Noble House by James Clavell
The three policemen gaped at him. “What?”
“I got a cable at one minute to eight this evening, and talked to his assistant in London at 9:11.” Dunross watched them. “I wanted to know your ‘when’ because it’s obvious there’d be plenty of time for your KGB spy—if he exists—to have called London and had poor old AMG murdered. Wouldn’t there?”
“Yes.” Crosse’s face was solemn. “What time did he die?”
Dunross told them the whole of his conversation with Kiernan but he withheld the part about the call to Switzerland. Some intuition warned him not to tell. “Now, the question is: was it accident, coincidence or murder?”
“I don’t know,” Crosse said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Nor do I.”
“Christ,” Armstrong said through his teeth, “if AMG hadn’t had clearance … Christ only knows what’s in those reports, Christ and you, Ian. If you’ve got the only existing copies this makes them potentially more explosive than ever.”
“If they exist,” Dunross said.
“Do they?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. At 10 o’clock.” Dunross got up. “Will you excuse me, please,” he said politely with his easy charm. “I must see to my other guests now. Oh, one last thing. What about Eastern Cloud?”
Roger Crosse said, “She’ll be released tomorrow.”
“One way or the other?”
Crosse appeared shocked. “Good Lord, tai-pan, we weren’t bartering! Brian, didn’t you say we were just trying to help out?”
“Yes sir.”
“Friends should always help out friends, shouldn’t they, tai-pan?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”
They watched him walk away until he was lost.
“Do they or don’t they?” Brian Kwok muttered.
“Exist? I’d say yes,” Armstrong said.
“Of course they exist,” Crosse said irritably. “But where?” He thought a moment, then added more irritably and both men’s hearts skipped a beat, “Brian, while you were with Ian, Wine Waiter Feng told me none of his keys would fit.”
“Oh, that’s bad, sir,” Brian Kwok said cautiously.
“Yes. The safe here won’t be easy.”
Armstrong said, “Perhaps we should look at Shek-O, sir, just in case.”
“Would you keep such documents there—if they exist?”
“I don’t know, sir. Dunross’s unpredictable. I’d say they were in his penthouse at Struan’s, that’d be the safest place.”
“Have you been there?”
“No sir.”
“Brian?”
“No sir.”
“Neither have I.” Crosse shook his head. “Bloody nuisance!”
Brian Kwok said thoughtfully, “We’d only be able to send in a team at night, sir. There’s a private lift to that floor but you need a special key. Also there’s supposed to be another lift from the garage basement, nonstop.”
“There’s been one hell of a slipup in London,” Crosse said. “I can’t understand why those bloody fools weren’t on the job. Nor why AMG didn’t ask for clearance.”
“Perhaps he didn’t want insiders to know he was dealing with an outsider.”
“If there was one outsider, there could have been others.” Crosse sighed, and, lost in thought, lit a cigarette. Armstrong felt the smoke hunger pangs. He took a swallow of his brandy but that did not ease the ache.
“Did Langan pass on his copy, sir?”
“Yes, to Rosemont here and in the diplomatic bag to his FBI HQ, in Washington.”
“Christ,” Brian Kwok said sourly, “then it’ll be all over Hong Kong by morning.”
“Rosemont assured me it would not.” Crosse’s smile was humorless. “However, we’d better be prepared.”
“Perhaps Ian’d be more cooperative if he knew, sir.”
“No, much better to keep that to ourselves. He’s up to something though.”
Armstrong said, “What about getting Superintendent Foxwell to talk to him, sir, they’re old friends.”
“If Brian couldn’t persuade him, no one can.”
“The governor, sir?”
Crosse shook his head. “No reason to involve him. Brian, you take care of Shek-O.”
“Find and open his safe, sir?”
“No. Just take a team out there and make sure no one else moves in. Robert, go to HQ, get on to London. Call Pensely at MI-5 and Sinders at MI-6. Find out exact times on AMG, everything you can, check the tai-pan’s story. Check everything—perhaps other copies exist. Next, send back a team of three agents here to watch this place tonight, particularly to guard Dunross, without his knowledge of course. I’ll meet the senior man at the junction of Peak Road and Culum’s Way in an hour, that’ll give you enough time. Send another team to watch Struan’s building. Put one man in the garage—just in case. Leave me your car, Robert. I’ll see you in my office in an hour and a half. Off you both go.”
The two men sought out their host and made their apologies and gave their thanks and went to Brian Kwok’s car. Going down Peak Road in the old Porsche, Armstrong said what they both had been thinking ever since Dunross had told them. “If Crosse’s the spy he’d have had plenty of time to phone London, or to pass the word to Sevrin, the KGB or who the hell ever.”
“Yes.”
“We left his office at 6:10—that’d be 11:00 A.M. London time—so it couldn’t’ve been us, not enough time.” Armstrong shifted to ease the ache in his back. “Shit, I’d like a cigarette.”
“There’s a packet in the glove compartment, old chum.”
“Tomorrow—I’ll smoke tomorrow. Just like AA, like a bloody addict!” Armstrong laughed but there was no humor in it. He glanced across at his friend. “Find out quietly who else’s read the AMG file today—apart from Crosse—quick as you can.”
“My thought too.”
“If he’s the only one who read it … well, it’s another piece of evidence. It’s not proof but we’d be getting there.” He stifled a nervous yawn, feeling very tired. “If it’s him we really are up shit’s creek.”
Brian was driving very fast and very well. “Did he say when he gave the copy to Langan?”
“Yes. At noon. They had lunch.”
“The leak could be from them, from the consulate—that place’s like a sieve.”
“It’s possible but my nose says no. Rosemont’s all right, Brian—and Langan. They’re professionals.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“You don’t trust anyone. They’ve both asked their HQs to check the Bartlett and Casey Moscow frankings.”
“Good. I think I’ll send a telex to a friend in Ottawa. They might have something on file on them also. That Casey’s a bird amongst birds, isn’t she though? Was she wearing anything underneath that sheath?”
“Ten dollars to a penny you never find out.”
“Done.”
As they turned a corner, Armstrong looked at the city below and the harbor, the American cruiser lit all over tied up at the dockyard, Hong Kong side. “In the old days we’d have had half a dozen warships here of our own,” he said sadly. “Good old Royal Navy!” He had been in destroyers during the war, lieutenant R.N. Sunk twice, once at Dunkirk, the second time on D-Day plus three, off Cherbourg.
“Yes. Pity about the Navy, but, well, time marches on.”
“Not for the better, Brian. Pity the whole bloody Empire’s up the spout! It was better when it wasn’t. The whole bloody world was better off! Bloody war! Bloody Germans, bloody Japs …”
“Yes. Talking about Navy, how was Mishauer?”
“The U.S. Naval Intelligence fellow? He was okay,” Armstrong said wearily. “He talked a lot of shop. He whispered to the Old Man that the U.S.’re going to double their Seventh Fleet. It’s so supersecret he didn’t even want to trust the phone. There’s going to be a big land expansion in Vietnam.”
“Bloody fools—they’ll get chewed up like the French. Don’
“Mishauer whispered also their nuclear carrier’s coming in the day after tomorrow for an eight-day R and R visit. Another top secret. He asked us to double up on security—and wet-nurse all Yankees ashore.”
“More bloody trouble.”
“Yes.” Armstrong added thinly, “Particularly as the Old Man mentioned a Soviet freighter ‘limped in’ for repairs on the evening tide.”
“Oh Christ!” Brian corrected an involuntary swerve.
“That’s what I thought. Mishauer almost had a coronary and Rosemont swore for two minutes flat. The Old Man assured them of course none of the Russian seamen’ll be allowed ashore without special permission, as usual, and we’ll tail them all, as usual, but a couple’ll manage to need a doctor or whatever, suddenly, and mayhaps escape the net.”
“Yes.” After a pause Brian Kwok said, “I hope we get those AMG files, Robert. Sevrin is a knife in the guts of China.”
“Yes.”
They drove in silence awhile.
“We’re losing our war, aren’t we?” Armstrong said.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
11:25 P.M.:
The Soviet freighter, Sovetsky Ivanov, was tied up alongside in the vast Wampoa Dockyard that was built on reclaimed land on the eastern side of Kowloon. Floodlights washed her. She was a twenty-thousand tonner that plied the Asian trade routes out of Vladivostok, far to the north. Atop her bridge were many aerials and modern radar equipment. Russian seamen lounged at the foot of the fore and the aft gangways. Nearby, a uniformed policeman, a youthful Chinese, in neat regulation khaki drills, short pants, high socks, black belt and shoes, was at each gangway. A shore-going seaman had his pass checked by his shipmates and then by the constable, and then, as he walked toward the dockyard gates, two Chinese in civilian clothes came out of the shadows and began to dog his footsteps—openly.
Another seaman went down the aft gangway. He was checked through and then, soon, more silent Chinese plainclothes police began to follow him.
Unnoticed, a rowing boat eased silently from the blind side of the ship’s stern and ducked into the shadows of the wharf. It slid quietly along the high wall toward a flight of dank sea steps half a hundred yards away. There were two men in the boat and the rowlocks were muffled. At the foot of the sea steps the boat stopped. Both men began listening intently.
At the forward gangway a third seaman going ashore reeled raucously down the slippery steps. At the foot he was intercepted and his pass checked and an argument began. He was refused permission by the shore guard and he was clearly drunk, so, cursing loudly, he let fly at one of them, but this man sidestepped and gave him a haymaker which was returned in kind. Both policemen’s attention zeroed on the one-sided brawl. The tousled, thickset man who sat in the aft of the rowing boat ran up the sea steps, across the floodlit wharf and railway tracks, and vanished into the alleyways of the dockyard without being seen. Leisurely the rowing boat began to return the way it had come, and in a moment, the brawl ceased. The helpless drunk was carried back aboard, not unkindly.
Deep in the dockyard’s byways, the tousled man sauntered now. From time to time, casually and expertly, he glanced behind to ensure he was not being followed. He wore dark tropicals and neat rubber-soled shoes. His ship’s papers documented him as Igor Voranski, seaman first class, Soviet Merchant Marine.
He avoided the dock gates and the policeman who watched them and followed the wall for a hundred yards or so to a side door. The door opened onto an alley in the Tai-wan Shan resettlement area—a maze of corrugated iron, plywood and cardboard hovels. His pace quickened. Soon he was out of the area and into brightly lighted streets of shops and stalls and crowds that eventually led him to Chatham Road. There he hailed a taxi.
“Mong Kok, quick as you can,” he said in English. “Yaumati Ferry.”
The driver stared at him insolently. “Eh?”
“Ayeeyah!” Voranski replied at once and added in harsh, perfect Cantonese, “Mong Kok! Are you deaf! Have you been sniffing the White Powder? Do you take me for a foreign devil tourist from the Golden Mountain—me who is clearly a Hong Kong person who has lived here twenty years? Ayeeyah! Yaumati Ferry on the other side of Kowloon. Do you need directions? Are you from Outer Mongolia? Are you a stranger, eh?”
The driver sullenly pulled the flag down and sped off, heading south and then west. The man in the back of the car watched the street behind. He could see no trailing car but he still did not relax.
They’re too clever here, he thought. Be cautious!
At Yaumati Ferry station he paid off the taxi and gave the man barely the correct tip then went into the crowds and slid out of them and hailed another taxi. “Golden Ferry.”
The driver nodded sleepily, yawned and headed south.
At the ferry terminal he paid off the driver almost before he had stopped and joined the crowds that were hurrying for the turnstiles of the Hong Kong ferries. But once through the turnstiles he did not go to the ferry gate but instead went to the men’s room and then, out once more, he opened the door of a phone booth and went in. Very sure now that he had not been followed he was more relaxed.
He put in a coin and dialed.
“Yes?” a man’s voice answered in English.
“Mr. Lop-sing please.”
“I don’t know that name. There’s no Mr. Lop-ting here. You have a wrong number.”
“I want to leave a message.”
“Sorry you have a wrong number. Look in your phone book!”
Voranski relaxed, his heart slowing a little. “I want to speak to Arthur,” he said, his English perfect.
“Sorry, he’s not here yet.”
“He was told to be there, to wait my call,” he said curtly. “Why is there a change?”
“Who is this please?”
“Brown,” he snapped, using his cover name.
He was somewhat mollified as he heard the other voice instantly take on just deference. “Ah, Mr. Brown, welcome back to Hong Kong. Arthur’s phoned to tell me to expect your call. He asked me to welcome you and to say everything’s prepared for the meeting tomorrow.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Any moment, sir.”
Voranski cursed silently for he was obliged to report back to the ship by phone within the hour. He did not like divergences in any plan.
“Very well,” he said. “Tell him to call me at 32.” This was the code name for their safe apartment in Sinclair Towers. “Has the American arrived yet?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He was accompanied?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And?”
“Arthur told me nothing more.”
“Have you met her yet?”
“No.”
“Has Arthur?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has contact been made yet with either of them?”
“Sorry, I don’t know. Arthur didn’t tell me.”
“And the tai-pan? What about him?”
“Everything’s arranged.”
“Good. How long would it take you to get to 32, if necessary?”
“Ten to fifteen minutes. Did you want us to meet you there?”
“I’ll decide that later.”
“Oh Mr. Brown, Arthur thought you might like a little company after such a voyage. Her name’s Koh, Maureen Koh.”
“That was thoughtful of him—very thoughtful.”
“Her phone number’s beside the phone at 32. Just ring and she’ll arrive within half an hour. Arthur wanted to know if your superior was with you tonight—if he’d need companionship also.”
“No. He’ll join us as planned tomorrow. But tomorrow evening he will expect hospitality. Good night.” Voranski hung up arrogantly, conscious of his KGB seniority. At that instant the booth door swung open and the Chinese barged in and another blocked the outside. “What the—”
The words died as he
On the third ring a polite voice said, “Tsim Sha Tsui Police Station, good evening.”
The man smiled sardonically and said rudely in Shanghainese, “You speak Shanghainese?”
A hesitation, a click, and now another voice in Shanghainese said, “This is Divisional Sergeant Tang-po. What is it, caller?”
“A Soviet pig slipped through your mother-fornicating net tonight as easily as a bullock shits, but now he’s joined his ancestors. Do we of the 14K have to do all your manure-infected work for you?”
“What Sovie—”
“Hold your mouth and listen! His turtle-dung corpse’s in a phone booth at Golden Ferry, Kowloonside. Just tell your mother-fornicating superiors to keep their eyes on enemies of China and not up their fornicating stink holes!”
At once he hung up and eased out of the box. He turned back momentarily and spat on the body, then shut the door and he and his companion joined the streams of passengers heading for the Hong Kong ferry.
They did not notice the man trailing them. He was a short, tubby American dressed like all the other tourists with the inevitable camera around his neck. Now he was leaning against the starboard gunnel melding into the crowd perfectly, pointing his camera this way and that as the ferry scuttled toward Hong Kong Island. But unlike other tourists his film was very special, so was his lens, and his camera.
“Hello, friend,” another tourist said with a beam, wandering up to him. “You having yourself a time?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Hong Kong’s a great place, huh?”
“You can say that again.” He turned and looked at the view. “Beats the hell outta Minneapolis.”
The first man turned also but kept his peripheral vision locked onto the two Chinese, then dropped his voice. “We got problems.”
The other tourist blanched. “Did we lose him? He didn’t double back, Tom, I’m certain. I covered both exits. I thought you had him pegged in the booth.”