Noble House by James Clavell

  Jesus, how we going to keep security when there are guys like him with their brains in their asses, Rosemont asked himself wearily.

  He walked along, listening to himself chatting with Casey, probing her, trying to decide what sort of a risk she was and Bartlett was, with their tie-in to Banastasio. Soon they joined other people going up the wide steps to the hotel. A smiling pageboy opened the swing doors. The foyer was bustling. “Casey, I’m early for my appointment. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Casey hesitated, then smiled, liking him, enjoying chatting. “Sure, thanks. First let me collect my messages, okay?” She went to the desk. There were a sheaf of telexes, and messages from Jannelli, Steigler and Forrester to please call. And a handwritten note from Bartlett. The note contained routine instructions about Par-Con, all of which she agreed to, and asked her to make sure that the airplane was ready to take off on Sunday. The note ended: “Casey, we’re going with Rothwell-Gornt. Let’s meet for breakfast in the suite, 9:00 A.M. See you then.”

  She went back to Rosemont. “Can I take a rain check?”

  “Bad news?”

  “Oh no, just a load of stuff to deal with.”

  “Sure, but maybe you’d like dinner next week, you and Linc? I’d like Athena to meet you. She’ll give you a call to fix the day, okay?”

  “Thanks, I’d like that.” Casey left him, her whole being more than ever committed to the course she had decided upon.

  Rosemont watched her go, then ordered a Cutty Sark and soda and began to wait, lost in thought. How much money’s Banastasio got in Par-Con and what’s he get in return? Jesus H. Christ, Par-Con’s hot in defense and space and a lot of secret crap. What’s that bum doing here? Thank God I took on Casey today and didn’t leave her to one of the guys. He might’ve missed Banastasio….

  Robert Armstrong arrived.

  “Jesus, Robert, you look terrible,” the American said. “You better get yourself a vacation or a good night’s rest or lay off the broads.”

  “Get stuffed! You ready? We’d better leave.”

  “You’ve time for a quick one. The bank date’s been changed to seven, there’s plenty of time.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want to be late as we’re to meet the governor at his office.”

  “Okay.”

  Obediently Rosemont finished his drink, signed the bill and they walked back toward the ferry terminal.

  “How’s Dry Run?” Armstrong asked.

  “They’re still there with flags flying. Looks like the Azerbaijan revolt fizzled.” Rosemont noticed the heaviness on the Englishman. “What’s eating you, Robert?”

  “Sometimes I don’t like being a copper, that’s all.” Armstrong took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “I thought you gave up smoking.”

  “I did. Listen, Stanley old friend, I’d better warn you: you’re in the proverbial creek without a paddle. Crosse’s so mad he’s fit to be committed.”

  “So what else’s new? A lot of guys think he’s a basket case anyway. Jesus, it was Ed Langan who tipped you off about the AMG files in the first place. We’re allies for chrissake!”

  “True,” Armstrong replied sourly, “but that’s no license to mount a totally unauthorized raid on a totally clean flat belonging to the totally clean telephone company!”

  “Who me?” Rosemont looked pained. “What flat?”

  “Sinclair Towers, flat 32. You and your gorillas knocked down the door in the dead of the night. For what, may I ask?”

  “How should I know?” Rosemont knew he had to bluff this one through, but he was still furious that whoever was in the apartment had escaped without identification. His rage over the carrier leak, Metkin’s not being available for questioning, the whole Sevrin mess and Crosse’s perfidy, had prompted him to order the raid. One of his Chinese informants had picked up a rumor that though the apartment was empty most of the time, sometimes it was used by Communist enemy agents—of gender unknown—and there was a meeting tonight. Connochie, one of his best agents, had led the raid and thought he caught a glimpse of two men going out the back but he wasn’t sure, and though he searched diligently, they had vanished and he found nothing in the apartment to prove or disprove the rumor, just two half-empty glasses. The glasses were brought back and tested for fingerprints. One was clean, the other well marked. “I’ve never been to 32 Sinclair Towers, for chrissake!”

  “Maybe, but your Keystone Kops were there. Several tenants reported four tall, meaty Caucasians charging up and down the stairs.” Armstrong added even more sourly, “All fat-arsed and fat-headed. Have to be yours.”

  “Not mine. No sir.”

  “Oh yes they were and that mistake’s going to backfire. Crosse’s already sent two pretty foul cables to London. The pity of it is you failed to catch anything and we catch hell because of your continual screw ups!”

  Rosemont sighed. “Get off my back. I’ve got something for you.” He told Armstrong of his conversation with Casey about Banastasio. “Of course we knew his connection with Par-Con but I didn’t know he was arriving tomorrow. What do you think?”

  Armstrong had seen the arrival recorded on Photographer Ng’s calendar. “Interesting,” he said noncommittally. “I’ll tell the Old Man. But you’d better have a good explanation for him about Sinclair Towers and don’t mention that I told you.” His fatigue was almost overwhelming him. This morning at 6:30 A.M. he had begun the first real probe of Brian Kwok.

  It was an orchestrated set piece: while still drugged, Brian Kwok had been taken out of his clean white cell and put naked into a filthy dungeon with dank walls and a stinking thin mattress on the mildewed floor. Then, ten minutes after the wake-up drug had jerked him into parched, aching consciousness, the light had blazed on and Armstrong had ripped the door open and cursed the SI jailer. “For chrissake, what’re you doing to superintendent Kwok? Have you gone mad? How dare you treat him like this!”

  “Superintendent Crosse’s orders, sir. This client’s b—”

  “There must be a mistake! I don’t give a damn about Crosse!” He had thrown the man out and put his full, kind attention onto his friend. “Here, old chum, do you want a cigarette?”

  “Oh Christ. Thank … thanks.” Brian Kwok’s fingers had trembled as he held the cigarette and drew the smoke deep. “Robert, what … what the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just heard, that’s why I’m here. I was told you’d been on leave for a few days. Crosse’s gone mad. He claims you’re a Communist spy.”

  “Me? For God’s sake … what’s the date today?”

  “The thirtieth, Friday,” he had said at once, expecting the question, adding seven days.

  “Who won the fifth race?”

  “Butterscotch Lass,” he had said, caught off guard, astonished that Brian Kwok was still functioning so well and not at all certain if his own slight hesitation had been read for the lie it was. “Why?”

  “Just wondered … just … Listen, Robert, this’s a mistake. You’ve got to help me. Don’t you s—”

  On cue Roger Crosse had come in like the wrath of God. “Listen, spy, I want names and addresses of all your contacts right now. Who’s your controller?”

  Weakly Brian Kwok had stumbled to his feet. “Sir, it’s all a mistake. There’s no controller and I’m no spy an—”

  Crosse had suddenly shoved blowups of the photos in his face. “Then explain how you were photographed in Ning-tok in front of your family pharmacy with your mother Fang-ling Wu. Explain how your real name’s Chu-toy Wu, second son of these parents, Ting-top Wu and Fang-ling Wu …”

  They had both seen the instant of shock on Brian Kwok’s face.

  “Lies,” he had mumbled, “lies, I’m Brian Kar-shun Kwok and I’m—”

  “You’re a liar!” Crosse had shouted. “We have witnesses! We have evidence! You are identified by your gan sun, Ah Tam!”

  Another gasp, covered almost brilliantly, then, “I … I have no gan sun called Ah Tam. I h—”


  “You’ll spend the rest of your life in this cell unless you tell us everything. I’ll see you in a week. You’d better answer everything truthfully or I’ll put you in chains! Robert!” Crosse had whirled on him. “You’re forbidden to come here without permission!” Then he had stalked out of the cell.

  In the silence Armstrong remembered how nauseated he had been, having seen the truth written on his friend’s face. He was too well trained an observer to be mistaken. “Christ, Brian,” he had said, continuing the game, hating his hypocrisy even so. “What possessed you to do it?”

  “Do what?” Brian Kwok had said defiantly. “You can’t cheat me—or trick me, Robert … It can’t be seven days. I’m innocent.”

  “And the photos?”

  “Fake … they’re fake, dreamed up by Crosse.” Brian Kwok had held onto his arm, a desperate light behind his eyes, and whispered hoarsely, “I told you Crosse’s the real mole. He’s the mole, Robert … he’s a homo—he’s trying to frame me an—”

  On cue, the brittle, officious SI jailer jerked the cell door open. “Sorry, sir, but you’ve got to leave.”

  “All right, but first give him some water.”

  “No water’s allowed!”

  “Goddamn you, get him some water!”

  Reluctantly the jailer obeyed. While they were momentarily alone, Armstrong had slipped the cigarettes under the mattress. “Brian, I’ll do what I can …” Then the jailer was back in the room with a battered cup.

  “That’s all you can have!” he said angrily. “I want the cup back!”

  Thankfully Brian Kwok had gulped it and with it the drug. Armstrong left. The door slammed and the bolts shoved home. Abruptly the lights went out, leaving Brian Kwok in darkness. Ten minutes later Armstrong had gone back in with Dr. Dorn. And Crosse. Brian Kwok was unconscious, deeply drugged again and dreaming fitfully. “Robert, you did very well,” Crosse had said softly. “Did you see the client’s shock?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. So did I. No mistake about that, or his guilt. Doctor, step up the sleep-wake-up every hour on the hour for the next twenty-four …”

  “Christ,” Armstrong burst out, “don’t you th—”

  “Every hour on the hour, Doctor, provided he checks out medically—I don’t want him harmed, just pliable—for the next twenty-four. Robert, then you interrogate him again. If that doesn’t work, we put him into the Red Room.”

  Dr. Dorn had flinched and Armstrong recalled how his heart had missed a beat. “No,” he said.

  “For chrissake, the client’s guilty, Robert,” Crosse snarled, no longer playacting. “Guilty! The client shopped Fong-fong and our lads and has done us God knows what damage. We’re under the gun. The orders come from London! Remember Metkin, our great commissar catch from the Ivanov? I’ve just heard the RAF transport’s vanished. It refueled in Bombay then vanished somewhere over the Indian Ocean.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  6:58 P.M.:

  The governor was in an Olympian rage. He got out of the car and stomped to the side door of the bank where Johnjohn was waiting for him.

  “Have you read this?” The governor waved the evening edition of the Guardian in the night air. The huge headline read: MPs ACCUSE PRC. “Bloody incompetent fools, what?”

  “Yes sir.” Johnjohn was equally choleric. He led the way past the uniformed doorman into a large anteroom. “Can’t you hang both of them?”

  At their afternoon press conference, Grey and Broadhurst had proclaimed publicly everything that he, Johnjohn, Dunross and the other taipans had, at length, patiently condemned as totally against Britain’s, Hong Kong’s and China’s interest. Grey had gone on at length discussing his private and personal opinion that Red China was bent on world conquest and should be treated as the great enemy of world peace. “I’ve already had one unofficial official scream.”

  Johnjohn winced. “Oh God, not from Tiptop?”

  “Of course from Tiptop. He said, in that calm silky voice of his, ‘Your Excellency, when our peers in Peking read how important members of your great English Parliament view the Middle Kingdom, I think they will be really quite angry.’ I’d say our chances of getting the temporary use of their money now is nil.”

  Another wave of anger went over Johnjohn.

  “That damned man implied his views were the committee’s views, which is totally untrue! Ridiculous to inflame China under any circumstances. Without China’s benevolence our position here is totally untenable. Totally! Bloody fool! And we all went out of our way to explain!” The governor took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Where are the others?”

  “Superintendent Crosse and Mr. Sinders are using my office for a moment. Ian’s on his way. What about Ian and Grey, sir, Grey being Ian’s brother-in-law? Eh?”

  “Extraordinary.” Since Grey had mentioned it in response to a question this afternoon he had had a dozen calls about it. “Astonishing that Ian never mentioned it.”

  “Or Penelope! Very odd. Do you th—” Johnjohn glanced up and stopped. Dunross was walking toward them.

  “Evening, sir.”

  “Hello, Ian. I put the time back to 7:00 P.M. to give me a chance to see Sinders and Stanley Rosemont.” The governor held up the paper. “You’ve seen this?”

  “Yes sir. The Chinese evening papers are so incensed, I’m surprised every edition’s not on fire and all of Central with them.”

  “I’d try them for treason,” Johnjohn said, his face sour. “What the devil can we do, Ian?”

  “Pray! I’ve already spoken to Guthrie, the Liberal MP, and some of the Tories. One of the Guardian’s top reporters is interviewing them right now and their opposite opinions will be the morning headlines refuting all this poppycock.” Dunross wiped his hands. He could feel the sweat on his back as well. The combination of Grey, Tiptop, Jacques, Phillip Chen, the coin and the AMG files was unnerving him. Christ Jesus, he thought, what next? His meeting with Murtagh of the Royal Belgium had been what Casey had forecast—a long shot but a good one. Coming out of that meeting someone had given him the afternoon papers and the bombshell that such ill-advised remarks was going to create had almost knocked him over. “We’ll have to just dismiss the whole thing publicly, and privately work like hell to make sure Grey’s bill to bring Hong Kong down to Britain’s level never gets to a vote, or is voted down, and Labour never gets elected.” He felt his bile rising. “Broadhurst was just as bad if not worse.”

  “Ian, have you talked to Tiptop?”

  “No, Bruce. His line’s still busy though I did send a message around.” He told them what he had arranged with Phillip Chen. Then the governor related Tiptop’s complaint. Dunross was aghast. “When did he call, sir?”

  “Just before six.”

  “He would have had our message by then.” Dunross felt his heart thumping. “After this … this debacle, I’d lay heavy odds there’s no chance for Chinese money.”

  “I agree.”

  Dunross was acutely aware they had not mentioned Grey’s relationship to him. “Robin Grey’s worse than a fool,” he said, thinking he might just as well bring it out into the open. “My god-cursed brother-in-law could not have done better for the Soviets if he was a member of the Politburo. Broadhurst as well. Stupid!”

  After a pause the governor said, “As the Chinese say, ‘The devil gives you your relations, thank all gods you can choose your friends.’”

  “You’re so right. Fortunately, the committee’s due to leave Sunday. With the races tomorrow and all the … all the other problems, perhaps it’ll all get lost in the shuffle.” Dunross mopped his brow. “It’s close in here, isn’t it?”

  The governor nodded, then added testily, “Is everything ready, Johnjohn?”

  “Yes sir. The va—” In the hall the elevator opened and Roger Crosse and Edward Sinders, chief of MI-6, came out.

  “Ah, Sinders,” the governor said as they both came into the anteroom, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Dunross.”
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  “Pleased to meet you, sir.” Sinders shook hands with Dunross. He was a middle-aged, middle height, nondescript man with crumpled clothes. His face was thin and colorless, the stubble of his beard gray. “Please excuse my rumpledness, sir, but I haven’t been to the hotel yet.”

  “Sorry about that,” Dunross replied. “This could certainly have waited until tomorrow. Evening, Roger.”

  “Evening, sir. Evening, Ian,” Crosse said crisply. “As we’re all here, perhaps we could proceed?”

  Obediently Johnjohn began to lead the way but Dunross said, “Just a moment. Sorry, Bruce, could you excuse us a moment?”

  “Oh certainly.” Johnjohn covered his surprise, wondering what this was all about and who Sinders was, but much too wise to ask. He knew they would tell him if they wanted him to know. The door closed behind him.

  Dunross glanced at the governor. “Do you attest, sir, formally, this is Edward Sinders, head of MI-6?”

  “I do.” The governor handed him an envelope. “I believe you wanted it in writing.”

  “Thank you, sir.” To Sinders, Dunross said, “Sorry, but you understand my reluctance.”

  “Of course. Good, then that’s settled. Shall we go, Mr. Dunross?”

  “Who’s Mary McFee?”

  Sinders was shocked. Crosse and the governor stared at him, perplexed, then at Dunross. “You have friends in high places, Mr. Dunross. May I ask who told you that?”

  “Sorry.” Dunross kept his gaze on him. Alastair Struan had got the information from some VIP in the Bank of England who had approached someone high up in the government. “All we want to do is to be sure Sinders is who he pretends to be.”

  “Mary McFee’s a friend,” Sinders said uneasily.

  “Sorry, that’s not good enough.”

  “A girlfriend.”

  “Sorry, neither’s that. What’s her real name?”