Noble House by James Clavell
For years he had tried to avoid these hunters, knowing that he was always pursued. He had been the leader of the Whites in his area across the Trans-Siberian Railroad and he had killed many Reds. At length he had wearied of the killing and in 1919 had left for Shanghai and a new home until the Japanese armies came, escaping them to join Chinese guerrillas, fighting his way south and west to Chungking, there to join other marauders, English, French, Australian, Chinese—anyone who would pay—until the Japanese unconditionally surrendered, and so back to Shanghai again, soon to flee once more. Always fleeing, he thought.
By the blood of Christ, my darling, I know you’re dead. I know it. I was told by someone who saw the mob sack our palace, saw them swarm over you.…
But now?
Are you really alive?
Travkin looked at the kitchen door with hatred, knowing he would forever be haunted until he was certain about her. Who is that shit eater? he thought. How did they find me?
Grimly he waited and waited and then in sudden panic went to find him. The toilet was empty. He rushed into the street but it was filled with other people. The man had vanished.
There was a vile taste in Travkin’s mouth now and he was sick with apprehension. In the name of God, what does he want with the tai-pan?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
5:50 P.M.:
“Hello, Ian,” Penelope said. “You’re home early! How was your day?”
“Fine, fine,” Dunross said absently. Apart from all the disasters, just before he left the office he had had a call from Brian Kwok saying, among other things, that AMG was probably murdered and warned him to take serious precautions.
“Oh, it was one of those, was it?” she said at once. “How about a drink? Yes. How about champagne?”
“Good idea.” Then he noticed her smile and smiled back and felt much better. “Penn, you’re a mind reader!” He tossed his briefcase onto a sideboard and followed her into one of the sitting rooms of the Great House. The champagne was already in an ice bucket, opened, with two glasses partially filled and another waiting for him in the ice.
“Kathy’s upstairs. She’s reading Glenna a bedtime story,” Penelope said, pouring for him. “She … she’s just told me about … about the, about the disease.”
“Oh.” He accepted the glass. “Thanks. How’s Andrew taking it? He didn’t mention anything today.”
“She’s going to tell him tonight. The champagne was to give her some courage.” Penelope looked up at him, anguished. “She’s going to be all right, isn’t she, Ian?”
“I think so. I had a long talk with Doc Tooley. He was encouraging, gave me the names of the top three experts in England and another three in America. I’ve cabled for appointments with the three in England and Doc Ferguson’s air-mailing them case histories—they’ll be there when you arrive.”
She sipped her wine. A light breeze made the sultry day much better. The French doors were open to the garden. It was near six o’clock. “Do you think we should go at once? Will a few days make any difference?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But we should go?”
“If it were you, Penn, we’d’ve been on the first plane the very first moment.”
“Yes. If I’d told you.”
“You would have told me.”
“Yes. I suppose I would. I’ve made reservations for tomorrow. Kathy thought it a good idea too. The BOAC flight.”
He was startled. “Claudia never mentioned it.”
She smiled. “I made them myself. I’m really quite capable. I’ve reservations for Glenna, me and Kathy. We could take the case histories with us. I thought Kathy should go without any of her children. They’ll be perfectly all right with the amahs.”
“Yes, that’s much the best. Doc Tooley was adamant about her taking it easy. That’s the main thing he said, lots of rest.” Dunross smiled at her. “Thanks, Penn.”
She was staring at the beads of condensation on the outside of the bottle and the ice bucket. “Bloody awful, isn’t it?”
“Worse, Penn. There’s no cure. He thinks … he thinks the medication will arrest it.” He finished his glass and poured for both of them. “Any messages?”
“Oh, sorry! Yes, they’re on the sideboard. There was a long-distance call from Marseilles a moment ago.”
“Susanne?”
“No. A Mr. Deland.”
“He’s our agent there.”
“Rotten about young Borge.”
“Yes.” Dunross skimmed the messages. Johnjohn at the bank, Holdbrook, Phillip Chen, and the inevitable catchall “please call Claudia.” He sighed. It was only half an hour since he left the office and he was going to call her anyway. No rest for the wicked, he thought, and smiled to himself.
He had enjoyed besting Gornt at the exchange. That he did not have the money at the moment to pay did not worry him. There’s five days of grace, he thought. Everything’s covered—with joss. Ah yes, joss!
Since his stockbroker had called him in panic at a few minutes past ten about the rumors sweeping the exchange and how their stock was shifting, he had been bolstering his defenses against the sudden, unexpected attack. With Phillip Chen, Holdbrook, Gavallan and deVille he had marshaled all the major stockholders they could reach and told them that the rumors Struan’s couldn’t meet their obligations were nonsense and suggested they refuse to lend Gornt any big blocks of Struan stock but to keep him dangling, letting him have a few shares here and there. He told the selected few in the strictest confidence that the Par-Con deal was signed, sealed and about to be chopped, and that this was a marvelous opportunity to smash Rothwell-Gornt once and for all.
“If Gornt sells short, let him. We pretend to be vulnerable but support the stock. Then Friday we announce, our stock’ll soar and he’ll lose his shirt, tie and trousers,” he had told them all. “We get back our airline along with his, and with his ships and ours together, we’ll dominate all air and surface inbound and outbound trade in Asia.”
If we could really smash Gornt, he thought fervently, we’d be safe for generations. And we could, given joss, Par-Con and more joss. Christ, but it’s going to be very dicey!
He had exuded confidence all day, not feeling confident at all. Many of his big stockholders had called nervously but he had quieted them. Both Tightfist Tung and Four Finger Wu owned major blocks of stock through devious nominees. He had phoned both this afternoon to get their agreement not to loan or sell their major holdings for the next week or so. Both had agreed but it had not been easy with either of them.
All in all, Dunross thought, I’ve fought off the initial onslaught. Tomorrow will tell the real story—or Friday: is Bartlett enemy, friend or Judas?
He felt his anger rising but he pushed it back. Be calm, he told himself, think calmly. I will but it’s bloody curious that everything Bartlett said the night of the party—all those very secret things he had so readily and suddenly produced to shatter my defenses—miraculously went through the market today like a typhoon. Who’s the spy? Who gave him the info? Is he the Sevrin spy too? Well, never mind for the moment, everything’s covered. I think.
Dunross went to the phone and asked the operator to get Mr. Deland, person to person, and to call him back.
“Would Susanne be there yet?” Penelope asked.
“I think so. If her plane’s on time. It’s about eleven, Marseilles time, so it shouldn’t be an emergency. Bloody shame about Borge! I liked him.”
“What’s Avril going to do?”
“She’s going to be all right. Avril’s going to come home to bring up the child and soon she’ll meet a Prince Charming, a new one, and her son’ll join Struan’s and meanwhile she’ll be protected and cherished.”
“Do you believe that, Ian—about the Prince Charming?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I believe everything will be all right. It’s going to be all right, Penn, for her, for Kathy, for … for everyone.”
“You can’t carry everyon
“I know. But no one, no one in the family will ever need for anything while I’m alive and that’s going to be forever.”
His wife looked at him and remembered the first time she had seen him, a godlike youth sitting in his shattered fighter that should have crashed but somehow miraculously hadn’t. Ian, just sitting there, then getting out, holding the terror down, she seeing in his eyes for the first time what death was like but him dominating it and coming back and just accepting the cup of tea saying, “Oh, jolly good, thanks. You’re new, aren’t you?” in his lovely patrician accent that was so far from her own background.
Such a long time ago, a thousand years ago, another lifetime, she thought. Such wonderful ghastly terrible beautiful agonizing days: will he die today or come back today? Will I die today, in the morning bombing or in the evening one? Where’s Dad and Mum and is the phone just bombed out of service as usual or has the rotten little terraced house in Streatham vanished along with all the other thousands like it?
One day it had and then she had no past. Just Ian and his arms and strength and confidence, and she terrified that he would go like all the others. That was the worst part, she told herself. The waiting and anticipating and knowing how mortal the Few were and we all are. My God how quickly we had to grow up!
“I hope it is forever, darling,” she said in her cool, flat voice, wanting to hide the immensity of her love. “Yes. I want you to be immortal!”
He grinned at her, loving her. “I’m immortal, Penn, never mind. After I’m dead I’ll still be watching over you and Glenna and Duncan and Adryon and all the rest.”
She watched him. “Like Dirk Struan does?”
“No,” he said serious now. “He’s a presence I’ll never match. He’s perpetual—I’m temporary.” His eyes were watching hers. “You’re rather serious tonight, aren’t you?”
“You’re rather serious tonight, aren’t you?”
They laughed.
She said, “I was just thinking how transient life is, how violent, unexpected, how cruel. First John Chen and now Borge, Kathy…” A little shiver went through her, ever petrified she would lose him. “Who’s next?”
“Any one of us. Meanwhile be Chinese. Remember under heaven all crows are black. Life is good. Gods make mistakes and go to sleep so we do the best we can and never trust a quai loh!”
She laughed, at peace again. “There are times, Ian Struan Dunross, when I quite like you. Do you th—” The phone rang and she stopped and thought, God curse that bloody phone. If I was omnipotent I’d outlaw all phones after 6:00 P.M. but then poor Ian’d go mad, and the bloody Noble House’d crumble and that’s poor Ian’s life. I’m second, so are the children and that’s as it should be. Isn’t it?
“Oh hello, Lando,” Dunross was saying, “what’s new?”
“Hope I’m not disturbing you, tai-pan.”
“Not at all,” he replied, all his energy concentrated. “I’ve just got in. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry, but I’m withdrawing the 15 million support I promised for tomorrow. Temporarily. The market makes me nervous.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Dunross said, his stomach churning. “Gornt’s up to his tricks. That’s all.”
“I’m really very worried. It’s not just Gornt. It’s the Ho-Pak and the way the whole market’s reacting,” Mata said. “With the bank run seeping over to the Ching Prosperity and even the Vic … all the signs are very bad so I want to wait and see.”
“Tomorrow’s the day, Lando. Tomorrow. I was counting on you.”
“Have you tripled our next gold consignment as I asked?”
“Yes, I did that personally. I’ve Zurich’s telexed confirms in the usual code.”
“Excellent, excellent!”
“I’ll need your letter of credit tomorrow.”
“Of course. If you’ll send a messenger to my home now I’ll give you my check for the full amount.”
“Personal check?” Dunross held on to his astonishment. “On which bank, Lando?”
“The Victoria.”
“Christ, that’s a lot of money to remove just now.”
“I’m not removing it, I’m just paying for some gold. I’d rather have some of my funds in gold outside Hong Kong for the next week or so, and this’s an ideal moment to do it. You can get them to telex it first thing tomorrow. First thing. Yes. I’m not withdrawing funds, Ian, just paying for gold. If I were you I’d try to get liquid too.”
Again his stomach fell over. “What have you heard?” he asked, his voice controlled.
“You know me, I’m just more cautious than you, tai-pan. The cost of my money comes very high.”
“No more than mine.”
“Yes. We’ll consult tomorrow, then we’ll see. But don’t count on our 15 million. Sorry.”
“You’ve heard something. I know you too well. What is it? Chi pao pu chu huo.” Literally, Paper cannot wrap up a fire, meaning a secret cannot be kept forever.
There was a long pause, then Mata said in a lower voice, “Confidentially, Ian, old Tightfist’s selling heavily. He’s getting ready to unload all his holdings. That old devil may be dying but his nose is as sensitive to the loss of a brass cash as ever and I’ve never known him to be wrong.”
“All his holdings?” Dunross asked sharply. “When did you talk to him?”
“We’ve been in contact all day. Why?”
“I reached him after lunch and he promised he wouldn’t sell or loan any Struan’s. Has he changed his mind?”
“No. I’m sure he hasn’t. He can’t. He hasn’t any Struan stock.”
“He has 400,000 shares!”
“He did have, tai-pan, though actually the number was nearer 600,000—Sir Luis had very few shares of his own, he’s one of Tightfist’s many nominees. He’s unloaded all 600,000 shares. Today.”
Dunross bit back an obscenity. “Oh?”
“Listen, my young friend, this is all in the strictest confidence but you should be prepared: Tightfist ordered Sir Luis to sell or loan all his Noble House stock the moment the rumors started this morning. 100,000 was spread throughout the brokers and sold immediately, the remainder.… the half million shares you bought from Gornt were Tightfist’s. The moment it was evident there was a major assault on the House and Gornt was selling short, Tightfist told Sir Luis to go ahead and loan it all, except for a token 1,000 shares, which he’s kept. For face. Yours. When the exchange closed, Tightfist was very pleased. On the day he’s almost 2 million ahead.”
Dunross was standing rock still. He heard that his voice was matter-of-fact and level and controlled and that pleased him, but he was in shock. If Tightfist had sold, the Chins would sell and a dozen other friends would follow his lead and that meant chaos. “The old bugger!” he said, bearing him no grudge. It was his own fault, he had not reached Tightfist in time. “Lando, what about your 300,000 shares—plus?”
He heard the Portuguese hesitate and his stomach twisted again. “I’ve still got them. I bought at 16 when you first went public so I’m not worried yet. Perhaps Alastair Struan was right when he advised against going public—the Noble House’s only vulnerable because of that.”
“Our growth rate’s five times Gornt’s and without going public we could never have weathered the disasters I inherited. We’re supported by the Victoria. We’ve still got our bank stock and a majority vote on the board so they have to support us. We’re really very strong and once this temporary situation’s over we’ll be the biggest conglomerate in Asia.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps you’d have been wiser to accept our proposal instead of leaving yourself constantly open to the risk of takeovers or market disasters.”
“I couldn’t then. I can’t now. Nothing’s changed.” Dunross smiled grimly. Lando Mata, Tightfist Tung and Gambler Chin collectively had offered him 20 percent of their gold and gambling syndicate revenue for 50 percent of Struan’s—if he kept it as a wholly private-owned company.
?
“Who appoints the next tai-pan?”
“You do—in consultation.”
“There, you see! It’s impossible. A 50 percent control gives you power over Struan’s and that I’m not allowed to give. That would negate Dirk’s legacy, make my oath invalid and give away absolute control. Sorry, it’s not possible.”
“Because of an oath to an unknown, unknowable god in which you don’t believe—on behalf of a murdering pirate who’s been dead over a hundred years?”
“For whatever reason the answer is, thank you, no.”
“You could easily lose the whole company.”
“No. Between the Struans and the Dunrosses we have 60 percent voting control and I alone vote all the stock. What I’d lose is everything material we own, and cease to be the Noble House, and that by the Lord God, is not going to happen either.”
There was a long silence. Then Mata said, his voice friendly as always, “Our offer is good for two weeks. If joss is against you and you fail, the offer to head the new syndicate stands. I shall sell or lend my stock at 21.”
“Below 20—not at 21.”
“It will go that low?”
“No. Just a habit I have. 20 is better than 21.”
“Yes. Good. Then let us see what tomorrow brings. I wish you good joss. Good night, tai-pan.”
Dunross put down the phone and sipped the last of his champagne. He was up the creek without a paddle. That old bugger Tightfist, he thought again, admiring his cleverness—to agree so reluctantly not to sell or barter any Struan shares, knowing that only 1,000 remained, knowing the revenue from almost 600,000 was already safe—that old bastard’s a great negotiator. It’s so very clever of both Lando and Tightfist to make the new offer now. 100 million! Jesus Christ, that’d stop Gornt farting in church! I could use that to smash him to pieces, and in short order take over Asian Properties and put Dunstan into an early retirement. Then I could pass the House over to Jacques or Andrew in great shape and …