James clavell

Everyone began talking but Haply called out, "Tai-pan, may I ask a question?"

Again attention zeroed. "What is it?"

"I understand it's oustomary in takeovers for there to be a down payment, in cash, a measure of good faith. May I ask how much Struan's is putting up?"

Everyone waited breathlessly, watching Dunross. He held the pause as his eyes raked the faces, enjoying the excitement, knowing everyone wanted him humbled, almost everyone, except... except who? Casey for one, even though she's in the know. Bartlett? I don't know, not for certain. Claudia? Oh yes, Claudia was staring at him, white-faced. Donald McBride, Gavallan, even Jacques.

His eyes stopped on Martin Haply. "Perhaps Mr. Pugmire would prefer to have that detail in private," he said, leading them on. "Eh, Pug?"

Gornt interrupted Pugmire and said, as a challenge, "Ian, since you've decided to be unorthodox, why not make it all public? How much you put down measures the value of your tender. Doesn't it?"

"No. Not really," Dunross said. He heard the distant muted roar of the off for the third race and was sure, watching the faces, that no one heard it except him. "Oh, very well," he said, matter-of-fact.

"Pug, how about $2 million, U.S., with the papers at 9:30 Monday? In good faith."

A gasp went through the room. Havergill, Johnjohn, Southerby, Gornt, were aghast. Phillip Chen almost fainted. Involuntarily Havergill began, "Ian, don't you think we, er, th—"

Dunross wheeled on him. "Oh, don't you consider it enough, Paul?"

"Oh yes, yes of course, more than enough, but, er..." Havergill’s words trailed off under Dunross's gaze.

"Oh for a moment..." Dunross stopped, pretending to have a sudden thought, "Oh, you needn't worry, Paul, I haven't committed you without your approval of course. I have alternate financing for this deal, external financing," he continued with his easy charm. "As you know, Japanese banks and many others are anxious to expand into Asia. I thought it better—to keep everything secret and prevent the usual leaks—to finance this externally until I was ready to announce. Fortunately the Noble House has friends all over the world! See you all later!"

He turned and left. Phillip Chen followed. Martin Haply started for the phone and then everyone was talking and saying I don't believe it, Christ if Ian's got that sort of external funds...

In the hubbub Havergill asked Johnjohn, "Which Japanese bank?"

"I wish I knew. If Ian's got finance for this... my God, $2 million U.S.'s twice as much as he needed to offer."

Southerby, who was alongside them, wiped his palms. "If Ian pulls this off it'll be worth $10 million U.S. the first year at least." He smiled sardonically. "Well, Paul, now it looks as though we're both out of this particular pie."

"Yes, yes it does, but I just don't see how Ian could... and to keep it so quiet!"

Southerby bent closer. "Meanwhile," he asked softly, "more important, what about Tiptop?"

"Nothing, nothing yet. He hasn't returned my calls, or John-John's." Havergill's eyes fell on Gornt who was now talking privately with Plumm. He turned his back on him. "What will Quillan do now?"

"Buy first thing Monday morning. He has to. Has to now, too dangerous to hold on," Southerby said.

"I agree," Sir Luis Basilio added, joining them. "If Ian can toss that sort of cash around, those who've been selling him short better watch out. Come to think of it, we've been buying General Stores for nominees this last week. Probably Ian, eh? He has to have taken a position, lucky devil!"

"Yes," Johnjohn muttered. "For the life of me. I can't figure... Good sweet Christ, and now if he wins with Noble Star! With joss like that he could turn his whole mess about, you know what Chinese're like!"

"Yes," Gornt said, butting in, startling them. "But thank God we're not all Chinese. We've yet to see the cash."

"He must have it—must have it," Johnjohn said. "Matter of face."

"Ah, face." Gornt was sardonic. "9:30 A.M., eh? If he'd really been smart he would have said noon, or 3:00 P.M., then we wouldn't know all day and he could've manipulated us all day. As it is now..." Gornt shrugged. "I win either way, millions, if not control." He glanced across the noisy box, nodded noncommittally to Bartlett and Casey, then turned away.

Bartlett took Casey's arm and led her on to the balcony. "What do you think?" he asked softly.

"About Gornt?", "About Dunross."

"Fantastic! He's fantastic. 'Japanese bank'—that was a stunning red herring," she said excitedly. "He's put this whole group into a tailspin, you could see that, and if this group, the whole of Hong Kong. You heard what Southerby said?"

"Sure. It looks like we've all got it made—if he can squeeze out of Gornt's trap."

"Let's hope." Then she noticed his smile. "What?"

"You know what we just did, Casey? We just bought the Noble House for the promise of 2 million bucks."

"How?"

"That's no gamble, Linc, that was the deal."

"Sure. But say I don't. His whole pack of cards collapses. If he doesn't get the 2 he's finished. Yesterday I told Gornt I might jerk the rug Monday morning. Say I withdraw Ian's 2 before the market opens. Ian's down the tube."

She stared at him, appalled. "You wouldn't?"

"We came here to raid and become the Noble House. Look what Ian did to Biltzmann, what they all did to him. That poor bastard didn't know what hit him. Pugmire made a deal but reneged to take Ian's better offer. Right?"

"That's different." She looked at him searchingly. "You're going to renege after making a deal?"

Bartlett smiled a strange smile, looked down at the packed crowds and at the tote. "Maybe. Maybe that depends on who does what to whom over the weekend. Gornt or Dunross, it's all the same."

"I don't agree."

"Sure, Casey, I know," he said calmly. "But it's my $2 million and my game."

"Yes, and your word and your face! You shook on the deal."

"Casey, these guys here would eat us for breakfast if they got the chance.

You think Dunross wouldn't sell us out if he had to choose between him and us?"

After a pause she said, "You're saying a deal's never a deal, no matter what?"

"You want $4 million tax free?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Say you're in for 49 percent of the new Par-Con-Gornt company, free and clear. It's got to be worth that."

"More," she said, afraid of this line of talk and for the first time in her life suddenly not sure of Bartlett.

"You want that 49 percent?"

"In return for what, Linc?"

"In return for getting in back of Gornt-Par-Con 100 percent."

Her stomach felt weak and she looked at him searchingly, trying to read his mind. Normally she could, but not since Orlanda. "Are you offering that?"

He shook his head, his smile the same, his voice the same. "No.

Not yet."

She shivered, afraid she would take the deal if it were really offered. "I'm glad, Raider. I guess, yes, I'm glad."

"The point's straight and simple, Casey: Dunross and Gornt play the game to win but for different stakes. Why this box would mean more to both of them than $2 or $4 million. We came here, you and I, to profit and to win."

They both glanced at the sky as a few raindrops spattered. But it was from the roof overhang and not a new shower. She began to say something, stopped.

"What, Casey?"

"Nothing."

"I'm going to circulate, see what the reaction is. See you back in our box."

"What about the fifth?" she asked.

"Wait for the odds. I'll be back before the start."

"Have fun!" She followed him with her eyes, out of the door, then turned and leaned on the balcony to hide from him and everyone. She had almost blurted out, Are you going to pull the rug and renege?

Jesus, before Orlanda—before Hong Kong—I'd never have needed to ask that question. Linc would never go back on a deal before. But now, now I'm not sure.

Again she shivered. What about my tears? I've never pulled that one before, and what about Murtagh? Should I tell Linc about Murtagh now—or later—because he must be told, certainly before 9:30 Monday. Oh God, I wish we'd never come here.

The patter of rain splashed the stadium and someone said, "Christ, I hope it doesn't get any worse!" The track was already scarred and muddy and very slippery. Outside the main entrance the road was slicked, puddled, traffic heavy and many late-coming people still hurried through the turnstiles.

Roger Crosse, Sinders and Robert Armstrong got out of the police car and went through the barriers and the checkpoints to the members' elevator, their blue lapel badges fluttering. Crosse had been a voting member for five years, Armstrong for one. Crosse was also a steward "this year. Every year the commissioner of police suggested to the stewards that the police should have their own box and each year the stewards agreed enthusiastically and nothing happened.

In the members' stand Armstrong lit a cigarette. His face was lined, his eyes tired. The huge, crowded room went half the length of the stands. They went to the bar and ordered drinks, greeting other members. "Who's that?" Sinders asked.

Armstrong followed his glance. "That's a little of our local colour, Mr. Sinders." His voice was sardonic. "Her name's Venus Poon and she's our top TV starlet."

Venus Poon was wearing a full-length mink and surrounded by an admiring group of Chinese. "The fellow on her left's Charles Wang—he's a film producer, multimillionaire, cinemas, dance halls, nightclubs, bars, girls and a couple of banks in Thailand. The small old man who looks like a bamboo and's just as tough is Four Finger Wu, one of our local pirates—smuggling's his life's work and he's very good."

"Yes," Crosse said. "We almost caught him a couple of days ago. We think he's into heroin now—of course gold."

"Who's the nervous one in the grey suit? The fellow on the outside?"

"That's Richard Kwang of the Ho-Pak disaster," Armstrong said. "The banker. He's her current, or was her current—what's the word—patron?"

"Interesting." Sinders concentrated on Venus Poon. Her dress was low-cut and saucy. "Yes, very. And who's that? Over there—the one with the European."

"Where? Oh. That's Orlanda Ramos, Portuguese which usually means Eurasian here. Once she was Quillan Gornt's mistress. Now, now I don't know. The man's Linc Bartlett, the 'gun-runner.'"

"Ah! She's unattached?"

"Perhaps."

"She looks expensive." Sinders sipped his drink and sighed. "Delectable, but expensive."

"I'd say very," Crosse told him distastefully. Orlanda Ramos was with several middle-aged women, all couturier dressed, around Bartlett. "Rather overdone for my taste."

Sinders glanced at him, surprised. "I haven't seen so many smashers in years—or so many jewels. Have you ever had a raid here?"

Crosse's eyes soared. "In the Turf Club? Good God, surely no one'd dare."

Armstrong smiled his hard smile. "Every copper who does duty here, from the high to the low, spends most of the time trying to work out the perfect heist. The final day's take must be 15 million at least. It's baffled us all. Security's too tight, too clever—Mr. Crosse set it up."

"Ah!"

"Good idea. Thank you."

"Robert?"

"No thank you, sir. If you don't mind I'll study the form and see you later." Armstrong was achingly aware that after the seventh race, they were due to return to HQ where Brian Kwok was scheduled for another session.

"Robert's a serious punter, Edward. Robert, do me a favour, show Mr. Sinders the ropes, where to bet, and order him a sandwich. I'd better see if the governor's free for a moment—I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Glad to," Armstrong said, hating the idea, the envelope with 40,000 h'eung yau dollars that he had taken from his desk on an impulse now a never-ending fire in his pocket. Christ, do I or don't I? he asked himself over and over, grimly trying to decide and all the while trying to push away the horror of his friend Brian and the next session—no, no longer his friend but a committed, highly trained foreign asset and enormously valuable catch that they had by a miracle uncovered.

"Robert," Crosse said, keeping his voice deliberately kind, "you've done a very good job today. Very good."

"Yes," Sinders agreed. "I'll see the minister's aware of your help, and of course the CP."

Crosse went for the elevator. Wherever he went nervous Chinese eyes followed him. On the top floor he bypassed the governor's box and went into Plumm's.

"Hello, Roger!" Plumm greeted him affably. "Drink?"

"Coffee would be fine. How're things?"

"Lost my shirt so far, though a number of us have the first leg of the quinella. You?"

"I've just arrived."

"Oh, then you missed the drama!" Plumm told Crosse about Dunross's takeover bid. "lan's thrown a monkey wrench into Pug."

"Or given him a great offer," someone volunteered.

"True, true."

Plumm's box was as packed as all the others. Lots of chatter and laughter, drinks and good food. "Tea'll be up in half an hour. I'm just going along to the stewards' committee room, Roger. Would you like to stroll with me?"

The committee room was at the end of the corridor, through guarded swing doors. It was small with a table and twelve chairs, a phone, good windows over the track and a tiny balcony. And empty. At once Plumm's easygoing facade vanished. "I talked to Suslev."

"Oh?"

"He's furious about the raid on the Ivanov last night."

Plumm became even grimmer. "They couldn't be on to you, could they?"

"Oh no. It's routine. Just Special Branch, MI-6 and Sinders flexing their wings. They're a secretive lot and quite right, nothing to do with SI. Go on."

"He said if you came that he'd be by a phone booth." Plumm handed him a slip of paper. "Here's the number. He'll be there exactly at the off of the next three races. Please call him—he said it was urgent. What the hell was the raid for?"

"Just to frighten all the KGB aboard, to frighten them enough to flush out Sevrin. Pressure. Same as the order for Suslev and the new commissar to appear at HQ on Sunday. It was just to frighten."

"Suslev's frightened all right." A sardonic smile flickered over Plumm's handsome face. "His sphincter's out of joint for ten years at least. They'll all have some explaining to do. When Armstrong 'happened' to bust open the radio room, Red One operated and they dutifully and unnecessarily wrecked all their scramble and decoding equipment, along with their classified radar scanners."

Crosse shrugged. "The Ivanov's leaving and they've got plenty to replace them with. It wasn't Suslev's fault, or ours. We can send a report telling Centre what happened. If we want."

Plumm's eyes narrowed. "If?"

"Rosemont and his CIA thugs picked up a glass in their raid on Sinclair Towers. Suslev's prints are all over it."

Plumm went white. "Christ! Now he's on file?"

"Has to be. He's in our files as you know, not as KGB, and I think I've the only copies of his fingerprints existing. I removed them from his dossier years ago. I'd say it's only a matter of time before the CIA are on to him, so the sooner he leaves Hong Kong the better."

"You think we should tell Centre?" Plumm asked uneasily. "They'll throw their book at him for being so careless."

"We can decide over the weekend. We knew Voranski over a number of years, knew he was to be trusted. But this man?" Crosse left the word hanging, keeping up the pretence that his contact with Suslev was recent, the same as Plumm's. "After all, isn't he only a minor KGB officer, a jumped-up courier. He's not even Voranski's official replacement and we've ourselves to think of."

"True!" Plumm hardened. "Maybe he's a real berk. I know I wasn't followed to Sinclair Towers. And as to the decoded cable-God stone the crows!"

"What?"

"The decoded cable—the one he dropped and Armstrong picked off the Ivanov's deck. We've got to decide about that."

"Of course. I insisted."

Crosse saw Plumm watching him. "Exactly what did he tell you was in it?"

"Oh? You mean he might be lying?" Plumm's anxiety showed. "It went something like: 'Inform Arthur that following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay. Second, the meeting with the American is brought forward to Sunday. Third and final: The AMG files continue to be Priority One. Maximum effort must be made by Sevrin to achieve success. Centre.' " Plumm licked his lips. "Is it correct?"

"Yes," Crosse said, gambling, almost wet with relief. He began weighing odds on Armstrong and Sinders. Now why, deliberately, why didn't they tell me that?

"Terrible, eh?" Plumm said.

"Yes, but not serious."

"I don't agree," Plumm said irritably. "It absolutely ties the KGB to Sevrin, absolutely confirms Arthur's existence and Sevrin's existence."

"Yes, but the AMG files have already done that. Calm down, Jason, we're quite safe."

"Are we? There've been too many leaks for my liking. Far too many. Perhaps we should close down for a time."

"We are closed down. It's only those bloody AMG files that are causing us any grief."

"Yes. At least that bugger Grant wasn't completely accurate."

"You mean about Banastasio?"

"Yes. I still wonder where the hell he fits in."

"Yes." In AMG's intercepted file Banastasio had been named erroneously as Sevrin's American connection. It was only after the file that Crosse had learned from Rosemont who Banastasio actually was.

"The fellow who met him was Vee Cee Ng," Crosse said.

Plumm's eyebrows soared. "Photographer Ng? How does he connect?"

"I don't know. Shipping, ships, smuggling. He's into all kinds of shady deals." Crosse shrugged.

"Could that writer fellow's theory work? What's his name? Marlowe. Could the KGB be doing an op in our territory without telling us?"

"Possible. Or it could be an utterly different department, perhaps GRU, instigated in America by the KGB or GRU there. Or just a coincidence." Crosse was back in control now, the fright of the cable wearing off. He was thinking much clearer. "What's Suslev want that's so urgent?"

"Our cooperation. Koronski arrives by the afternoon plane."

Crosse whistled. "Centre?"

"Yes. There was a message this morning. Now that the Ivanov's equipment is wrecked I'm the go-between."

"Good. What's his cover name?"

"Hans Meikker, West German. He's to stay at the Seven Dragons." Plumm's anxiety increased. "Listen, Suslev said Center's ordered us to prepare to snatch Ian an—"

"They've gone mad!" Crosse exploded.

"I agree but Suslev says it's the only way to find out quickly if the files are counterfeit or not, and if so, where they're hidden. He claims Koronski can do it. In a chemical debriefing, well, Ian's memory can be... can be emptied."

"That's madness," Crosse said. "We're not even sure if the files are counterfeit. That's a complete supposition for God's sake!"

"Suslev says Centre told him we can blame it on the Werewolves—those buggers snatched John Chen so why wouldn't they go after the big money, the tai-pan?"

"No. Too dangerous."

Plumm wiped his hands. "To snatch Ian now'd put the tai-pans and Hong Kong into a furor. It could be a perfect time, Roger."

"Why?"

Crosse lit a cigarette. He had heard the tension in Plumm's voice. "I'll think about it," he said at length. "Leave it for the moment. I'll call you tonight. Did Suslev say who the American in the cable was?"

"No. He just said it wasn't anything to do with us."

Crosse's voice hardened. "Everything here's to do with us."

"I agree." Plumm watched him. "It could also be a code word, a code for anyone."

"Possible."

"I have a wild one for you. Banastasio."

"Why him?" Crosse asked, having jumped to the same conclusion.

"I don't know why, but I'll bet that whole scam, if it is a scam, has to be KGB inspired, or assisted. It's classic Sun Tzu: using the enemy's strength against himself—both enemies, the U. S. and China. A strong unified Vietnam's guaranteed militantly anti-Chinese. Eh?"

"Possible. Yes, it all fits," Crosse agreed. Except one thing, he thought: Vee Cee Ng. Until Brian Kwok had blurted out, "Vee Cee's one of us," he had had no inkling that the man was anything other than a swinging photographer and trader-shipping capitalist. "If Banastasio's the American, we'll know." He finished his cigarette. "Was there anything else?"

"No. Roger, consider Dunross. Please. The Werewolves make it possible."

"It's considered."

"This weekend would be perfect, Roger."

"I know."

Orlanda was watching the horses through her high-powered binoculars as they broke out of the starting gate for the fourth race. She stood in a corner of the members' balcony, Bartlett happily beside her, everyone watching the horses except him. He was watching her, the curve of her breasts under the silk, the angle of her cheekbones and the intensity of her excitement. "Come on, Crossfire," she muttered, "come on! He's lying fifth, Linc, oh come on, you beauty, come on..."

He chuckled, Orlanda oblivious. They had arranged to meet here between the third and fourth race. "Are you a voting member?" he had asked her last night.

"Oh no, my darling, I'm just going with friends. Old friends of my family. Another drink?"

"No. No thanks—I'd better go."

They had kissed and again he had felt her overpowering welcome. It had kept him unsettled and on edge all the way back across the harbour home and most of the night. Much as he tried, he found the wanting of her difficult to contain and to keep in perspective.

You're hooked, old buddy, he told himself, watching her, the tip of her tongue touching her lips, her eyes concentrating, everything forgotten but her $50 on the nose of the big grey, the favourite.

"Come on... come... oh he's moving up, Linc... oh he's second...."

Bartlett looked at the pack galloping now into the last stretch: Crossfire, the big grey well placed to Western Scot, a brown gelding who was slightly in the lead, the going very slow—one horse had fallen in the third race. Now a contender made his dash, Winwell Stag, a gelding belonging to Havergill that Peter Marlowe had tipped to win, and he was coming up strong on the outside with Crossfire and Western Scot neck and neck just ahead, all whips out now in the gathering roar.

"Oh come on come on come on Crossfire... oh he's won, he's won!"

Bartlett laughed in the pandemonium as Orlanda's glee burst out and she hugged him. "Oh Linc, how wonderful!"

In a moment there was another roar as the winning numbers were flashed up on the tote board, confirming their order. Now everyone waited for the final odds. Another great cheer. Crossfire paid 5 to 2.