James clavell

Either side of the soggy grass paddock and winner's circle, the packed mass of the crowds went down to the white sparkling rails and the perfectly kept turf of the encircling track. The winning post was opposite and beside it, on the other side of the track, was the huge totalizator that would carry the names of the horses and jockeys and odds, race by race. The totalizator was owned and operated by the Turf Club, as was the course. There were no legal bookmakers here or outside or any legal off-course betting places. This was the only legal form of betting in the Colony.

The sky was dark and forbidding. Earlier there had been a few sprinkles but now the air was clear.

Behind the paddock and winner's circle, on this level, were the jockeys' changing rooms and the offices of the officials—food concessions and the first banks of betting windows. Above them were the stands, four terraced tiers, each cantilevered floor with its own bank of betting windows. The first tier was for nonvoting members, next for voting members, and the two top floors set aside for the private boxes and radio room. Each box had its own private kitchen. Each of the ten annually elected stewards had a box and then there were some permanent ones: first his Excellency the governor, patron of the club; then the commander-in-chief; one each for Blacs and the Victoria. And last, Struan's. Struan's was in the best position, exactly opposite the winning post.

"Why's that, tai-pan?" Casey asked.

"Because Dirk Struan began the Turf Club, set the rules, brought out a famous racing expert, Sir Roger Blore, to be the first secretary of the club. He put up all the money for the first meeting, money for the stands, money to import the first batch of horses from India and helped persuade the first plenipotentiary, Sir William Longstaff, to deed the land to the Turf Club in perpetuity."

"Come now, tai-pan," Donald McBride, the track steward for this meeting, said jovially, "tell it as it happened, eh? You say Dirk 'helped persuade'? Didn't Dirk just 'order' Longstaff to do it?"

Dunross laughed with the others still seated at the table he had hosted, Casey, Hiro Toda and McBride, who had just arrived to visit. There was a bar and three round tables in the box, each seating twelve comfortably. "I prefer my version," he said. "In any event, Casey, the legend is that Dirk was voted this position by popular acclaim when the first stands were built."

"That's not true either, Casey," Willie Tusk called out from the next table. "Didn't old Tyler Brock demand the position as the right of Brock and Sons? Didn't he challenge Dirk to put up the position on a race, man to man, at the first meeting?"

"No, that's just a story."

"Did those two race, tai-pan?" Casey asked.

"They were going to. But the typhoon came too soon, so they say. In any event Culum refused to budge so here we are. This's ours while the course exists."

"And quite right too," McBride said, with his happy smile. "The Noble House deserves the best. Since the very first stewards were elected, Miss Casey, the tai-pan of Struan's has always been a steward. Always. By popular acclaim. Well, I must be off." He glanced at his watch, smiled at Dunross. With great formality he said, "Permission to start the first race, tai-pan?"

Dunross grinned back at him. "Permission granted." McBride hurried off.

Casey stared at Dunross. "They have to ask your permission to begin?"

"It's just a custom." Dunross shrugged. "I suppose it's a good idea for someone to say, 'All right, let's begin,' isn't it? I'm afraid that unlike Sir Geoffrey, the governors of Hong Kong in the past haven't been known for their punctuality. Besides, tradition is not a bad thing at all—gives you a sense of continuity, of belonging—and protection." He finished his coffee. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I must do a few things."

"Have fun!" She watched him go, liking him even more than last night. Just then Peter Marlowe came in and Dunross stopped a moment. "Oh hello, Peter, good to see you. How's Fleur?"

"Getting better, thank you, tai-pan."

"Come on in! Help yourself to a drink—I'll be back in a moment. Put your money on number five, Excellent Day, in the first! See you later."

"Thanks, tai-pan."

Casey beckoned to Peter Marlowe but he did not see her. His eyes had fixed on Grey who was with Julian Broadhurst out on the balcony, haranguing some of the others. She saw his face close and her heart leaped, remembering their hostility, so she called out, "Peter! Hi, come and sit down." His eyes unglazed. "Oh! Oh hello," he said. "Come sit down. Fleur's going to be fine."

"She certainly appreciated your going to see her."

"It was a pleasure. Are the kids okay?"

"Oh yes. You?" , "Fantastic. This is the only way to go to a race!" Lunch in the Struan box for the thirty-six guests had been a lavish buffet of hot Chinese foods or, if they preferred, hot steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables, with plates of smoked salmon, hors d'oeuvres and cold cuts, cheeses and pastries of all kinds and as a topper, a meringue sculpture of the Struan Building—all prepared in their own kitchen. Champagne, with the best red and white wines, liqueurs. "I'm gonna have to diet for fifty years."

"Not you. How goes it?" She felt his probing eyes. "Fine. Why?"

"Nothing." He glanced off at Grey again, then turned his attention to the others.

"May I introduce Peter Marlowe? Hiro Toda of Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama. Peter's a novelist-screenwriter from Hollywood." Then all at once his book rushed into her mind and Changi and three and a half years as a prisoner of war and she waited for the explosion. There was a hesitation between both men.

Toda politely offered his business card and Peter Marlowe gave his in return, equally politely. He hesitated a moment then put out his hand. "How're you?"

The Japanese shook it. "This's an honour, Mr. Marlowe."

"Oh?"

"I'm not, no, not at all."

"You're too modest. I liked your book very much. Yes."

"You've read it?" Peter Marlowe stared at him. "Really?" He sat and looked at Toda, who was much shorter than he, lithe and well built, more handsome and well dressed in a blue suit, a camera hanging on his chair, his eyes equally level, the two men of an age. "Where did you find it?"

"In Tokyo. We have many English bookshops. Please excuse me, I read the paperback, not the hardback. There was no hardback on sale. Your novel was very illuminating."

"Oh?" Peter Marlowe took out his cigarettes and offered them. Toda took one.

Casey said, "Smoking's not good for you, you both know that!"

They smiled at her. "We'll give them up for Lent," Peter Marlowe said.

"Sure."

Peter Marlowe looked back at Toda. "You were army?"

"We're both alive, both in one piece, more or less."

"More or less, Mr. Marlowe. I agree. War is a curious way of life." Toda puffed his cigarette. "Sometime, if it would please you and not hurt, I would like to talk about your Changi, about its lessons and our wars. Please?"

"Sure."

"Thank you. I'll call. If not this time perhaps next. One day I'll be in Tokyo."

After a pause the Japanese said, "We need not discuss your Changi, if you wish. I would like to know you better. England and Japan have much in common. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I should place my bet." He bowed politely and walked off. Casey sipped her coffee.

"Was that very hard for you? Being polite?"

"Oh no, Casey. No, it wasn't, not at all. Now we're equal, he and I, any Japanese. The Japanese—and Koreans—I hated were the ones with bayonets and bullets when I had none." She saw him wipe the sweat off, noticing his twisted smile. "'Mahlu, I wasn't ready to meet one here."

"'Mahlu? What's that, Cantonese?"

"Malayan. It means 'ashamed.' " He smiled to himself. It was a contraction of puki mahlu. Mahlu ashamed, puki a Golden Gulley. Malays grant feelings to that part of a woman: hunger, sadness, kindness, rapaciousness, hesitancy, shame, anger—anything and everything.

"No need to be ashamed, Peter," she said, not understanding. "I'm astonished you'd talk to any of them after all that POW horror. Oh I really liked the book. Isn't it marvellous that he'd read it too?"

"Yes. That threw me."

"May I ask you one question?"

"What?"

"You said Changi was genesis. What did you mean?"

"What do you see?"

"A lot of bull that's worshipped as the be-all and end-all of existence. So much of 'normal, civilized' life is bull that you can't imagine it. For us ex-Changi-ites—we're lucky, we're cleansed, we know what life is really all about. What frightens you, doesn't frighten me, what frightens me, you'd laugh at."

"Like what?"

He grinned at her. "That's enough about me and my karma. I've a hot tip for th—" He stopped and stared off. "Good sweet Christ who's that?"

Casey laughed. "Riko Gresserhoff. She's Japanese."

"Which one's Mr. Gresserhoff?"

"She's a widow."

"Hallelujah!" They watched her go across the room, out onto the terrace.

"Don't you dare, Peter!"

His voice became Olympian. "I'm a writer! It's a matter of research!"

"Baloney!"

"You're right."

"Peter, they say all first novels are autobiographical. Who were you in the book?"

"The hero of course."

"The King? The American trader?"

"Oh no. Not him. And that's quite enough of my past. Let's talk about you. You sure you're all right?" His eyes held hers, willing the truth out of her.

"What?"

"Nonsense."

"Sure?"

She looked back at him, knowing he saw inside of her. "Of course. I'm fine." A hesitation. "Sometime, sometime I might need a favour."

"What's your hot tip?"

"Number seven, Winner's Delight."

Winner's Delight, an outsider, won handily by half a length over the favourite, Excellent Day. Hugely pleased with herself, Casey joined the line in front of the winner's pay window clutching her winning tickets, well aware of the envious stares of others who walked along the corridor outside the boxes. Agonised betters were already putting down their money at other windows for the second race that was the first leg of the double quinella. To win a quinella they had to forecast the first and second runners in any order. The double quinella put the second race together with the fifth that was today's big race. The double quinella payout would be huge, the odds against forecasting four horses immense. The minimum bet was 5 HK. There was no maximum. "Why's that, Linc?" she had asked just before the race, craning over the balcony watching the horses in the gate, all Hong Kong yan with their binoculars focused.

"Look at the tote." The electronic numbers were flashing and changing as money went onto different horses, narrowing the odds, to freeze just before the off. "Look at the total money invested on this race, Casey! It's better than three and a half million Hong Kong. That's almost a dollar for every man woman and child in Hong Kong and it's only the first race. This's gotta be the richest track in the world! These guys are gambling crazy."

A vast roar went up as the starters' gate opened. She had looked at him and smiled. "You okay?"

"Sure. You?"

"Oh yes."

Yes I am, she thought again, waiting her turn to collect her money. I'm a winner! She laughed out loud.

"Oh hello, Casey! Ah, you won too?"

"Oh! Oh hello, Quillan, yes I did." She moved out of her place back to Gornt, the others in the line all strangers to her. "I only had 10 on her but yes I won."

"The amount doesn't matter, it's the winning." Gornt smiled. "I like your hat.", "Thank you." Curious, she thought, both Quillan and Ian had mentioned it immediately. Damn Linc!

"It's very lucky to pick the first winner, first time at the track."

"Oh I didn't. It was a tip. Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe."

"Ah yes. Marlowe." She saw his eyes change slightly. "You're still on for tomorrow?"

"Oh. Oh yes. Is it weather permitting?"

"Even if it's raining. Lunch anyway."

"Great. The dock at ten sharp. Which's your box?" She noticed an instant change which he tried to hide.

"I don't have one. I'm not a steward. Yet. I'm a fairly permanent guest at the Blacs box and from time to time I borrow the whole place for a party. It's down the corridor. Would you care to come by? Blacs is an excellent bank an—"

"Ah but not as good as the Vic," Johnjohn called out good-naturedly as he passed. "Don't believe a word he says, Casey. Congratulations! Good joss to get the first. See you both later."

Casey watched him thoughtfully. Then she said, "What about all the bank runs, Quillan? No one seems to care—it's as though they're not happening, the stock market's not crashing, and there's no pending doom."

Gornt laughed, conscious of the ears that were tuned to their conversation. "Today is race day, a rarity, and tomorrow will take care of tomorrow. Joss! The stock market opens 10:00 A.M. Monday and next week will decide a lot of fates. Meanwhile every Chinese who could get his money out, has it in his fist, here today. Casey, it's your turn."

She collected her money .15 to one .150 HK. "Hallelujah!" Gornt collected a vast bundle of red notes, 15,000. "Hey, fantastic!"

"Worst race I've ever seen," a sour American voice said. "Hell, it was fantastic they didn't bust the jockey and disallow the win."

"Oh hello, Mr. Biltzmann, Mr. Pugmire." Casey remembered them from the night of the fire. "Bust who?"

Biltzmann stood in the place line. "Stateside there'd be an objection a mile wide. Coming into the straight out of the last bend you could see Excellent Day's jockey pull the bejesus out of her. It was a fix—he wasn't trying."

Those in the know, the very few, smiled to themselves. The whisper in the jockeys' rooms and trainers' rooms had been that Excellent Day wasn't to win but Winner's Delight would.

"Come now, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said. Unnoticed, he'd heard the exchange as he was passing and had stopped. "If the jockey wasn't trying, or if there was any tampering, the stewards would be on to it at once."

"Maybe it's okay for amateurs, Ian, and this little track but on any professional track at home, Excellent Day's jockey'd be banned for the rest of his life. I had my glasses on him all the time." Biltzmann sourly collected his place winnings and stomped off.

Dunross said quietly, "Pug, did you see the jockey do anything untoward? I didn't watch the race myself."

"No, no I didn't."

"Anyone?" Those nearby shook their heads.

"Seemed all right to me," someone said. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"None of the stewards queried anything." Then Dunross noticed the large roll of notes in Gornt's hand. He looked up at him. "Quillan?"

"No. But I must tell you frankly I find that berk's manner appalling. I hardly think he'd be a proper addition to the Turf Club." Just then he saw Robin Grey go past to place a bet and smiled at a sudden thought. "Excuse me, will you?" He nodded politely and walked off. Casey saw Dunross watching the roll of notes that Gornt put into a pocket and was inwardly aghast at the momentary look on his face.

"Could Biltzmann... could he've been correct?" she asked nervously.

"Of course." Dunross put his full attention on her. "Fixing happens everywhere. That's really not the point. There's been no objection from any of the stewards or jockeys or trainers." His eyes were slate grey. The small vein in his forehead was pulsating. "That's not the real point at issue." No, he was thinking. It's a matter of bloody manners. Even so, calm yourself. You have to be very cool and very calm and very collected this weekend.

All day he had had nothing but trouble. The only bright moment had been Riko Anjin Gresserhoff. But then AMG's last letter had once more filled him with gloom. It was still in his pocket and it had told him that if by chance he had not destroyed the original files, to heat a dozen specified pages that were spread throughout, the secret information written in invisible ink on these pages to be passed privately to the prime minister or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, personally—and a copy given to Riko Anjin in a sealed envelope.

If I do that then I have to admit the files I gave him were false, he thought, weary of AMG, espionage and his instructions. God-damnit, Murtagh doesn't arrive till later, Sir Geoffrey can't call London till 4:00 P.M. about Tiptop and Brian Kwok and, Christ Jesus, now some rude bastard calls us all amateurs... which we are. I'll bet a hundred to a bent hatpin Quillan knew before the race.

At a sudden thought he said casually, "How did you pick the winner, Casey? With the proverbial pin?"

"Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe." Her face changed. "Oh! Do you think he heard it was fixed?"

"If I thought that for a moment, the race would have been set aside. There's nothing I can do now. Biltzmann..." Suddenly he gasped as the idea hit him in all its glory.

"What's the matter?"

Dunross took her arm and led her aside. "To get your drop dead money are you prepared to gamble?" he asked softly.

"Sure, sure, Ian, if it's legal. But gamble what?" she asked, her innate caution uppermost.

"Everything you've got in the bank, your house in Laurel Canyon, your stock in Par-Con against 2 to 4 million within thirty days. How about it?"

Her heart was thumping, his obvious excitement sweeping her. "Okay," she said and then wished she hadn't said it, her stomach fluttering. "Jesus!"

"Good. Stay here a second. I'll go and find Bartlett."

"Wait! Is he part of this? What is this, Ian?"

He beamed. "A modest business opportunity. Yes, Bartlett's essential. Does that make you change your mind?"

"No," she told him uneasily, "but I said I wanted to get my... my stake outside of Par-Con."

"I haven't forgotten. Wait here." Dunross hurried back into his box, found Bartlett and brought him back, led the way down the bustling corridor to the Struan kitchen, greeting people here and there. The kitchen was small, busy and sparkling. The staff paid no attention to them. A door opened into a tiny private room, carefully soundproofed. Four chairs, a table and phone. "My father had this constructed during his tenure—lots of business is done at the races. Sit down please. Now"—he looked at Bartlett—"I've a business proposal for you, for you and Casey as individuals, outside of our Par-Con deal, nothing to do with the Par-Con-Struan proposal. Are you interested?"

"Sure. This a Hong Kong scam?"

"Do you mind?" Dunross beamed. "It's an honest-to-God Hong Kong business proposal."

"Okay, let's have it."

"Before I lay it out there are ground rules: It's my game, you two're bystanders but you're in for 49 percent of the profits, to be shared equally between you two. Okay?"

"What's the full game plan, Ian?" Bartlett asked cautiously.

"Next: You put up $2 million U.S. by Monday 9:00 A.M. into a Swiss bank of my choosing."

Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "Against what?"

"Against 49 percent of the profit."

"What profit?"

"You put up $2 million for Gornt, no paper, no chop, no nothing except against potential profit."

Bartlett grinned. "How long have you known about that?"

Dunross smiled back. "I told you, there're no secrets here. Are you in?" Dunross saw Bartlett glance at Casey and he held his breath.

"Casey, you know what this's all about?"

"No, Linc." Casey turned to Dunross. "What is the scam, Ian?"

"First I want to know if I get the 2 million advance free and clear—if you go for this scheme."

"What's the profit potential?" Casey asked.

"$4 to $12 million. Tax free."

Casey blanched. "Tax free?"

"Free of any Hong Kong taxes and we can help you avoid States taxes if you want."

"What's... what's the payout period?" Bartlett asked.

"The profit'll be set in thirty days. The payout will take five to six months."

"The $4 to $12 million's the total, or our share only?"

"Your share."

"That's a lot of profit for something completely, twenty-four-carat legal."

There was a great silence. Dunross waited, willing them onward.

"$2 million cash?", Bartlett said. "No security, no nothing?"

"No. But after I've laid it out you can put up or pass."

"What's Gornt to do with this?"

"Absolutely nothing. This venture has nothing to do with Gornt, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con, your interest in them or us or the Par-Con deal. This is totally outside, whatever happens—my word on that. And my word before God, that I'll never tell him you've put up this $2 million, that you two are my partners and in for a piece—or, by the way, that I know about the three of you selling me short." He smiled. "That was a very good idea by the way."

"The deal's swung by my $2 million?"

"No. Greased. I haven't $2 million U.S. cash as you know, otherwise you wouldn't be invited in."

"Why us, Ian? You could raise 2 mill from one of your friends here, easy, if it's so good."

"Yes. But I choose to sweeten the lure to you two. By the way, you are held to Tuesday at midnight." Dunross said it flat. Then his voice changed and the others felt the glee. "But with this—this business venture—I can dramatise how much superior we are to Rothwell-Gornt, how much more exciting it'll be being associated with us than him. You're a gambler, so am I. Raider Bartlett they call you and I'm tai-pan of the Noble House. You gambled a paltry $2 million with Gornt, with no chop, why not with me?"

Bartlett glanced at Casey. She gave him neither a yes or a no though he knew the lure had her in spades.

"Since you're setting the rules, Ian, answer me this: I put up the $2 million. Why should we share equally, Casey and I?"

"I remember what you said over dinner about drop dead money. You've got yours, she hasn't. This could be a device to get her hers."

"Why're you so concerned over Casey? You trying to divide and rule?"

"If that's possible then you shouldn't be in a very special partnership and business relationship. She's your right arm, you told me. She's clearly very important to you and to Par-Con so she's entitled to share."

"What does she risk?"

"She'll put up her house, her savings, her Par-Con stock—that's everything she has—alongside yours. She'll sign it all over for a half share. Right?"

Casey nodded, numb. "Sure."

Sharply Bartlett glanced at Casey. "I thought you said you knew nothing about this?"

She looked at him. "Couple of minutes ago, Ian asked if I'd gamble my all to get some drop dead money, big money." She gulped and added, "I said okay and already wish I hadn't."