Noble House by James Clavell
“No sir. Half an hour ago I called the consulate to find out where he was. They told me.”
Sir Geoffrey looked back at him under his shaggy eyebrows, disbelieving him, sure that the chief of SI did know whom he invited and when. Never mind, he thought testily, that’s his job. And I’ll bet a golden guinea to a doughnut that these prints aren’t the only copies Roger made, for he knows our Admiralty would love to see them too and it’s his duty to provide them. “Could this have any connection with the AMG business?”
“No. No not at all,” Crosse said and the governor thought he heard the momentary flutter in Crosse’s voice. “I don’t think there’s any connection.”
Sir Geoffrey got out of the tall chair and paced for a moment, his mind sifting possibilities. Roger’s right. Chinese Intelligence on both sides of the bamboo fence are bound to find out quickly, as every one of our Chinese police has PRC or Nationalist sympathies. So it’s far better to have the spy out of reach. Then no one will be tempted—at least, not here. “I think I should chat with the minister at once.”
“Perhaps, under the circumstances, sir, you could inform the minister what I’ve done about the major—sending him to London under es—”
“He’s already gone?”
“No sir. But it’s well within my authority to expedite that—if you agree.”
Thoughtfully Sir Geoffrey glanced again at the clock. At length he said with a small smile, “Very well. It’s lunchtime now in London, I’ll inform him in an hour or so. Is that sufficient time?”
“Oh yes, thank you, sir. Everything’s arranged.”
“I presumed it was.”
“I’ll breathe a lot easier when the fellow’s en route home, sir. Thank you.”
“Yes. And the sailor?”
“Perhaps you could ask the minister to approve our handing him over to Rosemont, sir.”
There were a dozen questions Sir Geoffrey would like to have asked but he asked none of them. From long experience he knew he was not a good liar, so the less he knew the better. “Very well. Now, what’s the second piece of ‘good’ news? I trust this will be better.”
“We’ve caught the mole, sir.”
“Ah! Good. Excellent! Very good. Who?”
“Senior Superintendent Kwok.”
“Impossible!”
Crosse kept the pleasure off his face. “I agree, sir. Even so, Superintendent Kwok’s a Communist mole and spy for the PRC.” Crosse related how Brian Kwok’s cover had been penetrated. “I suggest Superintendent Armstrong should get a commendation—also Spectacles Wu. I’m taking him into SI, sir.”
Sir Geoffrey was staring out of the window, stunned. “Bless my soul! Young Brian! Why? He would have been an assistant commissioner in a year or two.… I suppose there’s no mistake?”
“No sir. As I said, the proof is irrefutable. Of course, we don’t know the how or the why yet but we soon will.”
Sir Geoffrey heard the finality and he saw the thin, hard face and cold eyes and he felt very sorry for Brian Kwok, whom he had liked for many years. “Keep me advised about him. Perhaps we can discover what makes a man like that do such a thing. Good God, such a charming chap and a first-class cricketer too. Yes, keep me advised.”
“Certainly, sir.” Crosse got up. “Interesting. I could never understand why he was always so anti-American—it was his only flaw. Now it’s obvious. I should have spotted that. Sorry sir, and sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“You’re to be congratulated, Roger. If the Soviet agent’s being sent to London perhaps Brian Kwok should go too? The same reasons would apply to him?”
“No sir. No I don’t think so. We can deal with Kwok here much quicker and better. We’re the ones who need to know what he knows—London wouldn’t understand. Kwok’s a threat to Hong Kong, not to Britain. He’s a PRC asset—the other man’s Soviet. The two don’t parallel.”
Sir Geoffrey sighed heavily, knowing Crosse was right. “I agree. This has really been a quite dreadful day, Roger. First the bank runs, then the stock market … the deaths last night, poor Sir Charles Pennyworth and Toxe’s wife … and this morning the Aberdeen mud-slide deaths … the Noble House’s tottering … it looks as though this storm front’s developing into a blasted typhoon which will probably wreck Saturday’s racing … and now all your news, an American sailor betrays his country and ship and honor for a paltry $2,000?”
Crosse smiled his thin smile again. “Perhaps $2,000 wasn’t paltry to him.”
We live in terrible times, Sir Geoffrey was going to say, but he knew it was not the times. It was merely that people were people, that greed pride lust avarice jealousy gluttony anger and the bigger lust for power or money ruled people and would rule them forever. Most of them.
“Thank you for coming, Roger. Again, you’re to be congratulated. I will so inform the minister. Good night.”
He watched Crosse walk off, tall, confident and deadly. When the iron door in the high wall had been bolted behind him by his aide, Sir Geoffrey Allison allowed the real unasked question to surface once more.
Who’s the mole in my police?
AMG’s paper was quite clear. The traitor’s a Soviet asset, not from the PRC. Brian Kwok has been flushed out by chance. Why didn’t Roger point out the obvious?
Sir Geoffrey shuddered. If Brian could be a mole anyone could. Anyone.
CHAPTER FIFTY
8:17 P.M.:
Almost before he took his finger off the bell the door swung open.
“Oh, Linc,” Orlanda said breathlessly, her happiness spilling over, “I’d given you up. Please come in!”
“Sorry to be late,” Bartlett said, taken aback by her beauty and marvelous warmth. “The traffic’s snarled to hell and the ferries jammed and I couldn’t get to a phone.”
“You’re here so you’re not late, not at all. I was just afraid that…” Then she added in a rush, “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back tonight and then I’d’ve been shattered. There, I’ve said it and all my defenses are down but I’m so happy to see you I don’t care.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him a swift happy kiss, took his arm and shut the door behind them.
Her perfume was delicate and barely there but he felt it as a physical presence. The dress she wore was knee-length white chiffon that sighed as she moved, close at the wrists and neck. It showed but somehow didn’t quite show her golden skin. “I’m so happy you’re here,” she said again and took his umbrella and put it into a rack.
“So am I.”
The room was prettier by night, mostly candlelit, the tall glass doors of the terrace open to the air. They were just below the overcast and the city sprawled down the mountain to the sea, the lights misting from time to time as whiskers of the low clouds passed by. Sea level was seven hundred feet below. Kowloon was dim and the harbor dim but he knew the ships were there and he could see the huge carrier at the wharf, her great angled deck floodlit, the needle-nosed jets floodlit, her battle-gray bridge reaching for the sky—the Stars and Stripes hanging damp and listless.
“Hey,” he said, leaning on the terrace railing, “what a great night, Orlanda.”
“Oh yes, yes it is. Come and sit down.”
“I’d rather look at the view, if it’s okay.”
“Of course, anything you want’s fine, anything. That suit’s great on you, Linc, and I love your tie.” She said it happily, wanting to compliment him even though she did not think the tie matched too well. Never mind, she thought, he’s just not color conscious like Quillan, and needs helping. I’ll do what Quillan taught me to do, not criticize but go out and buy one I like and give it to him. If he likes it, marvelous, if not never mind, for what does it matter—he’s the one who’s wearing it. Blue, blue would match Linc’s eyes and go better with that shirt. “You dress very well.”
“Thanks, so do you.” He was remembering what Casey had said about his tie and how furious he had been with her tonight all the way across the ferry, all the time waiting for a cab, a
It was only now that his rage-temperature had vanished. It was Orlanda’s pleasure at seeing me that did it, he told himself. It’s years since Casey lit up like a Christmas tree or said anything when I … the hell with that. I’m not going to worry about Casey tonight. “The view’s fantastic and you’re as pretty as a picture!”
She laughed. “So’re you and … oh your drink, sorry …” She whirled away for the kitchen, her skirt flying. “I don’t know why but you make me feel like a schoolgirl,” she called out. In a moment she came back. On the tray was an earthenware pot of pâté and rounds of fresh toast and a bottle of iced beer. “I hope this’s right.”
It was Anweiser. “How did you know my brand?”
“You told me this morning, don’t you remember?” Her warmth flooded over again at his obvious pleasure. “Also that you like drinking it out of the bottle.”
He took it and grinned at her. “Is that going to be in the article too?”
“No. No, I’ve decided not to write about you.”
He saw her sudden seriousness. “Why?”
She was pouring herself a glass of white wine. “I decided I could never do you justice in an article so I won’t write one. Besides, I don’t think you’d like that hanging over you.” Her hand went to her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die, no article, everything private. No article, no journalism, I swear by the Madonna,” she added, meaning it.
“Hey, no need to be dramatic!”
She was leaning with her back against the railing, an eighty-foot drop to the concrete below. He saw the sincerity in her face and he believed her completely. He was relieved. The article had been the only flaw, the only danger point for him—that and her being a journalist. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, deliberately lightly. “Sealed with a kiss. Thanks.”
“Yes.”
They watched the view for a moment.
“Is the rain over for good?”
“I hope not, Linc. We need a good series of storms to fill the reservoirs. Keeping clean’s so hard and we still only get water one day in four.” She smiled mischievously as a child would. “Last night during the torrent I stripped and bathed here. It was fantastic. The rain was even heavy enough to wash my hair.”
The thought of her naked, here, in the night, touched him. “You’d better be careful,” he said. “The railing’s not that high. I wouldn’t want you to slip.”
“Strange, I’m frightened to death of the sea but heights don’t bother me a bit. You certainly saved my life.”
“C’mon! You would have made it without me.”
“Perhaps, but you certainly saved my face. Without you there I would surely have disgraced myself. So thanks for my face.”
“And that’s more important than life out here, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes, yes, yes it is. Why do you say that?”
“I was just thinking about Dunross and Quillan Gornt. Those two’re having at each other, mostly over face.”
“Yes. You’re right, of course.” She added thoughtfully, “They’re both fine men, in one way, both devils in another.”
“How do you mean?”
“They’re both ruthless, both very very strong, very hard, adept and … and well conversed with life.” As she talked she heaped one of the rounds of toast with pâté and offered it to him, her nails long and perfect. “The Chinese have a saying: ‘Chan ts’ao, chu ken’—when pulling weeds make sure you get rid of the roots. The roots of those two go deep in Asia, very deep, too deep. It would be hard to get rid of those roots.” She sipped her wine and smiled a little smile. “And probably not a good idea, not for Hong Kong. Some more pâté?”
“Please. It’s wonderful. You make it?”
“Yes. It’s an old English recipe.”
“Why wouldn’t it be good for Hong Kong?”
“Oh, perhaps because they balance each other. If one destroys the other—oh I don’t mean just Quillan or Dunross, I mean the hongs themselves, the companies, Struan’s and Rothwell-Gornt. If one eats up the other, perhaps the remaining one would be too strong, there would certainly be no competition, then perhaps the tai-pan would become too greedy, perhaps he’d decide to dump Hong Kong.” She smiled hesitantly. “Sorry … I’m talking too much. It’s just an idea. Another beer?”
“Sure, in a moment, thanks, but that’s an interesting thought.” Yes, Bartlett was thinking, and one that hadn’t occurred to me—or to Casey. Are those two necessary to each other?
And Casey and I? Are we necessary to each other?
He saw her watching him and he smiled back. “Orlanda, it’s no secret I’m thinking about making a deal with one of them. If you were me, which one would you go with?”
“Neither,” she said at once and laughed.
“Why?”
“You’re not British, not one of the ‘old boys,’ not a hereditary member of any of the clubs, and however much your money and power here, it’s the Old Boy network that will finally decide what is to be.” She took his empty bottle and went and brought another.
“You think I couldn’t make a go of it?”
“Oh I didn’t mean that, Linc. You asked about Struan’s or Rothwell-Gornt, about going into business with one of them. If you do, they’ll be the winners in the end.”
“They’re that smart?”
“No. But they’re Asian, they belong here. Here the saying is, ‘Tien hsia wu ya i pan hei’—all crows under heaven are black—meaning that all the tai-pans are the same and they’ll all stick together to destroy the outsider.”
“So neither Ian nor Quillan would welcome a partner?”
She hesitated. “I think I’m getting out of my depth, Linc. I don’t know about business things. It’s just that I’ve never heard of an American who’s come here and made it big.”
“What about Biltzmann, Superfoods and their takeover of H.K. General Stores?”
“Biltzmann’s a joke. Everyone hates him and hopes he’ll fall on his face, even Pug … Pugmire. Quillan’s sure he will. No, even Cooper and Tillman didn’t make it. They were Yankee traders in the first days, Linc, opium traders—they were even under Dirk Struan’s protection. They’re even related, the Struans and the Coopers. Hag Struan married her eldest daughter, Emma, to old Jeff Cooper; Old Hook Nose was his nickname when he was in his dotage. The story is that the marriage was payment for his helping her destroy Tyler Brock. Have you heard about them, Linc? The Brocks, Sir Morgan and his father Tyler, and the Hag?”
“Peter Marlowe told us some of the stories.”
“If you want to know about the real Hong Kong, you should talk to Auntie Bright Eyes—that’s Sarah Chen, Phillip Chen’s maiden aunt! She’s a great character, Linc, and sharp as a needle. She says she’s eighty-eight. I think she’s older. Her father was Sir Gordon Chen, Dirk Struan’s illegitimate son by his mistress Kai-Sung, and her mother was the famous beauty Karen Yuan.”
“Who’s she?”
“Karen Yuan was Robb Struan’s granddaughter. Robb was Dirk’s half-brother and he had a mistress called Yau Ming Soo with whom he had a daughter Isobel. Isobel married John Yuan, an illegitimate son of Jeff Cooper. John Yuan became a well-known pirate and opium smuggler, and Isobel died quite notorious as an enormous gambler who had lost two of her husbands’ fortunes playing mah-jong. So it was Isobel and John’s daughter, Karen, who married Sir Gordon Chen—actually she was his second wife, more like a concubine really, though it was a perfectly legal marriage. Here, even today, if you’re Chinese you can legally have as many wives as you like.”
“That’s convenient!”
“For a man!” Orlanda smiled. “So this tiny branch of the Yuans are Cooper descendents—the T’Chungs and Chens are from Dirk Struan, the Sungs, Tups and Tongs from Aristotle Quance the painter—here in Hong Kong it’s the custom for the children to take the name of their mother, usually an insignific
“By the parents?”
“Almost always,” she told him casually. “‘T’ung t’ien yu ming’—listen to heaven and follow fate. Particularly when you’re starving.” She shrugged. “There’s no shame in that, Linc, no loss of face, not in Asia.”
“How come you know so much about the Struans and Coopers and mistresses and so on?”
“This is a small place and we all love secrets but there are no real secrets in Hong Kong. Insiders—true insiders—know almost everything about the others. As I said, our roots go deep here. And don’t forget that the Chens, Yuans and Sungs are Eurasian. As I told you, Eurasians marry Eurasians, so we should know who we’re from. We’re not desired by British or Chinese as wives or husbands, only as mistresses or lovers.” She sipped her wine and he was awed by the delicacy of her movements, her grace. “It’s custom for Chinese families to have their genealogy written down in the village book, that’s the only legality they have—that gives them continuity, they’ve never had birth certificates.” She smiled up at him. “To go back to your question. Both Ian Dunross and Quillan would welcome your money and your inside track into the U.S. market. And with either one you’d make a profit here—if you were content to be a silent partner.”
Thoughtfully Bartlett let his eyes stray to the view.
She waited patiently, allowing him his thoughts, staying motionless. I’m very glad Quillan was such a good teacher and such a clever man, she thought. And oh so wise. He was right again.
This morning she had called him in tears on his private line to report what had happened and, “Oh Quillan, I think I’ve ruined everything….”
“What did you say and what did he say?”
She had told him exactly and he had reassured her. “I don’t think you’ve any need to worry, Orlanda. He’ll come back. If not tonight, tomorrow.”
“Oh are you sure?” she had said so gratefully.
“Yes. Now dry those tears and listen.” Then he had told her what to do and what to wear and above all to be a woman.