Noble House by James Clavell
“Thanks.”
Dunross kept his head down and went to the rain-coated group, his feet squelching in the mud. “Morning.”
“It’s bloody awful, tai-pan,” George T’Chung, Shitee T’Chung’s eldest son, said. “I tried my bus out and she stuck on the first bend.” He pointed at the track. The E-Type was bogged down with one of its fenders bent. “I’ll have to get a tractor.” A spatter of rain washed them.
“Bloody waste of time,” Don Nikklin said sourly. He was a short, bellicose man in his late twenties. “We should have canceled it yesterday.”
Quite true, Dunross thought contentedly, but then I wouldn’t have had the excuse to fly, and the extreme pleasure of seeing you here, your morning wasted. “The consensus was to try for today. Everyone agreed it was a long shot,” Dunross said sweetly. “You were there. So was your father. Eh?”
McBride said hastily, “I formally suggest we postpone.”
“Approved.” Nikklin went off back to his brand-new four-wheel-drive truck with its souped-up Porsche under a neat tarp.
“Friendly fellow,” someone said.
They watched as Nikklin got his rig into motion and swirled away with great skill on the treacherous dirt road, past the chopper, its engine dying and the rotors slowing down.
“Pity he’s such a shit,” someone else said. “He’s an awfully good driver.”
“Roll on Macao, eh, tai-pan?” George T’Chung said with a laugh, his voice patrician and English public school.
“Yes,” Dunross said, his voice sharpening, looking forward to November, to beating Nikklin again. He had beaten him three out of six tries but he had never won the Grand Prix, his cars never strong enough to sustain his heavy right foot. “This time I’ll win, by God.”
“Oh no you won’t, tai-pan. This’s my year! I’ve a Lotus 22, the works, my old man sprung for the lot. You’ll see my tail for all sixty laps!”
“Not on your nelly! My new E-Type’ll…” Dunross stopped. A police car was skidding and slipping in the quagmire, approaching him. Why’s Sinders here so early? he asked himself, his stomach tightening. He had said noon. Involuntarily his hand moved to check that the envelope was safe in his buttoned-down hip pocket. His fingers reassured him.
Last night when he had returned to P. B. White’s study he had taken out the eleven pieces of paper and examined them again under the light. The ciphers were meaningless. I’m glad, he had thought. Then he had gone to the photocopier that was beside the leather-topped desk and made two copies of each page. He put each set into a separate envelope and sealed them. One he marked: “P. B. White—please hand this to the tai-pan of Struan’s unopened.” That one he put into a book that he chose at random from the bookshelves, replacing it with equal care. Following AMG’s instructions, he marked the second with a G for Riko Gresserhoff and pocketed it. The originals he sealed in a last envelope and pocketed that too. With a final check that the secret door was back in place, he unlocked the door and went out. In a few minutes he and Gavallan had left with Casey and Riko and though there was plenty of opportunity to give Riko her set privately, he had decided it was better to wait until the originals were delivered.
Should I give Sinders the originals now or at noon? he asked himself, watching the police car. The car stopped. Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth got out. Neither Sinders nor Crosse was with him.
“Morning,” Smyth said politely, touching his peaked cap with his swagger stick, his other arm still in a sling. “Excuse me, Mr. Dunross, is the chopper your charter?”
“Yes, yes it is, Chief Inspector,” Dunross said. “What’s up?”
“I’ve a small show on down the road and saw you coming in. Wonder if we could borrow MacIver and the bird for an hour—or if you’re going back at once, perhaps we could take her on after?”
“Certainly. I’ll be off in a second. The hill climb’s canceled.”
Smyth glanced at the mountain track and the sky and grunted. “I’d say that was wise, sir. Someone would’ve been hurt, sure as shooting. If it’s all right, I’ll talk to MacIver?”
“Of course. Nothing serious I hope?”
“No, no, not at all. Interesting though. The rain’s uncovered a couple of bodies that’d been buried in the same area where John Chen’s body was found.”
The others came closer. “The Werewolves?” George T’Chung asked, shocked. “More kidnap victims?”
“We presume so. They were both young. One had his head bashed in and the other poor bugger half his head cut off, looks like with a spade. Both were Chinese.”
“Christ!” Young George T’Chung had gone white.
Smyth nodded sourly. “You haven’t heard of any rich sons being kidnapped, have you?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Not surprised,” Smyth said. “Stupid for the families of victims to deal with kidnappers and keep quiet about it. Unfortunately the bodies were discovered by locals so it’ll be headlines by tonight from here to Peking!”
“You want to fly the bodies back?”
“Oh no, tai-pan. The hurry’s to get some CID experts here to search the area before the rain comes again. We need to try to identify the poor buggers. Can you leave at once?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you. Sorry about Noble Star, but my bundle’ll be on you on Saturday.” Smyth nodded politely and walked off.
George T’Chung was openly upset. “We’re all targets for those bastards, the Werewolves. You, me, my old man, anyone! Christ, how can we protect ourselves against them?”
No one answered him.
Then Dunross said with a laugh, “No need to worry, old chap, we’re inviolate, we’re all inviolate.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
10:01 A.M.:
The phone rang in the semidarkness of the bedroom. Bartlett scrambled out of sleep. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Mr. Bartlett, this is Claudia Chen. The tai-pan asked if you’d need the car today anyway?”
“No, no thanks.” Bartlett glanced at his watch. “Jesus,” he muttered aloud, astounded he had slept so long. “Er, thanks, thanks, Claudia.”
“The Taipei trip’s rescheduled for next Friday, Friday back Monday noon. Is that convenient?”
“Yes, er yes, sure.”
“Thank you.”
Bartlett hung up and lay back a moment, collecting his wits. He stretched luxuriously, glad that there was no rush for anything, enjoying the rare pleasantness of being just a little lazy.
It had been four o’clock this morning when he had hung up a “do not disturb,” cut off the phones till 10:00 A.M. and had gone to bed. Last night Orlanda had taken him to Aberdeen where she had hired a Pleasure Boat. They had drifted the channels, the rain making the hooped cabin more cozy, the brazier warming, the food hot and spicy.
“In Shanghai we cook with garlic and chilies and peppers and all manner of spices,” she had told him, serving him, her chopsticks a delicate extension of her fingers. “The farther north you go the hotter the food, the less rice is eaten, more breads and noodles. The north’s wheat-eating, only the southern part of China’s rice-eating, Linc. More?”
He had eaten well and drunk the beer she had brought with her. The night had been happy for him, the time going unnoticed as she regaled him with stories of Asia and Shanghai, her mind deft and darting. Then, afterward, the rain pattering on the canvas, the dishes taken away and they reclining side-by-side on the cushions, fingers entwined, she had said, “Linc, I’m sorry, but I love you.”
It had taken him by surprise.
“No need to be sorry,” he had said, not ready yet to reply in kind.
“Oh but I am. It complicates things, oh yes, it complicates things very much.”
Yes, he thought. It’s so easy for a woman to say I love you, so hard for a man, unwise for a man, for then you’re stuck. Is that the right word? Again the answer did not present itself.
As he lay now in bed, his head
“You’ve never done that before,” he muttered out loud. “Once you had a girl going, you went all the way,” and he wished he had, remembering how heavy the desire had been upon them. “I’m not a one-night stand or Eurasian tramp” had rung in his ears.
In the taxi to her home they had not spoken, just held hands. That’s the goddamnedest part, he thought, feeling foolish, childish, just holding hands. If anyone had told me a month ago, a week ago that I’d settle for that, I’d’ve said he was a meathead and bet big money.
Money. I have more than enough for Orlanda and me. But what about Casey? And Par-Con? First things first. Let’s see if Casey tells me about Murtagh and why she’s been sitting on that hot potato. Gornt? Gornt or Dunross? Dunross has style and if Banastasio’s against him that’s one great vote of confidence.
After he had told Armstrong their theory about Banastasio, Armstrong had said, “We’ll see what we can come up with, though Mr. Gornt’s credentials are as impeccable as any in the Colony. You can rest assured Vincenzo Banastasio will be high up on our shit list, but isn’t his real threat in the States?”
“Oh yes. But I told Rosemont an—”
“Ah, good! That was wise. He’s a good man. Did you see Ed Langan?”
“No. Is he CIA too?”
“I don’t even know, officially, if Rosemont is, Mr. Bartlett. Leave it with me. Did he have any suggestion about the guns?”
“No.”
“Well, never mind. I’ll pass on your information and liaise with him—he’s very good by the way.”
A small tremor went through Bartlett. He’ll have to be very good to clobber Mafia, if Banastasio really is Mafia.
He reached over and dialed Casey’s room number. No answer, so he called down for his messages. The receptionist told him everything was already under his door. “Would you like your cables and telexes sent up?”
“Sure, thanks. Any message from Casey Tcholok?”
“No sir.”
“Thanks.”
He jumped out of bed and went to the door. Among the phone messages was an envelope. He recognized her writing. The messages were all business calls except one: “Mr. Banastasio called. Please return his call.” Bartlett put that aside. He opened Casey’s envelope. The note was timed 9:45 A.M. and read: “Hi, Linc! Didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep—back sixish. Have fun!”
Where’s she off to? he asked himself absently.
He picked up the phone to call Rosemont but changed his mind and dialed Orlanda. No answer. He redialed the number. The calling tone droned on and on.
“Shit!” He pushed away his discontent.
You’ve a date for lunch so what’s so tough? Sunday brunch here atop the V and A and lots of time, Sunday brunch where “all the best people go for lunch, Linc. Oh it’s super, the hot and cold buffet’s the talk of Asia. The very best!”
“Jesus, all this food, by next week I’ll weigh a ton!”
“Not you, never never never. If you like, we’ll go for a long walk or when the rain stops we’ll play tennis. Whatever you want we’ll do! Oh Linc, I love you so….”
Casey was leaning on the balustrade at the Kowloon wharf among the crowds. She wore khaki pants and a yellow silk shirt that showed her figure without flaunting it, a matching cashmere sweater tied casually around her neck, sneakers, and in her big handbag was a swimsuit—not that I’ll need it today, she told herself, the Peak shrouded to Mid Levels with cloud, black-dark sky to the east and a heavy line of rain squall already touching the Island. A small helicopter putt-putted overhead to go out across the harbor on course for Central. She saw it land on one of the buildings. Isn’t that the Struan Building? Sure, sure it is. Wonder if Ian’s in it?
Wonder if the hill climb’s back on again? Last night he had said it was off but that some of them might do it anyway.
Then her eyes saw the approaching motor cruiser. It was big, expensive, the lines sleek, a Red Ensign aft, a colorful pennant on the stubby mast. She picked out Gornt at the helm. He was dressed casually, shirtsleeves rolled up, canvas pants, his black hair ruffled by the sea breeze. He waved and she waved back. There were others on the bridge main deck: Jason Plumm she had met at the races, Sir Dunstan Barre at the tai-pan’s—he was wearing a smart blue blazer and white pants, Pugmire was equally nautical.
Gornt put the cumbersome craft alongside skillfully, fenders out, two deckhands with hooked fending poles. She headed along the quay toward the wet slippery steps. Five Chinese girls were already waiting on the landing, gaily dressed in boating clothes, laughing and chattering and waving. As she watched, they jumped awkwardly aboard helped by a deckhand, kicked their high heels off. One went to Barre, another to Pugmire, another to Plumm as old friends would and the other two went cheerfully below.
I’ll be goddamned, she thought disgustedly. It’s one of those parties. She began to turn to leave but she saw Gornt leaning over the side, watching her. “Hello, Casey, sorry about the rain, come aboard!”
The craft was dipping and twisting in the swell, waves slapping the steps and the hull. “Come aboard, it’s quite safe,” he called out. Reacting at once to what she interpreted as a taunt, she came down the steps quickly, refused the proffered help of the deckhand, waited for the correct moment and jumped. “You did that as though you’ve been aboard a yacht before,” Gornt said with admiration, coming to meet her. “Welcome aboard the Sea Witch.”
“I like sailing, Quillan, though I think maybe I’m out of my depth here.”
“Oh?” Gornt frowned and she could read no taunt or challenge there. “You mean the girls?”
“Yes.”
“They’re just guests of my guests.” His eyes bored into her. “I understood you wanted to be treated with equality.”
“What?”
“I thought you wanted to be treated equally in a masculine world, in business and pleasure? To be accepted, eh?”
“I do,” she said coldly.
His warmth did not change. “Are you upset because the others are married and you’ve met some of their wives?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Isn’t that rather unfair?”
“No, I don’t think it is,” she said uncomfortably.
“You’re my guest, my guest, the others are my guests’ guests. If you want equality, perhaps you should be prepared to accept equality.”
“This isn’t equality.”
“I’m certainly putting you in a position of trust. As an equal. I must tell you the others didn’t think you as trustworthy as I consider you.” The smile hardened. “I told them they could leave or stay. I do what I like on my ship and I stood surety for your discretion and good manners. This is Hong Kong, our customs are different. This isn’t a puritan society though we have very serious rules. You’re alone. Unmarried. Very attractive and very welcome. As an equal. If you were married to Linc, you would not have been asked, together or by yourself, though he might have been and what he told you when he came back would be his own affair.”
“You’re saying this is regular Hong Kong custom—the boys out with the girls bit on a Sunday afternoon?”
“No, not at all. I’m saying my guests asked if they could invite some guests who’d brighten what might otherwise be a dull luncheon for them.” Gornt’s eyes were level.
The Sea Witch heeled under another wave and Barre and his girl friend stumbled and almost lost their footing. She dropped her glass of champagne. Gornt had not moved. Nor did Casey. She didn’t even need to hold on.
“You’ve done lots of sailing?” he said with admiration.
“I’ve an eighteen-footer, fiberglass, Olympic class, sloop-rigged, on a trailer. I sail some weekends.”
“Alone?”
“Mostly. Sometimes Linc comes along.”
“He’
“No. I heard it was canceled.”
“He’s going to Taipei this afternoon?”
“No. I heard that was canceled too.”
Gornt nodded. “Wise. A lot to do tomorrow.” His eyes were kindly. “I’m sorry you’re offended. I thought you different from the usual. I’m sorry the others came now.”
Casey heard the strange gentleness. “Yes, I’m sorry too.”
“Would you still like to stay? I hope so, though I will expect your discretion—I did guarantee it.”
“I’ll stay,” she said simply. “Thanks for trusting me.”
“Come on the bridge. There’s champagne and I think lunch’ll please you.”
Having chosen, Casey put away her reservations and decided to enjoy the day. “Where’re we going?”
“Up by Sha Tin. The sea’ll be calm there.”
“Say, Quillan, this is a wonderful boat.”
“I’ll show you around in a moment.” There was a spatter of rain and they moved into the lee of the overhanging deck. Gornt glanced at the clock tower. It was 10:10. He was about to order their castoff when Peter Marlowe hurried down the steps and came aboard. His eyes widened as he noticed Casey.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. Gornt.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Marlowe. I was going to give you a couple of minutes—I know how it is with young children. Excuse me a second, I believe you know each other. Oh, Casey’s my guest—her discretion’s guaranteed.” He smiled at her. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
He turned and left them, going to the bridge to take the conn. They watched a moment, both embarrassed, the sea breeze freshening the rain that slanted down.
“I didn’t expect to see you, Peter,” she said.
“I didn’t expect to see you either.”
She studied him, her hazel eyes level. “Is one of the, the others yours? Give it to me straight.”
His smile was curious. “Even if one was I’d say it wasn’t any of your business. Discretion and all that. By the way, are you Gornt’s girlfriend?”