Noble House by James Clavell
More creaking above. Panic began to well but he shoved it back. “Let’s recap,” he said aloud to reassure himself. “I got provisions now for two, three days easy. I’m in good shape an’ I can last three, four days easy but you, you bastard,” he said to the wreckage above, “what’re you going to do?”
The tomb did not answer him.
Another spine-chilling screech. Then a faint voice, far overhead and to the right. He lay back and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Helllp!” he shouted carefully and listened. The voices were still there. “Helllp!”
He waited but now there was a vast emptiness. He waited. Nothing. His disappointment began to engulf him. “Stop it and wait!” The minutes dragged heavily. There was more water dripping, much more than before. Must be raining again, he thought. Jesus! I’ll bet there was a landslide. Sure, don’t you remember the cracks in the roads? Goddamn son of a bitching landslide! Wonder who all else got caught? Jesus what a goddamn mess!
He tore off a strip of his shirt and tied a knot in it. Now he could tell the days. One knot for each day. His watch had read 10:16 when his head had first cleared, now it was 11:58.
Again all his attention zeroed. Faint voices, but nearer now. Chinese voices.
“Helllp!”
The voices stopped. Then, “Where you arrrr, heya?” came back faintly.
“Down here! Can you hear meeeeee?”
Silence, then more faintly, “Where youuuuarrrrre?”
Bartlett cursed and picked up the empty beer can and began to bang it against a girder. Again he stopped and listened. Nothing.
He sat back. “Maybe they’ve gone for help.” His fingers reached out and touched another can of beer. He dominated his overpowering urge to break it open. “Don’t panic and be patient. Help’s near. The best I can do’s wait an—” At that moment the whole earth twisted and rose up under the strain with an ear-dulling cacophony of noise, the protective girders above grinding out of safety, rubble avalanching down. Protecting his head with his arms, he cowered back, covering himself as best he could. The shrieking movement seemed to go on for an eternity. Then it ceased. More or less. His heart was thumping heavily now, his chest tight and dust bile in his mouth. He spat it out and sought a beer can. They had vanished. And all the other cans. He cursed, then, cautiously, raised his head and almost banged it against the shifted ceiling of the tomb. Now he could touch the ceiling and the walls without moving. Easily.
Then he heard the hissing sound. His stomach twisted. His hand reached out and he felt the slight draft. Now he could smell the gas.
“You’d better get the hell out of here, old buddy,” he muttered, aghast.
Getting his bearings as best he could, he eased out of the space. Now that he was on the move, in action, he felt better.
The dark was oppressive and it was very hard to make progress upward. There was no straight line. Sometimes he had to make a diversion and go down again, left then right, up a little, down again under the remains of a bathtub, over a body or part of a body, moans and one time voices far away. “Whereareyouuuu?” he shouted and waited then crawled on, inch by inch, being patient, not panicking. After a while he came into a space where he could stand. But he did not stand, just lay there for a moment, panting, exhausted. There was more light here. When his breathing had slowed he looked at his watch. He gathered his strength and continued but again his upward path was blocked. Another way but still blocked. He slid under a broken pier and, once through, began to squirm onward. Another impasse. With difficulty he retreated and tried another way. And another, never enough space to stand, his bearings lost now, not knowing if he was going deeper into the wreckage. Then he stopped to rest and lay in the wet of his tomb, his chest pounding, head pounding, fingers bleeding, shins bleeding, elbows bleeding.
“No sweat, old buddy,” he said out loud. “You rest, then you start again …”
Monday
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
12:45 A.M.:
Gurkha soldiers with flashlights were patiently picking their way over this part of the dangerous, sloping, broken surface calling out, “Anyone there?” then listening. Beyond and all around, up and down the slope, soldiers, police, firemen and distraught people were doing the same.
It was very dark, the arcs set up below not touching this area halfway up the wreckage.
“Anyone there?” a soldier called, listened again, then moved on a few feet. Over to the left of the line one of them stumbled and fell into a crevice. This soldier was very tired but he laughed to himself and lay there a moment, then called down into the earth, “Anyone there?” He began to get up then froze, listening. Once more he lay down and shouted into the wreckage, “Can you hear me?” and listened intently.
“Yesss!…” came back faintly, very faintly.
Excitedly the soldier scrambled up. “Sergeant! Sergeant Sah!”
Fifty yards away, on the edge of the wreckage, Gornt was with the young lieutenant who had been directing rescue operations in this section. They were listening to a news broadcast on a small transistor: “… slips all over the Colony. And now here is another report direct from Kotewall Road.” There was a short silence then the well-known voice came on and the young man smiled to himself. “Good evening. This is Venus Poon reporting live on the single worst disaster to hit the Colony.” There was a wonderful throb to her voice, and, remembering the brave, harrowing way she had described the Aberdeen fire disaster that she also had been involved in, his excitement quickened. “Rose Court on Kotewall Road is no more. The great twelve-story tower of light that all Hong Kong could see as a landmark has vanished into an awesome pyre of rubble. My home is no more. Tonight, the finger of the Almighty struck down the tower and those who lived there, amongst them my devoted gan sun who raised me from birth….”
“Sir,” the sergeant called out from the middle of the slip, “there’s one over here!”
At once the officer and Gornt began hurrying toward him. “Is it a man or woman?”
“Man, sah! I think he said his name was Barter or something like that.…”
Up at the Kotewall Road barrier Venus Poon was enjoying herself, the center of all attention in the lights of mobile radio and television teams. She continued to read the script that had been thrust into her hand, changing it here and there, dropping her voice a little, raising it, letting the tears flow—though not enough to spoil her makeup—describing the holocaust so that all her listeners felt they were there with her on the slope, felt chills of horror, and thanked their joss that death had passed them by this time, and that they and theirs were safe.
“The rain is still falling,” she whispered into the microphone. “Where Rose Court tore away part of the upper stories of Sinclair Towers, seven dead already counted, four children, three Chinese, one English, more still buried….” The tears were seeping out of her eyes now. She stopped and those watching caught their breath too.
In the beginning she had almost torn her hair out at the thought of her apartment gone and all her clothes and all her jewelry and her new mink. But then she had remembered that all her real jewelry was safely in the jewelers being reset—a present of her old suitor, Banker Kwang—and her mink was being altered at the tailor’s. And as to her clothes, pshaw, Four Fingers will be happy to replace them!
Four Fingers! Oh oh I hope that old goat got out and will be saved like Smiler Ching, she had prayed fervently. Eeeee, what a miracle! If one, why not another? And surely no building falling can kill old Ah Poo. She’ll survive! Of course she will! And Banker Kwang saved! Didn’t I weep with happiness that he was saved? Oh lucky lucky day! And now Profitable Choy, such a smart, good-looking interesting fellow. Now if he had money, real money, he would be the one for me. No more of these old bags of fart with their putty yangs for delectable yin, the most delectable …
The producer could not wait anymore. He leaped for the mike and said urgently, “We will continue the report as soon as Miss Ven—”
Instan
“My God,” an Englishman muttered. “What courage! She deserves a medal, don’t you think so, old boy?” He turned to his neighbor and was embarrassed to see the man was Chinese. “Oh, oh sorry.”
Paul Choy hardly heard him, his attention on the stretchers that were coming back from the wreckage, the bearers slipping and sliding under the arc lamps that had been erected a few minutes ago. He had just come back from the aid station that was set up at the fork of Kotewall Road under a makeshift overhang where frantic relations like himself were trying to identify the dead or injured or report the names of those who were missing and believed still buried. All evening he had been going back and forth in case Four Fingers had been found somewhere else and was coming in from another direction. Half an hour ago one of the firemen had broken through a mass of wreckage to reach into the area of the collapsed fifth floor. That was when Richard and Mai-ling Kwang had been pulled out, then Jason Plumm with half his head missing, then others, more dead than living.
Paul Choy counted the stretchers. Four of them. Three had blankets covering the bodies, two very small. He shuddered, thinking how fleeting life was, wondering again what would now happen at the stock exchange tomorrow. Would they keep it closed as a mark of respect? Jesus, if they keep it closed all Monday, Struan’s is sure to be at 30 by Tuesday opening—gotta be! His stomach churned and he felt faint. Friday, just before closing, he had gambled five times every penny that Four Fingers had reluctantly loaned him, buying on margin. Five times 2 million HK. He had bought Struan’s, Blacs, Victoria Bank and the Ho-Pak, gambling that somehow this weekend the tai-pan would turn disaster into victory, that the rumors of China being approached for cash were true, and Blacs or the Victoria had a scam going. Ever since the meeting with Gornt at Aberdeen when he had put his theory of a bail-out by Blacs or the Victoria of the Ho-Pak to Gornt and had seen a flicker behind those cunning eyes, he had wondered if he had sniffed out a scam of the Big Boys. Oh sure, they’re Big Boys all right. They’ve got Hong Kong by the shorts, Jesus, have they got an inside track! And Jesus, oh Jesus when at the races Richard Kwang asked him to buy Ho-Pak and, almost at once, Havergill had announced his takeover, he had gone to the men’s room and vomited. 10 million in Ho-Pak, Blacs, Victoria and Struan’s, bought at the bottom of the market. And then, tonight, when the nine o’clock news announced that China was advancing half a billion cash so all bank runs were finished, he knew he was a multimillionaire, a multi-multimillionaire.
The young man could not hold his stomach together and rushed off to the bushes by the side of the road and retched till he thought he would die.
The English bystander turned his back on him and said quietly to a friend, “These Chinese fellows really don’t have much of a stiff upper lip, do they, old boy?”
Paul Choy wiped his mouth, feeling terrible, the thought of all his maybe money, so near now, too much for him.
The stretchers were passing. Numbly he followed them to the aid station. In the background under the makeshift overhang, Dr. Meng was doing emergency surgery. Paul Choy watched Dr. Tooley turn back the blankets. A European woman. Her eyes were open and staring. Dr. Tooley sighed and closed them. The next was an English boy of ten. Dead too. Then a Chinese child. The last stretcher was a Chinese man, bleeding and in pain. Quickly the doctor gave him a morphia injection.
Paul Choy turned aside and was sick again. When he came back Dr. Tooley said kindly, “Nothing you can do here, Mr. Choy. Here, this’ll settle your stomach.” He gave him two aspirins and some water. “Why don’t you wait in one of the cars? We’ll tell you the instant we hear anything about your uncle.”
“Yes, thanks.”
More stretchers were arriving. An ambulance pulled up. Stretcher bearers got the tagged injured aboard and the ambulance took off into the drizzle. Outside, away from the stench of blood and death, the young man felt better.
“Hello, Paul, how’re things going?”
“Oh. Oh hello, tai-pan. Fine, thanks.” He had encountered the tai-pan earlier and told him about Four Fingers. Dunross had been shocked and very concerned.
“Nothing yet, Paul?”
“No sir.”
Dunross hesitated. “No news is good news perhaps. If Smiler Ching could survive, let’s hope for the best, eh?”
“Yes sir.” Paul Choy had watched Dunross hurry off up the road toward the barrier, his mind rehashing all the permutations he had worked out. With the tai-pan’s fantastic takeover of General Stores—that was so smart, oh so smart—and now sliding out of Gornt’s trap, his stock’s gotta go to 30. And with Ho-Pak pegged at 12.50, the moment that’s back on the board it’s gotta go back to 20. Now, figure it, 17.5 percent of 10 million times 50 is—
“Mr. Choy! Mr. Choy!”
It was Dr. Tooley beckoning him from the aid station. His heart stopped. He ran back as fast as he could.
“I’m not sure but follow me, please.”
There was no mistake. It was Four Finger Wu. He was dead, seemingly unharmed. On his face was a wonderful calmness and a strange, seraphic smile.
Tears spilled down Paul Choy’s cheeks. He squatted beside the stretcher, his grief possessing him. Compassionately Dr. Tooley left him and hurried over to the other stretchers, someone screaming now, another distraught mother clutching the broken body of a child in her arms.
Paul Choy stared at the face, a good face in death, hardly seeing it.
Now what? he asked himself, wiping away his tears, not really feeling he had lost a father but rather the head of the family, which in Chinese families is worse than losing your own father. Jesus, now what? I’m not the eldest son so I don’t have to make the arrangements. But even so, what do I do now?
Sobbing distracted him. It was an old man sobbing over an old woman, lying on a nearby stretcher. So much death here, too much, Paul Choy thought. Yes. But the dead must bury the dead, the living must go on. I’m no longer bound to him. And I’m American.
He lifted the blanket as though to cover Four Finger Wu’s face and deftly slipped off the thong necklace with its half-coin and pocketed it. Again making sure no one was watching, he went through the pockets. Money in a billfold, a bunch of keys, the personal pocket chop. And the diamond ring in its little box.
He got up and went to Dr. Tooley. “Excuse me, Doc. Would you, would you please leave the old man there? I’ll be back with a car. The family, we’d … Is that okay?”
“Of course. Inform the police before you take him away, their Missing Persons is set up at the roadblock. I’ll sign the death certificate tomorrow. Sorry there’s no ti—” Again the kind man was distracted and he went over to Dr. Meng. “Here, let me help. It’s like Korea, eh?”
Paul Choy walked down the hill, careless of the drizzle, his heart light, stomach settled, future settled. The coin’s mine now, he told himself, certain that Four Fingers would have told no one else, keeping to his usual pattern of secrecy, only trusting those he had to.
Now that I’ve possession of his personal chop I can chop whatever I like, do whatever I like, but I’m not going to do that. That’s cheating. Why should I cheat when I’m ahead? I’m smarter than any of his other sons. They know it, I know it and that’s not being crazy. I am better. It’s only fair I keep the coin and all the profits on the 2 mill. I’ll set the family up, modernize everything, equip the ships, anything they want. But with my profit I’m going to start my own empire. Sure. But first I’m going to Hawaii….
At the head of the line of cars near the first slip Dunross stopped beside his car and opened the door to the backseat. Casey jerked out of a reverie and the color drained out of her face. “Linc?”
“No, nothing yet. Quillan’s fairly sure he’s pinpoin
“Yes. Yes thanks.”
When he had returned from their first search, he had sent Lim for coffee, sandwiches and a bottle of brandy, knowing the night would be very long. He had wanted Casey to leave with Riko but she had refused. So Riko had gone back to her hotel in the other car with Lim.
“You want a brandy, Ian?” Casey said.
“Thanks.” He watched her pour for him, noticing her fingers were steady. The brandy tasted good. “I’ll take Quillan a sandwich. Why not put a good slug of brandy into the coffee, eh? I’ll take that.”
“Sure,” she said, glad for something to do. “Have any others been rescued?”
“Donald McBride—he’s all right, just shaken. Both he and his wife.”
“Oh good. Any, any bodies?”
“None that I know of,” he said, deciding not to tell her about Plumm or his old friend Southerby, chairman of Blacs. At that moment Adryon and Martin Haply hurtled up and Adryon threw her arms around him, sobbing with relief. “Oh, Father we just heard, oh, Father, I was petrified.”
“There, there,” he said, gentling her. “I’m fine. Good God, Adryon, no bloody landslip will ever touch the tai-pan of the Noble Ho—”
“Oh don’t say that,” she begged him with a shiver of superstitious dread. “Don’t ever say that! This’s China, gods listen, don’t say that!”
“All right, my love!” Dunross hugged her and smiled at Martin Haply who was also wet with relief. “Everything all right?”
“Oh yes sir, we were over in Kowloon, I was covering the other slide when we heard the news.” The youth was so relieved. “Goddamn I’m pleased to see you, tai-pan. We … afraid we bashed up the car a little getting up here.”