "Listen to me, Marlowe," he said with real compassion and everyone fell silent. "We've all seen too much of life, too much of Asia, not to know that whatever you did, you did for good and not evil. What you said was right. Changi was special with special problems. Pug was locked up in Stanley Prison—that's on Hong Kong Island, Casey—for three and a half years. I got out of Shanghai barely with my skin, and blood on my hands. Jason was grabbed by the Nazis after Dunkirk and had a couple of dicey years with them, Dunstan operated in China—Dunstan's been in Asia forever and he knows too. Eh?"

"Oh yes," Dunstan Barre said sadly. "Casey, in war to survive you have to stretch things a bit sometimes. As to trading, Marlowe, I agree, most times you have to equate the problem to the time and place. I thank God I was never caught. Don't think I'd've survived, know I wouldn't." He refilled his port from the decanter, embarrassed to be speaking real truths.

"What was Changi really like, Peter?" Casey asked for all of them.

"It's hard to talk about," he said. "It was the nearest to no-life that you could get. We were issued a quarter of a pound of dry rice a day, some vegetables, one egg a week. Sometimes meat was... was waved over the soup. It was different, that's all I can say about it. Most of us had never seen a jungle before, let alone Chinese and Japanese and to lose a war... I was just eighteen when Changi began."

"Christ, I can't stand Japs, just can't!" Pugmire said and the others nodded.

"But that's not fair, really. They were just playing the game according to their rules," Peter Marlowe said. "That was fair from the Japanese point of view. Look what wonderful soldiers they were, look how they fought and almost never allowed themselves to be captured. We were dishonoured according to their standards by surrendering." Peter Marlowe shivered. "I felt dishonoured, still feel dishonoured."

"That's not right, Marlowe," Gornt said. "There's no dishonour in that. None."

Casey, standing beside Gornt, put her hand on his arm lightly. "Oh yes. He's right, Peter. He really is."

"Yes." Dunstan Barre said. "But Grey, what the devil got Grey all teed off? Eh?"

"Nothing and everything. He became fanatical about enforcing camp rules—which were Japanese rules—stupidly, a lot of us thought. As I said, Changi was different, officers and men were locked up together, no'letters from home, no food, two thousand miles of enemy-occupied territory in every direction, malaria, dysentery, and the death rate terrible. He hated this American friend of mine, the King. It was true the King was a cunning businessman and he ate well when others didn't and drank coifee and smoked tailor-made cigarettes. But he kept a lot of us alive with his skill Even Grey- He even kept Grey alive. Grey's hatred kept him alive, I'm sure. The King fed almost the whole American contingent—there were about thirty of them, officers and men. Oh they worked for it, American style, but even so, without him they would have died. I would have. I know." Peter Marlowe shuddered. "Joss. Karma. Life. I think I'll have that brandy now, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt poured. "Whatever happened to this man, this fellow you call the King? After the war?"

Pugmire interrupted with a laugh, "One of the buggers in our camp who was a trader became a bloody millionaire afterwards. Is it the same with this King?"

"I don't know," Peter Marlowe said.

"You never saw him again, Peter?" Casey asked, surprised. "You didn't see him back in the States?"

"No, no I never did. I tried to find him but never could."

"That's often the rule, Casey," Gornt said casually. "When you leave a regiment all debts and friendships are cancelled." He was very content. Everything's perfect, he told himself, thinking of the double bed in his cabin, and smiled at her across the deck. She smiled back.

Riko Anjin Gresserhoff went into the foyer of the V and A. It was crowded with those having early-afternoon tea or late lunches. As she walked to the elevator a tremor went through her, the eyes bothering her—not the usual lusting eyes of European men or the dislike in the eyes of their women—but Chinese and Eurasian eyes. She had never experienced so much general hatred. It was a strange feeling. This was her first time outside of Switzerland, other than school trips to Germany and two journeys to Rome with her mother. Her husband had taken her abroad only once, to Vienna for a week.

I don't like Asia, she thought, suppressing another shudder. But then it's not Asia, it's Hong Kong, surely it's just here, the people here. And surely, there is right on their side to be antagonistic. I wonder if I'll like Japan? Will I be alien, even there?

The elevator came and she went to her suite on the sixth floor, the room boy not opening her door for her. Alone and with the door bolted, she felt better. The red message light on the phone was blinking but she paid it no attention, quickly taking off her shoes, hat, gloves and coat, putting them at once in a vast closet, the clothes already there neat and organised, like her three pairs of shoes. The suite was small but delicate, a living room, bedroom and bath. Flowers from Struan's were on the table and a bowl of fruit from the hotel.

Her fingers slid the gift wrapping away neatly. Inside was a rectangular black plush box and she opened it. Warmth went through her. The pendant was on a thin gold chain, the jade green with flecks of lighter green, carved like a cornucopia. Light shimmered off the polished surface. At once she put it on, studying it in the mirror, admiring the stone as it lay against her breast. She had never been given jade before.

Underneath the black, plush-covered cardboard was the envelope. It was a plain envelope, not Struan's, the seal equally plain, made of ordinary red sealing wax. With great care she slid a paper knife under the seal and studied the pages, one by one, a small frown on her forehead. Just a jumble of numbers and letters and an occasional symbol. A tiny, satisfied smile touched her lips. She found the hotel letter-writing folder and, settling herself comfortably at the desk, began to copy the pages, one by one.

When she had finished she checked them. She put the copies into a hotel envelope and sealed it, the originals in another envelope, a plain one she took out of her bag. Next she found the new stick of red sealing wax, lit a match and daubed the melting wax on both envelopes, sealing them, making sure the seal on the envelope of the originals was a pattern of the one Dunross had made. The phone rang, startling her. She watched it, her heart thumping, until it stopped. Once more at ease, she went back to her labour, ensuring there were no telltale indentations left on the pad that she had used, examining it under the light. As soon as she was satisfied, she stamped the envelope containing the copies, addressed it to: R. Anjin, Box 154, General Post Office, Sydney, Australia. This and the other envelope with the originals she put into her handbag.

Carefully she rechecked that nothing had been missed, then went to a small refrigerator near the stocked bar and took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water and drank some.

Again the phone rang. She watched it, sipping the soda water, her mind checking and rechecking, thinking about her lunch with Dunross, wondering if she had been wise to accept his invitation to cocktails tonight and, later, to dinner with him and his friends. I wonder if there will be friends or if we will be alone. Would I like to be alone with that man?

Her thoughts went back to the small, untidy, slightly balding Hans Gresserhoff, and the four years of life that she had led with him, weeks alone, sleeping alone, waking alone, walking alone, no real friends, rarely going out, her husband strangely secretive, cautioning her about making friends, wanting her to be alone and always safe and calm and patient. That was the hardest part to bear, she thought. Patience. Patience alone, patience together, asleep or awake. Patience and outwardly calm. When all the time she was like a volcano, desperate to erupt.

That he loved her was beyond doubt. All she felt for him was giri, duty. He gave her money and her life was smooth, neither rich nor poor—even, like the country of their choice. His arrivals and departures had no pattern. When he was with her he always wanted her, wanted to be near her. Their pillowing satisfied him but not her, though she pretended, for his pleasure. But then, she told herself, you have had no other man to judge by.

He was a good man and it was as I told the tai-pan. I tried to be a good wife to him, to obey him in everything, to honour my mother's wish, to fulfil my giri to her, and to him. And now?

She looked down at her wedding ring and twisted it on her finger. For the first time since she had married she took it off and looked at it closely in the palm of her hand. Small, empty and uninteresting.

So many lonely nights, tears in the nights, waiting waiting waiting. Waiting for what? Children forbidden, friends forbidden, travel forbidden. Not forbidden as a Japanese would: Kin jiru! But, "Don't you think, my dear," he would say, "don't you think it would be better if you didn't go to Paris while I'm away? We can go the next time I'm here..." both of them knowing they would never go.

The time in Vienna had been terrible. It was the first year. They went for a week. "I have to go out tonight," he had told her the first night.

"Please stay in the room, eat in the room till I get back." Two days passed and when he came back he was sallow-faced and drawn, frightened, and then at once, in the darkest part of the night, they had got into their hired car and fled back to Switzerland, going the long way, the wrong way, up through the Tyrolian mountains, his eyes constantly on the rear mirrors in case they were being followed, not talking to her until they were safe across the border once more.

"But why, why, Hans?"

"Because nothing! Please. You're not to ask questions, Riko. That was your agreement... our agreement. I'm sorry about the holiday. We'll go to Wengen or Biarritz, it will be grand, it will be grand there. Please remember your giri and that I love you with all my heart."

Love!

Riko caught herself thinking in German and she smiled. Most times she thought in German though today, with the tai-pan, she had thought in Japanese. It's such a long time since I spoke my own language. What is my own language? Japanese? That's the language my parents and I spoke. German? That's the language of our part of Switzerland. English? That's the language of my husband even though he claimed that German was his first tongue.

Was he English?

She had asked herself that question many times. It was not that his German was not fluent, it was just attitudes. His attitudes were not German, like mine are not Japanese. Or are they?

I don't know. But now, now I can find out.

He had never told her what his work was and she had never asked. After Vienna it had been very easy to predict that it was clandestine and connected somehow to international crime or espionage. Hans was not the type to be in crime.

So from then on she had been even more cautious. Once or twice she had thought that they were under surveillance in Zurich and when they went skiing, but he had dismissed it and told her not to worry about him. "But be prepared in case of accidents. Keep all your valuables and private papers, passport and birth certificate in your travelling bag, Ri-chan," he had said, using her nickname. "Just in case, just in case."

With the death of her husband and his instructions almost all carried out, the money and the tai-pan's phone call and summons, everything had become new. Now she could start again. She was twenty-four. The past was past and karma was karma. The tai-pan's money would be more than enough for her needs for years.

On their wedding night, her husband had told her, "If anything happens to me, you will get a call from a man called Kiernan. Cut the phone wires as I will show you and leave Zurich instantly. Leave everything except the clothes you wear and your travel bag. Drive to Geneva. Here is a key. This key will open a safety deposit box in the Swiss Bank of Geneva on Rue Charles. In it there's money and some letters. Follow the instructions exactly, my darling, oh how I love you. Leave everything. Do exactly as I've said...."

And she had. Exactly. It was her giri.

She had cut the phone wires with the wire snips as he had shown her, just behind the box that was attached to the wall so that the cut was hardly noticeable. In Geneva in the bank there had been a letter of instructions, $10,000 U.S. in cash in the safety deposit box, a new Swiss passport, stamped, with her photograph but a new name and new birthday and new birth certificate that documented she was born in the city of Berne twenty-three years ago. She had liked the new name he had chosen for her and she remembered how, in the safety of her hotel room overlooking the lovely lake, she had wept for him.

Also in the safety deposit box had been a savings book in her new name for $20,000 U.S. in this same bank, and a key, an address and a deed. The deed was for a small chalet on the lake, private and furnished and paid for, with a caretaker who knew her only by her new name and that she was a widow who had been abroad—the deed registered in her new name though purchased four years before, a few days prior to her marriage.

"Ah, mistress, I am so happy you have come home at long last. Travelling in all those foreign places must be very tiring," the pleasant, though simple old lady had said in greeting. "Oh, for the last year or so, your home has been rented to such a charming, quiet Englishman. He paid promptly every month, here are the accounts. Perhaps he will come back this year, he said, perhaps not. Your agent is on Avenue Firmet...."

Later, wandering around the lovely house, the lake vast and clean in the bowl of mountains, the house clean like the mountains, pictures on the walls, flowers in vases, three bedrooms and a living room and verandas, tiny but perfect for her, the garden cherished, she had gone into the main bedroom. Among a kaleidoscope of small pictures of various shapes and sizes on one of the walls was what seemed to be part of an old letter in a glass-covered frame, the paper already yellowing. She recognised his writing. It was in English. "So many happy hours in your arms, Ri-chan, so many happy days in your company, how do I say that I love you? Forget me, I will never forget you. How do I beg God to grant you ten thousand days for every one of mine, my darling, my darling, my darling."

The huge double bed was almost convex with its thick eiderdown quilt, multicoloured, the windows opened to the tender air, late summer perfumes within it, snow dusting the mountaintops. She had wept again, the chalet taking her to itself.

Within a few hours of being there Dunross had called and she had boarded the first jet and now she was here, most of her work completed, never a need to return, the past obliterated—if she wished it. The new passport was genuine as far as she could tell, and the birth certificate. No reason ever to return to Switzerland—except for the chalet. And the picture.

She had left it on the wall undisturbed. And she had resolved, as long as she owned the house, the picture would stay where he had placed it. Always.
76
5:10 PM
Orlanda was driving her small car, Bartlett beside her, his hand resting lightly across her shoulders. They had just come over the pass from Aberdeen and now, still in cloud, were heading down the mountainside in Mid Levels toward her home in Rose Court. They were happy together, aware and filled with expectation. After lunch they had crossed to Hong Kong and she had driven to Shek-O on the southeastern tip of the Island to show him where some of the tai-pans had weekend houses. The countryside was rolling and sparsely populated, hills, ravines, the sea always near, sheer cliffs and rocks.

From Shek-O they had slid along the southern road that curled and twisted until they got to Repulse Bay where she had stopped at the wonderful hotel for tea and cakes on the veranda, looking out at the sea, then on again, past Deepwater Cove to Discovery Bay where she stopped again at a lookout. "Look over there, Linc, that's Castle Tok!" Castle Tok was a vast, incongruous house that looked like a Norman castle and was perched on the cliffside high over the water. "During the war the Canadians—Canadian soldiers—were defending this part of the Island against the invading Japanese and they all retreated to Castle Tok for a last stand. When they were overwhelmed and surrendered there were about two hundred and fifty of them left alive. The Japanese herded them all onto the terrace of Castle Tok and drove them by bayonet over the terrace wall to the rocks below."

"Jesus." The drop was a hundred feet or more.

"Everyone. The wounded, the... the others, everyone." He had seen her shiver and at once had reached out to touch her.

"Don't, Orlanda, that's such a long time ago."

"It's not, no, not at all. I'm afraid history and the war's still very much with us, Linc. It always will be. Ghosts walk those terraces by night."

"You believe that?"

"Yes. Oh yes."

He remembered looking back at the brooding house, the surf crashing against the rocks below, her perfume surrounding him as she leaned back against him, feeling her heat, glad to be alive and not one of those soldiers. "Your Castle Tok looks like something out of the movies. You ever been inside?"

"No. But they say there are suits of armour and dungeons and it's a copy of a real castle in France. The owner was old Sir Cha-sen Tok, Builder Tok. He was a multimillionaire who made his money in tin. They say that when he was fifty a soothsayer told him to begin building a 'big mansion' or he would die. So he began to build and he built dozens of places, all mansions, three in Hong Kong, one near Sha Tin and many in Malaya. Castle Tok was the last one he built. He was eighty-nine but hale and hearty and like a middle-aged man. But after Castle Tok the story is he said enough, and quit building. Within a month he was dead and the soothsayer's prophecy came true."

"You're making it all up, Orlanda!"

"Oh no, Linc, I wouldn't, not without telling. But what's true and what's false? Who really knows, eh, my darling?"

"I know I'm mad about you."

"Oh Linc, you must know I feel the same."

They had driven on past Aberdeen, warm and together, his hand on her shoulder, her hair brushing his hand. From time to time she would point out houses and places and the hours went by imperceptibly, delightfully for both of them. Now, as they came down from the pass through the clouds and broke out of them, they could see most of the city below. Lights were not on yet, though here and there the huge coloured neon signs down by the water's edge were beginning to brighten.

The traffic was heavy and on the steep mountain roads water still ran in the gutters with piles of fresh mud and rocks and vegetation here and there. She drove deftly, without taking chances, and he felt safe with her though driving on the wrong side of the road had been hair-raising on the bends.

"But we're on the correct side," she said. "You drive on the wrong side!"

"The hell we do. It's only the English who drive on the left. You're as American as I am, Orlanda."

"I wish I were, Linc, oh so very much."

"You are. You sound American and you dress American."

"Ah, but I know what I am, my darling."

He let himself just watch her. I've never enjoyed watching anyone so much, he thought. Not Casey, not anyone in my whole life. Then his mind took him again to Biltzmann and he wished he had that man's neck in his hands.

Put him away, old buddy, away with the shit of the world. That's what he is—he and Banastasio. Bartlett felt another twinge go through him. He had had a phone call just before lunch, and an apology that was really an added threat.

"Let's break bread, baby, you'n me? Hell, Linc, it's shitsville with you'n me hollerin'. How about steaks tonight? There's a great steak house off Nathan Road, the San Francisco."

"No thanks. I've got a date," he had said coldly. "Anyway, you made your point yesterday. Let's leave it at that, okay? We'll get together at the annual board meeting, if you attend."

"Hey Linc, this is me, your old buddy. Remember we came through for you when you needed the cash. Didn't we give you cash up front?"

"Cash up front in return for shares which have been the best investment—the best regular investment you ever had. You've doubled your money in five years."

"Sure we have. Now we want a little of the say-so, that's only fair, isn't it?"

"No. Not after yesterday. What about the guns?" he had asked on a sudden hunch.

There was a pause. "What guns?"

"The ones aboard my aeroplane. The hijacked M14's and grenades."

"It's news to me, baby."

"My name's Linc. Baby. Got it?"

Another pause. The voice grated now. "I got it. About our deal. You gonna change your mind?"

"No. No way."

"Not now, not later?"

"No."

There had been the silence on the other end of the line and then a click and the endless dial tone began. At once he had called Rosemont.

"Anything on the guns?"

"You're in the clear. The Hong Kong brass here've withdrawn the lien on you. You'll hear that officially tomorrow."

"They found something?"

"No. We did. We checked out your hangar in L. A. One of the night watchmen remembered seeing a couple of jokers fiddling around in your landing bay. He thought nothing about it till we asked."

"Jesus. You catch anybody?"

"No. Maybe never will. No sweat. About Banastasio, he'll be off your back soon enough. Don't worry."

Now, thinking about it, Bartlett felt chilled again.

"What's the matter, darling?" Orlanda asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."
"I was just thinking that fear's lousy and can destroy you if you don't watch out."

"Oh yes I know, I know so very well." She took her eyes off the road a second and smiled hesitantly and put her hand on his knee. "But you're strong, my darling. You're afraid of nothing."

He laughed. "I wish that were true."

"Oh but it is. I know. " She slowed to go around a pile of slush, the road steeper here, water swirling in a minor flood in and out of the gutters. The car was hugging the tall retaining wall as she turned down into Kotewall Road and around the corner to Rose Court. When she came alongside he held his breath as she hesitated a moment, then firmly bypassed the foyer and turned into the steep down-path that led to the garage. "It's cocktail time," she said.