Noble House by James Clavell
Suslev jerked the sending switch on. “Do nothing!” He hesitated then switched on the ship’s intercom. “All hands: Emergency, Red One …” This order meant: “Hostile visitors are coming aboard. Radio and radar rooms: arm destructs on all secret equipment.” He switched the sender off and hissed at Boradinov, “Go on deck, down the gangway, greet them, delay, for five minutes then invite the leaders aboard, only them if you can. Go on!”
“Surely they daren’t come aboard to sear—”
“Intercept them—now!”
Boradinov rushed out. Once alone Suslev armed the secret destruct on his safe. If anyone but him tried to open it now its incendiary napalm would obliterate everything.
He tried to put his panicked mind at ease. Think! Is everything covered against a sudden search? Yes. Yes we’ve done the Red One drill a dozen times. But God curse Roger Crosse and Arthur! Why the devil didn’t we get a warning? Was Arthur caught? Or Roger? Kristos, let it not be Roger! What ab—
His eyes caught the pile of coded and decoded cables. Frantically he scooped them into an ashtray, cursing himself for not doing it earlier, not knowing if there was enough time now. He found his lighter. His fingers were trembling. The lighter flamed as the intercom crackled on: “Two men’re coming aboard with Boradinov, two men, the rest’re staying below.”
“All right, but delay them. I’ll come on deck.” Suslev doused the flame with a curse and stuffed the cables in his pocket. He grabbed a half-empty vodka bottle, took a deep breath, put a broad beam on his face and went on deck. “Ah, welcome aboard! What’s the trouble, eh?” he said, a slight slur now in his voice, keeping up his well-known cover. “One of our sailors has himself in trouble, Superintendent Armstrong?”
“This is Mr. Sun. May we have a word with you?” Armstrong said.
“Of course, of course!” Suslev said with a forced joviality he did not feel. He had never seen the Chinese before. He examined the cold-eyed, sallow, hate-filled face. “Follow me please,” he said, then added in Russian to Boradinov who spoke perfect English, “You too,” then again to Armstrong with continuing forced good humor, “Who’s going to win the fifth race, Superintendent?”
“I wish I knew, sir.”
Suslev led the way to the small wardroom that adjoined his cabin. “Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you tea or vodka? Orderly, bring tea and vodka!”
They came quickly. Expansively Suslev poured vodka even though the two policemen refused politely. “Prosit,” he said and laughed jovially. “Now what’s the trouble?”
“It seems that one of your crew is engaged in espionage against Her Majesty’s Government,” Armstrong said politely.
“Impossible, tovarich! Why joke with me, eh?”
“We’ve caught one. Her Majesty’s Government is really quite upset.”
“This is a peaceful freighter, trading. You’ve known us for years. Your Superintendent Crosse has watched us for years. We don’t deal in espionage.”
“How many of your crew are ashore, sir?”
“Six. Now, listen, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve had enough cursed trouble this voyage already with one of my innocent seamen murdered by unkn—”
“Ah yes, the late Major Yuri Bakyan of the KGB. Very unfortunate.”
Suslev pretended sullen anger. “His name was Voranski. I know nothing of this major you talk about. I know nothing about that, nothing.”
“Of course. Now, sir, when are your sailors back from shore leave?”
“Tomorrow, at dusk.”
“Where are they staying?”
Suslev laughed. “They’re ashore, on leave. Where else should they be but with a girl or in a bar? With a girl, eh, happily, eh?”
“Not all of them are,” Armstrong said coldly. “At least one is very miserable right now.”
Suslev watched him, glad that he knew Metkin was gone forever and they could not bluff him. “Come now, Superintendent, I know nothing about any espionage.”
Armstrong put the eight-by-ten photos on the table. They showed Metkin going into the restaurant, then under guard, then being hustled into the Black Maria, then a mug shot of him, terror in the face.
“Kristos!” Suslev gasped, a consummate actor. “Dimitri? It’s impossible! It’s another false arrest! I will have my gov—”
“It’s already been reported to your government in London. Major Nicoli Leonov admitted espionage.”
Now Suslev’s shock was real. He had never expected Metkin to break so quickly. “Who? Who did you say?”
Armstrong sighed. “Major Nicoli Leonov of your KGB. That’s his real name and rank. He was also political commissar on this ship.”
“Yes … yes that is true but his … his name is Metkin, Dimitri Metkin.”
“Oh? You have no objection if we search this ship?” Armstrong began to get up. Suslev was aghast, Boradinov equally.
“Oh yes I object,” Suslev stuttered. “Yes, Superintendent, so sorry but I formally object, and I mu—”
“If your ship is not engaged in espionage and is a peaceful freighter why should you object?”
“We have international protection. Unless you have a formal search warrant th—”
Armstrong’s hand went into his pocket and Suslev’s stomach turned over. He would have to comply with a formal warrant and then he would be ruined because they would find more evidence than even they could ever hope for. That god-cursed son of a whore bitch Metkin must’ve told them something vital. He wanted to shout in rage, the decoded and coded messages in his pocket suddenly lethal. His face had gone white. Boradinov was paralyzed. Armstrong’s hand came out of his pocket with only a pack of cigarettes. Suslev’s heart began again though his nausea still almost overwhelmed him. “Matyeryebyets!” he muttered.
“Sir?” Armstrong asked innocently. “Is anything the matter?”
“No, no, nothing.”
“Would you care for an English cigarette?”
Suslev fought for control, wanting to smash the other man for tricking him. Sweat was on his back and on his face. He took the cigarette shakily. “These things are … are terrible, eh? Espionage and searches and threats of searches.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to leave tomorrow, not Tuesday.”
“Impossible! Are we being hounded like rats?” Suslev blustered, not knowing how far he dare go. “I will have to inform my government and th—”
“Please do. Please tell them we have intercepted Major Leonov of the KGB, caught him in an espionage act, and that he has been charged under the Official Secrets Act.”
Suslev wiped the sweat off his face, trying to stay calm. Only the knowledge that Metkin was probably dead now kept him in one piece. But what else did he tell them, he was shrieking in his head, what else? He looked at Boradinov who was standing beside him, white-faced.
“Who’re you?” Armstrong asked sharply, following his glance.
“First Officer Boradinov,” the younger man said, his voice strangled.
“Who’s the new commissar, Captain Suslev? Who took over from your Mr. Leonov? Who’s the senior Party man aboard?”
Boradinov went ashen and Suslev was thankful that some of the pressure was turned off him.
“Well?”
Suslev said, “He is. First Officer Boradinov.”
At once Armstrong put his icy eyes on the younger man. “Your full name please?”
“Vassili Boradinov, first officer,” the man stuttered.
“Very well, Mr. Boradinov, you’re responsible for getting this ship under way by midnight Sunday at the latest. You are formally warned we have reason to believe there might be an attack on you by triads—by Chinese bandits. The rumor is the attack’s planned for the early hours of Monday—just after midnight Sunday. It’s a very strong rumor. Very. There are lots of Chinese bandits in Hong Kong, and Russians have stolen lots of Chinese land. We are concerned for your safety and health. I suggest it politic … eh?”
Boradinov was ashen. “Yes, yes, I
“But my … my repairs,” Suslev began, “if my repai—”
“Please see they’re completed, Captain. If you need extra help or a tow outside Hong Kong waters, just ask. Oh yes, and would you be kind enough to appear at police headquarters at 10:00 A.M. Sunday—sorry about the weekend.”
Suslev blanched. “Eh?”
“Here’s your formal invitation.” Armstrong handed him an official letter. Suslev accepted it, began to read as Armstrong took out a second copy, wrote in Boradinov’s name. “Here’s yours, Commissar Boradinov.” He shoved it into his hand. “I suggest you confine the rest of your crew aboard—with the exception of yourselves of course—and bring your shore party back right smartly. I’m sure you’ll have lots to do. Good night!” he added with startling suddenness, got up and went out of the wardroom, closing the door behind him.
There was a stunned silence. Suslev saw Malcolm Sun get up and leisurely head for the door. He got up to follow but stopped as the Chinese whirled on them.
“We’ll get you, all of you!” Sun said malevolently.
“For what? We’ve done nothing,” Boradinov gasped. “We’ve d—”
“Espionage. Spying? You KGB think you’re so clever, matyeryebyets!”
“You get to hell off my ship,” Suslev snarled.
“We’ll get you all—I don’t mean us police …” Abruptly Malcolm Sun switched to fluent Russian. “Get out of our lands, hegemonists! China’s on the march! We can lose fifty million soldiers, a hundred and still have double that left. Get out while you’ve time!”
“We’ll blast you off the earth!” Suslev bellowed. “We’ll atomize all China. We’ll ta—” He stopped. Malcolm Sun was laughing at him.
“Your mother’s tit in your atomics! We’ve our own atomics now! You start we finish. Atomics, fists, ploughshares!” Malcolm Sun’s voice dropped. “Get out of China while you’ve the chance. We’re coming out of the East like Genghis Khan, all of us, Mao Tse-tung, Chiang Kai-shek, me, my grandsons, their grandsons, we’re coming and we’ll clean you off the earth and take back all our lands, all of them!”
“Get off my ship!” Suslev felt his chest hurting. Almost blind with rage, he readied to hurl himself at his tormentor, Boradinov as well.
Unafraid, Malcolm Sun came back a pace. “Yeb tvoyu mat Turd-head!” Then in English, “Hit me and I’ll arrest you for assault and impound your ship!”
With a great effort the two men stopped. Choked with rage, Suslev stuffed his fists into his pockets. “Please, you will … you will leave. Please.”
“Dew neh loh moh on you, your mother, your father and the whole of your turd-eating Soviet hegemonists!”
“You—will—leave—now.”
Equally enraged, Sun cursed them in Russian and shouted back, “We’re coming out of the East like locusts….” Then there was a sudden noisy altercation outside on deck and a slight dull boom. At once he turned and went for the door, the other two rushing after him.
Appalled, Suslev saw that now Armstrong was standing at the doorway of the radio room which was next to his cabin. The door was burst open, the two frightened operators staring at the Englishman, aghast, paralyzed deckhand guards nearby. Already the beginning of smoke was welling from the innards of the radio equipment. Red One ordered the senior radioman to trigger the destruct on the secret scrambling device the instant a hostile opened the door or tried to break the lock.
Armstrong turned to face Suslev. “Ah, Captain, so sorry, I stumbled. So sorry,” he said innocently. “I thought this was the loo.”
“What?”
“The toilet. I stumbled and the door burst open. So sorry.” The policeman glanced back into the radio room. “Good God! It seems there’s a fire. I’ll call the fire brigade at once. Malcolm, get th—”
“No … no!” Suslev said, then snarled in Russian to Boradinov and the deck crew, “Get the fire out!” He jerked a fist out of his pocket and shoved Boradinov into motion. Unnoticed by him his cuff caught one of his decoded cables and it fell onto the deck. Smoke was pouring out from behind one of the complex radio panels. Already one of the deckhands had a fire extinguisher.
“Dear oh dear! What could have happened? You’re sure you don’t want assistance?” Armstrong asked.
“No, no thank you.” Suslev said, his face mottled with rage, “Thank you, Superintendent. I’ll … I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Good night, sir. Come along, Malcolm.” In the growing confusion Armstrong headed for the gangway but stooped and before Suslev realized what was happening picked up the piece of paper and was halfway down the gangway, Malcolm Sun following him.
Appalled, Suslev’s hand went to his pocket. Forgetting the fire he rushed into his cabin to check which cable was missing.
Below on the wharf, uniformed police had long since fanned out, covering both gangways. Armstrong was getting into the back of the car beside Sinders. The eyes of the chief of MI-6 were dark-rimmed and his suit a little rumpled but he was icily alert. “Well done, you two! Yes. I imagine that’ll interrupt their communications for a day or so.”
“Yes sir.” Armstrong began rummaging in his pocket for his lighter, his heart pounding. Sinders watched Malcolm Sun get into the driver’s seat.
“What’s the matter?” he asked thoughtfully, seeing his face.
“Nothing, nothing really, sir.” Malcolm Sun craned around, the sweat on his back, his heart hurting and the sick-sweet excitement rage-fear taste still in his mouth. “When … when I was conducting delaying tactics for the superintendent I … they got me going, those two bastards.”
“Oh? How?”
“Just … they started cursing, so I … I just cursed them back.” Sun faced the front, settled himself, not wanting Sinders’s penetrating eyes on his. “Just cursing,” he added, trying to sound light.
“Pity one of them didn’t hit you.”
“Yes, yes I was ready.”
Sinders glanced at Armstrong briefly as the big man clicked the lighter on, lit a cigarette and, under the light of the flame, peered at the paper. Sinders glanced up at the ship above. Once more Suslev was standing at the head of the gangway staring down at them. “He looks very angry indeed. Good.” The flicker of a smile went over him. “Very good.” With Sir Geoffrey’s approval he had ordered the sudden arrival and attempt to disrupt the Ivanov’s communications—and complacency—to put pressure on Arthur and the Sevrin moles, hoping to flush them out. “And our police mole,” Sir Geoffrey had added grimly. “It’s impossible that Brian Kwok’s the spy mentioned in the AMG papers. Eh?”
“I agree,” he had said.
Armstrong clicked the lighter off. In the semidarkness of the car he hesitated. “You’d better get the detail organized, Malcolm. No need to waste any more time here. All right, Mr. Sinders?”
“Yes. Yes we can go now.”
Obediently Malcolm Sun left. Armstrong was watching Suslev on the deck. “You, er, you read Russian, don’t you sir?”
“Yes, yes I do. Why?”
Carefully Armstrong passed over the paper, holding it by the edges. “This fell out of Suslev’s pocket.”
Equally carefully Sinders took the paper but his eyes never left Armstrong’s. “You don’t trust senior agent Sun?” he asked softly.
“Yes. Oh yes. But Chinese are Chinese and it’s in Russian. I don’t read Russian.”
Sinders frowned. After a moment he nodded. Armstrong lit the flame for him. The older man scanned the paper twice and sighed. “It’s a weather report, Robert. Sorry. Unless it’s in code, it’s just a meteorological report.” Carefully he folded the paper in its original creases. “The fingerprints might be valuable. Perhaps it’s code. Just for safety I’ll pass it on to our cipher fellows.”
Sinders settled back more comfortably in the car. The paper had read: “Advise 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
Now which American! Sinders asked himself patiently, and is it Arthur’s meeting or whose? Captain Suslev? Is he as innocent as he appears? Which American? Bartlett, Tcholok, Banastasio or who? Peter Marlowe—Anglo-American-Know-all writer with his curious theories?
Did Bartlett or Tcholok make contact with Center in June in Moscow when they were there, with or without Peter Marlowe, who also happened to be there when a highly secret meeting of foreign agents was taking place?
Or is the American not a visitor at all but someone who lives here in Hong Kong?
Is it Rosemont? Or Langan? Both would be perfect.
So much to wonder about.
Like who’s the fourth man? Who’s the VVIP above Philby? Where will those threads lead? Into Burke’s Peerage? Perhaps to some castle, or even a palace?
Who’s this mysterious Mrs. Gresserhoff who took Kiernan’s second call and then vanished like a smoke ring?
And what about those bloody files? What about bloody AMG and bloody Dunross trying to be so bloody clever….
It was getting toward midnight and Dunross and Casey were sitting happily side-by-side in the glassed-in forward section of one of the Golden Ferries, which swerved confidently toward its berth Kowloon side. It was a good night though the clouds still scudded low. Canvas storm panels still closed in and protected the open part of the decks, but here where they were, the view was good and a fine sea-salt breeze came through one of the open windows.
“It is going to rain again?” she asked, breaking their comfortable silence.
“Oh yes. But I certainly hope the heavy stuff stays away till late tomorrow afternoon.”
“You and your races! Are they that important?”
“To all Hong Kong yan, oh yes. To me, yes and no.”
“I’ll put my entire fortune on your Noble Star.”