"It's no sweat," Bartlett assured him. "There's plenty of sampans to pick us up!"
"Oh yes, but she can't swim either."
Fleur put her hand on her husband's arm. "You always said I should learn, Peter."
Dunross wasn't listening. He was consumed with fear and trying to dominate it. His nostrils were filled with the stench of burning meat that he knew oh so well and he was near vomiting. He was back in his burning Spitfire, shot out of the sky by a Messerschmitt 109 over the Channel, the cliffs of Dover too far away, and he knew the fire would consume him before he could tear the jammed and damaged cockpit canopy free and bail out, the horror-smell of scorching flesh, his own, surrounding him. In terror he smashed his fist impotently against the Perspex, his other beating at the flames around his feet and knees, choking from the acrid smoke in his lungs, half blinded. Then there was a sudden frantic roar as the cowl ripped away, an inferno of flames surged up and surrounded him and somehow he was out and falling away from the flames, not knowing if his face was gone, the skin of his hands and feet, his boots and flying overalls still smoking. Then the shuddering nauseating jerk as his chute opened, then the dark silhouette of the enemy plane hurtled toward him out of the sun and he saw the machine guns sparking and a tracer blew part of his calf away. He remembered none of the rest except the smell of burning flesh that was the same then as now.
"What do you think, tai-pan?"
"What?"
"Shall we stay or leave?" Marlowe repeated.
"We'll stay, for the moment," Dunross said and they all wondered how he could sound so calm and look so calm. "When the stairs clear we can walk out. No reason to get wet if we don't have to."
Casey smiled at him hesitantly. "These fires happen often?"
"Not here, but they do in Hong Kong, I'm afraid. Our Chinese friends don't care much about fire regulations..."
It was still only a few minutes since the first violent gust of fire had swirled up in the kitchen but now the fire had a full hold there and, through the access of the dumbwaiter, a strong hold on the central sections of the three decks above. The fire in the kitchen blocked half the room from the only staircase. Twenty terrified men were trapped on the wrong side. The rest of the staff had fled long since to join the heaving mass of people on the deck above. There were half a dozen portholes but these were small and rusted up. In panic one of the cooks rushed at the flaming barrier, screamed as the flames engulfed him, almost made it through but slipped and kept on screaming for a long while. A petrified moan burst from the others. There was no other escape possibility.
The head chef was trapped too. He was a portly man and he had been in many kitchen fires so he was not panicked. His mind ranged all the other fires, desperately seeking a clue. Then he remembered. "Hurry," he shouted, "get bags of rice flour... rice... hurry!" The others stared at him without moving, their terror numbing them, so he lashed out and smashed some of them into the storeroom, grabbed a fifty-pound sack himself and tore the top off. "Fornicate all fires hurry but wait till I tell you," he gasped, the smoke choking and almost blinding him. One of the portholes shattered and the sudden draught whooshed the flames at them. Terrified they grabbed a sack each, coughing as the smoke billowed.
"Now!" the head chef roared and hurled the sack at the flaming corridor between the stoves. The sack burst open and the clouds of flour doused some of the flames. Other sacks followed in the same area and more flames were swallowed. Another barrage of flour went over the flaming benches, snuffing them out. The passage was momentarily clear. At once the head chef led the charge through the remaining flames and they all followed him pell-mell, leaping over the two charred bodies, and gained the stairs at the far side before the flames gushed back and closed the path. The men fought their way up the narrow staircase and into the partial air of the landing, joining the milling mob that pushed and shoved and screamed and coughed their way through the black smoke into the open.
Tears streamed from most faces. The smoke was very heavy now in the lower levels. Then the wall behind the first landing where the shaft of the dumbwaiter was began to twist and blacken. Abruptly it burst open, scattering gargoyles, and flames gushed out. Those on the stairs below shoved forward in panic and those on the landing reeled back. Then, seeing they were so close to safety, the first ranks darted forward, skirting the inferno, jumping the stairs two at a time. Hugh Guthrie, one of the MPs, saw a woman fall. He held on to the bannister and stopped to help her but those behind toppled him and he fell with others. He picked himself up, cursing, and fought a path clear for just enough time to drag the woman up before he was engulfed again and shoved down the last few stairs to gain the entrance safely.
Half the landing between the lower deck and the second deck was still free of flames though the fire had an unassailable hold and was fueling itself. The crowds were thinning now though more than a hundred still clogged the upper staircases and doorways. Those above were milling and cursing, not being able to see ahead.
"What's the holdup for chrissake...."
"Are the stairs still clear...?"
"For chrissake get on with it...."
"It's getting bloody hot up here..."
"What a sodding carve-up...."
Grey was one of those trapped on the second-deck staircase. He could see the flames gushing out of the wall ahead and knew the nearby wall would go any moment. He could not decide whether to retreat or to advance. Then he saw a child cowering against the steps under the bannister. He managed to pull the little boy into his arms then pressed on, cursing those in front, darted around the fire, the way to safety below still jammed.
On the top deck Gornt and others were listening to the pandemonium below. There were only thirty or so people still here. He finished his drink, set the glass down and walked over to the group surrounding Dunross—Orlanda was still sitting, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, Fleur and Peter Marlowe still outwardly calm, and Dunross, as always, in control. Good, he thought, blessing his own heritage and training. It was part of British tradition that in danger, however petrified you are, you lose face by showing it. Then, too, he reminded himself, most of us have been bombed most of our lives, shot at, sunk, slammed into POW jails or been in the Services. Gornt's sister had been in the Women's Royal Naval Service—his mother an air raid warden, his father in the army, his uncle killed at Monte Cassino, and he himself had served with the Australians in New Guinea after escaping from Shanghai, and had fought his way into and through Burma to Singapore.
"Ian," he said, keeping his voice suitably nonchalant, "it sounds as though the fire's on the first landing now. I suggest a swim."
Dunross glanced back at the fire near the exit door. "Some of the ladies don't swim. Let's give it a couple of minutes."
"Very well. I think those who don't mind jumping should go on deck. That particular fire's really very boring."
Casey said, "I don't find it very boring at all."
They all laughed. "It's just an expression," Peter Marlowe explained.
An explosion below decks rocked the boat slightly. The momentary silence was eerie.
In the kitchen the fire had spread to the storage rooms and was surrounding the four remaining hundred-gallon drums of oil. The one that had blown up had torn a gaping hole in the floor and buckled the side of the boat. Burning embers and burning oil and some seawater poured into the scuppers. The force of the explosion had ruptured some of the great timbers of the flat-bottomed hull and water was seeping through the seams. Hordes of rats scrambled out of the way seeking an escape route.
Another of the thick metal drums blew up and ripped a vast hole in the side of the boat just below the waterline, scattering fire in all directions. The people on the wharf gasped and some reeled back though there was no danger. Others laughed nervously. Still another drum exploded and another shaft of flames sprayed everywhere. The ceiling supports and joists were seriously weakened and, oil soaked, began to burn. Above on the first deck, the feet of the frenzied escapees pounded dangerously.
Just above the first landing Grey still had the child in his arms. He held on to the bannister with one hand, frightened, shoving people behind and in front of him. He waited his turn, then shielding the child as best he could, ducked around the flames on the landing and darted down the stairs, the way mostly clear. The carpet by the threshold was beginning to smoke and one heavyset man stumbled, the whole floor shaky.
"Come on," Grey shouted desperately to those behind. He made the threshold, others close behind and in front. Just as he reached the drawbridge the last two drums exploded, the whole floor behind him disappeared and he and the child and others were hurled forward like so much chaff.
Hugh Guthrie rushed out of the onlookers and pulled them to safety. "You all right, old chap?" he gasped.
Grey was half stunned, gasping for breath, his clothes smouldering, and Guthrie helped beat them out. "Yes... yes I think so..." he said half out of himself.
Guthrie gently lifted the unconscious child and peered at him. "Poor little bastard!"
"Is he dead?"
"I don't think so. Here..." Guthrie gave the little Chinese boy to an onlooker and both men charged back to the gateway to help the others who were still numbed by the explosion and helpless. "Christ all bloody mighty," he gasped as he saw that now the whole entrance was impassable. Above the uproar, they heard the wail of approaching sirens.
The fire on the top deck near the exit was building nastily. Frightened, coughing people were streaming back into the room, forced back up the stairs by the fire that now owned the lower deck. Pandemonium and the stench of fear were heavy on the air.
"Ian, we'd better get the hell out of here," Bartlett said.
"Yes. Quillan, would you please lead the way and take charge of the deck," Dunross said. "I'll hold this end."
Gornt turned and roared, "Everyone this way! You'll be safe on deck... one at a time...." He opened the door and positioned himself by it and tried to bring order to the hasty retreat—a few Chinese, the remainder mostly British. Once in the open everyone was much less frightened and grateful to be away from the smoke.
Bartlett, waiting in the room, felt excitement but still no fear for he knew he could smash any one of the windows and get Casey and himself out and into the sea. People stumbled past. Flames from the dumbwaiter increased and there was a dull explosion below.
"How you doing, Casey?"
"Okay."
"Out you go!"
"When you go."
"Sure." Bartlett grinned at her. The room was thinning. He helped Lady Joanna through the doorway, then Havergill, who was limping, and his wife.
Casey saw that Orlanda was still frozen to her chair. Poor girl, she thought compassionately, remembering her own absolute terror in her own fire. She went over to her. "Come on," she said gently and helped her up. The girl's knees were trembling. Casey kept her arm around her.
"I... I've lost... my purse," Orlanda muttered.
"No, here it is." Casey picked it up from the chair and kept her arm around her as she half-pushed her past the flames into the open. The deck was crowded but once outside Casey felt enormously better.
"Everything's fine," Casey said encouragingly. She guided her to the railing. Orlanda held on tightly.. Casey turned back to look for Bartlett and saw both him and Gornt watching her from inside the room. Bartlett waved at her and she waved back, wishing he were outside with her.
Peter Marlowe herded his wife onto the deck and came up to her. "You all right, Casey?"
"Sure. How you doing, Fleur?"
"Fine. Fine. It's... it's rather pleasant outside, isn't it?" Fleur Marlowe said, feeling faint and awful, petrified at the idea of jumping from this great height. "Do you think it's going to rain?"
"The sooner the better." Casey looked over the side. In the murky waters, thirty feet below, sampans were beginning to collect. All boatmen knew that those on the top would have to jump soon. From their vantage they could see that the fire possessed most of the first and second decks. A few people were trapped there, then one man hurled a chair through one of the windows, broke the glass away, scrambled through and fell into the sea. A sampan darted forward and threw him a line. Others who were trapped followed. One woman never came up.
The night was dark though the flames lit everything nearby, casting eerie shadows. The crowds on the wharf parted as the screaming fire engines pulled up. Immediately Chinese firemen and British officers dragged out the hoses. Another detachment joined up to the nearby fire hydrant and the first jet of water played onto the fire and there was a cheer. In seconds six hoses were in operation and two masked firemen with asbestos clothing and breathing equipment strapped to their backs rushed the entrance and began to drag those who were lying unconscious out of danger. Another huge explosion sprayed them with burning embers. One of the firemen doused everyone with water then directed the hose back on the entrance again.
The top deck was empty now except for Bartlett, Dunross and Gornt. They felt the deck sway under them and almost lost their footing. "Jesus Christ," Bartlett gasped, "we going to sink?"
"Those explosions could've blown her bottom out," Gornt said urgently. "Come on!" He went through the door quickly, Bartlett followed.
Now Dunross was alone. The smoke was very bad, the heat and stench revolting him. He made a conscious effort not to flee, dominating his terror. At a sudden thought he ran back across the room to the doorway of the main staircase to make sure there was no one there. Then he saw the inert figure of a man on the staircase. Flames were everywhere. He felt his own fear surging again but once more he held it down, darted forward and began to drag the man back up the stairs. The Chinese was heavy and he did not know if the man was alive or dead. The heat was scorching and again he smelt burning flesh and felt his bile rising. Then Bartlett was beside him and together they half-dragged, half-carried the man across the room out onto the deck.
"Thanks," Dunross gasped.
Quillan Gornt came over to them, bent down and turned the man over. The face was partially burned. "You could have saved yourself the heroics. He's dead."
"Who is he?" Bartlett asked.
Gornt shrugged. "I don't know. Do you know him, Ian?"
Dunross was staring at the body. "Yes. It's Zep... Zeppelin Tung."
"Tightfist's son?" Gornt was surprised. "My God, he's put on weight. I'd never have recognised him." He got to his feet. "We'd better get everyone ready to jump. This boat's a graveyard." He saw Casey standing by the railing. "Are you all right?" he asked, going over to her.
"Yes, thanks. You?"
"Oh yes."
Orlanda was still beside her, staring blankly at the water below. People were milling around the deck. "I'd better help get them organised," Gornt said. "I'll be back in a second." He walked off.
Another explosion jarred the boat again. The list began to increase. Several people climbed over the side and jumped. Sampans went in to rescue them.
Christian Toxe had his arm around his Chinese wife and he was staring sourly overboard.
"You're going to have to jump, Christian," Dunross said.
"Into Aberdeen Harbour? You must be bloody joking old chap! If you don't bounce off all the bloody effluvia you'll catch the bloody plague."
"It's that or a red-hot tail," someone called out with a laugh.
At the end of the deck Sir Charles Pennyworth was holding on to the railing as he worked his way down the boat encouraging everyone. "Come on, young lady," he said to Orlanda, "it's an easy jump."
She shook her head, petrified. "No... no not yet... I can t swim."
Fleur Marlowe put her arm around her. "Don't worry, I can't swim either. I'm staying too."
Bartlett said, "Peter, you can hold her hand, she'll be safe. All you have to do, Fleur, is hold your breath!"
"She's not going to jump," Marlowe said quietly. "At least, not till the last second."
"It's safe."
"Yes, but it's not safe for her. She's enceinte. "
"What?"
"Fleur's with child. About three months."
"Oh Jesus."
Flames roared skyward out of one of the flues. Inside the top deck restaurant tables were afire and the great carved temple screens at the far end were burning merrily. There was a great gust of sparks as the inner central staircase collapsed. "Jesus, this whole boat's a firetrap. What about the folk below?" Casey asked.
"They're all out long ago," Dunross said, not believing it. Now that he was in the open he felt fine. His successful domination of his fear made him light-headed. "The view here is quite splendid, don't you think?"
Pennyworth called out jovially, "We're in luck! The ship's listing this way so when she goes down we'll be safe enough. Unless she capsizes. Just like old times," he added. "I was sunk three times in the Med."
"So was I," Marlowe said, "but it was in the Bangka Strait off Sumatra."
"I didn't know that, Peter," Fleur said.
"It was nothing."
"How deep's the water here?" Bartlett asked.
"It must be twenty feet or more," Dunross said.
"That'll be en—" There was a whoopwhoopwhoop of sirens as the police launch came bustling through the narrow byways between the islands of boats, its searchlight darting here and there. When it was almost alongside the Floating Dragon, the megaphone sounded loudly, first in Chinese, "All sampans clear the area, clear the area..." Then in English, "Those on the top deck prepare to abandon ship! The hull's holed, prepare to abandon ship!"
Christian Toxe muttered sourly to no one, "Buggered if I'm going to ruin my only dinner jacket."
His wife tugged at his arm. "You never liked it anyway, Chris."
"I like it now, old girl." He tried to smile. "You can't bloody swim either."
She shrugged. "I'll bet you fifty dollar you and me we swim like a one hundred percent eel."
"Mrs. Toxe, you have a bet. But it's only fitting we're the last to go. After all, I want an eyewitness account." He reached into his pocket and found his cigarettes, gave her one, trying to feel brave, frightened for her safety. He searched for a match, couldn't find one. She reached into her purse and rummaged around. Eventually she found her lighter. It lit on the third go. Both were oblivious of the flames that were ten feet behind them.
Dunross said, "You smoke too much, Christian."
The deck twisted sickeningly. The boat began to settle. Water was pouring through the great hole in her side. Firemen used their hoses with great bravery but they had little effect on the conflagration. A murmur went through the crowd as the whole boat shuddered. Two of the mooring guys snapped.
Pennyworth was leaning against the gunnel, helping others to jump clear. Quite a few were jumping now. Lady Joanna fell awkwardly. Paul Havergill helped his wife over the side. When he saw she had surfaced he leaped too. The police launch was still blaring in Cantonese to clear the area. Sailors threw life jackets over the side as others launched a cutter. Then, led by a young marine inspector, half a dozen sailors dived over the side to help those in trouble, men, women and a few children. A sampan darted in to help Lady Joanna, Havergill and his wife. Gratefully they clambered aboard the rickety craft. Others from the top deck plunged into the water.
The Floating Dragon was listing badly. Someone slipped on the top deck and knocked Pennyworth off balance. He half-jumped, half-fell backward before he could catch himself and fell like a stone. His head smashed into the stern of the sampan, snapping his neck, and he slithered into the water and sank. In the pandemonium no one noticed him.
Casey was hanging on to the railings with Bartlett, Dunross, Gornt, Orlanda and the Marlowes. Nearby, Toxe was puffing away, trying to summon his courage. His wife stubbed her cigarette out carefully. Flames were surging from the air vents, skylights and exit door, then the ship grounded heavily and lurched as another of her anchoring cables snapped. Gornt's hold was torn away and he crashed headfirst into the railing, stunning himself. Toxe and his wife lost their balance and went over the side, badly. Peter Marlowe held on to his wife and just managed to prevent her being smashed into a bulkhead as Bartlett and Casey half-tumbled, half-stumbled past and fell in a heap at the railing, Bartlett protecting her as best he could, her high heels dangerous.
Below, in the water, sailors were helping people to the rescue boat. One saw Toxe and his wife rise to the surface for an instant fifteen yards away, both gasping and spluttering, before they choked, and, flailing, went down again. At once he dived for them and after a seeming eternity, grabbed her clothing and shoved her, half-drowned, to the surface. The young lieutenant swam over to where he had seen Toxe and dived but missed him in the darkness. He came up for air and dived once more into the blackness, groping helplessly. When his lungs were bursting, his outstretched fingers touched some clothing and he grabbed and kicked for the surface. Toxe clung on in panic, retching and choking from all the seawater he had swallowed. The young man broke his hold, turned Toxe over and hauled him to the cutter.
Above them, the boat was tilted dangerously and Dunross picked himself up. He saw Gornt inert in a heap and he stumbled over to him. He tried to lift him, couldn't.
"I'm... I'm all right," Gornt gasped, coming around, then he shook his head like a dog. "Christ, thanks..." He looked up and saw it was Dunross. "Thanks," he said, smiled grimly as he got up shakily. "I'm still selling tomorrow and by next week you'll have had it."
Dunross laughed. "Jolly good luck! The idea of burning to death or drowning with you fills me with equal dismay."
Ten yards away, Bartlett was lifting Casey up. The angle of the deck was bad now, the fire worse. "This whole goddamn tub could capsize any second."
"What about them?" she asked quietly, nodding at Fleur and Orlanda.
He thought a second, then said decisively, "You go first, wait below!"
"Got it!" At once she gave him her small purse. He stuffed it into a pocket and hurried away as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her long dress and stepped out of it. At once she gathered up the light silk material into a rope, tied it around her waist, swung neatly over the railing and stood there poised on the edge a moment, gauged her impact point carefully, and leapt out into a perfect swan dive. Gornt and Dunross watched her go, their immediate danger forgotten.
Bartlett was beside Orlanda now. He saw Casey break the surface cleanly and before Orlanda could do anything he lifted her over the railing and said, "Hold your breath, honey," and dropped her carefully. They all watched her fall. She plummeted down feet first and went into the water a few yards from Casey who had already anticipated the spot and had swum down below the surface. She caught Orlanda easily, kicked for the surface, and Orlanda was breathing almost before she realised she was off the deck. Casey held her safely and swam strongly for the cutter, in perfect control.
Gornt and Dunross cheered lustily. The boat lurched again and they almost lost their footing as Bartlett stumbled over to the Mar-lowes.
"Peter, how's your swimming?" Bartlett asked.
"Average."
"Trust me with her? I was a lifeguard, beach bum, for years."
Before Marlowe could say no, Bartlett lifted Fleur into his arms and stepped over the railing onto the ledge and poised himself for a second. "Just hold your breath!" She put one arm around his neck and held her nose then he stepped into space, Fleur tightly and safely in his arms. He plunged into the sea cleanly, protecting her from the shock with his own legs and body, and kicked smoothly for the surface. Her head was hardly under a few seconds and she was not even spluttering though her heart was racing. In seconds she was at the cutter. She hung on to the side and they looked back.
When Peter Marlowe saw she was safe his heart began again. "Oh, jolly good," he muttered.
"Did you see Casey go?" Dunross asked. "Fantastic!"
"What? Oh, no, tai-pan."
"Just bra and pants with stockings attached and no ironworks and a dream dive. Christ, what a figure!"
"Oh those're pantyhose," Marlowe said absently, looking at the water below, gathering his courage. "They've just come out in the States, they're all the rage..."
Dunross was hardly listening. "Christ Agnes, what a figure."
"Ah yes," Gornt echoed. "And what cojones."
The boat shrieked as the last of its mooring guys snapped. The deck toppled nauseatingly.
As one, the last three men went overboard. Dunross and Gornt dived, Peter Marlowe jumped. The dives were good but both men knew they were not as good as Casey's.
11:30 PM
On the other side of the island the old taxi was grinding up the narrow street high above West Point in Mid Levels, Suslev sprawled drunkenly in the backseat. The night was dark and he was singing a sad Russian ballad to the sweating driver, his tie askew, coat off, his shirt streaked with sweat. The overcast had thickened and lowered, the humidity was worse, the air stifling.
"Matyeryebyetsl" he muttered, cursing the heat, then smiled, the twisted obscenity pleasing him. He looked out the window. The city and harbour lights far below were misted by wisps of clouds, Kowloon mostly obscured. "It'll rain soon, comrade," he said to the driver, his English slurred, not caring if the man understood or not.
The ancient taxi was wheezing. The engine coughed suddenly and that reminded him of Arthur's cough and their coming meeting. His excitement quickened.
The taxi had picked him up at the Golden Ferry Terminal, then climbed to Mid Levels on the Peak, turned west, skirting Government House where the governor lived, and the Botanical Gardens. Passing the palace, Suslev had wondered absently when the Hammer and Sickle would fly atop the empty flagpole. Soon, he had thought contentedly. With Arthur's help and Sevrin's—very soon. Just a few more years.
He peered at his watch. He would be a little late but that did not worry him. Arthur was always late, never less than ten minutes, never more than twenty. Dangerous to be a man of habit in our profession, he thought. But dangerous or not, Arthur's an enormous asset and Sevrin, his creation, a brilliant, vital tool in our KGB armament, buried so deep, waiting so patiently, like all the other Sevrins throughout the world. Only ninety-odd thousands of us KGB officers and yet we almost rule the world. We've already changed it, changed it permanently, already we own half... and in such a short time, only since 1917.
So few of us, so many of them. But now our tentacles reach out into every corner. Our armies of assistants—informers, fools, parasites, traitors, the twisted self-deluders and misshapen, misbegotten believers we so deliberately recruit are in every land, feeding off one another like the vermin they all are, fueled by their own selfish wants and fears, all expendable sooner or later. And everywhere one of us, one of the elite, the KGB officers, in the centre of each web, controlling guiding eliminating. Webs within webs up to the Praesidium of all the Soviets and now so tightly woven into the fabric of Mother Russia as to be indestructible. We are modern Russia, he thought proudly. We're Lenin's spearhead. Without us and our techniques and our orchestrated use of terror there would be no Soviet Russia, no Soviet Empire, no driving force to keep the rulers of the Party all powerful—and nowhere on earth would there be a Communist state. Yes, we're the elite.
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