"Jesus! Was it?"
"Yes."
"What a waste!"
Dunross looked back at the portrait. "No," he said, his voice different. "She kept Struan's the Noble House of Asia for almost seventy-five years. She was the tai-pan, the real tai-pan, though others had the title. Hag Struan fought off enemies and catastrophes and kept faith with Dirk's legacy and smashed the Brocks and did whatever was necessary. So what's a pretty bauble that probably cost nothing in the first place? It was probably pirated from the treasury of some Mandarin who stole it from someone else, whose peasants paid for it with sweat."
Casey watched him staring at the face, almost past it into another dimension. "I only hope I can do as well," he muttered absently, and it seemed to Casey he was saying it to her, to the girl in the picture.
Her eyes strayed beyond Dunross to the portrait of Dirk Struan and she saw again the marvellous likeness. There was a strong family resemblance in all the ten large portraits—nine men and the girl- that hung on the walls amid landscapes of all sizes of Hong Kong and Shanghai and Tiensin and many seascapes of the elegant Struan clipper ships and some of their merchantmen. Below the portrait of each tai-pan was a small brass plaque with his name and the years of his life: "Dirk Dunross, 4th Tai-pan, 1852-1894, lost at sea in the India Ocean with all hands in Sunset Cloud"... "Sir Lochlin Struan, 3rd Tai-pan, 1841-1915"... "Alastair Struan, 9th Tai-pan, 1900-"... "Dirk Struan, 1798-1841"... "Ross Lechie Struan, 7th Tai-pan, 1887-1915, Captain Royal Scots Regiment, killed in action at Ypres"...
"So much history," she said, judging it time to break his thought pattern.
"Yes. Yes it is," he said, looking at her now.
"You're the 10th tai-pan?"
"Yes."
"Have you had your portrait done yet?"
"No."
"You'll have to, won't you?"
"Yes, yes in due course. There's no hurry."
"How do you become tai-pan, Ian?"
"You have to be chosen by the previous one. It's his decision."
"Have you chosen who'll follow you?"
"No," he said, but Casey thought that he had. Why should he tell me, she asked herself. And why are you asking him so many questions?
She looked away from him. A small portrait caught her attention. "Who's that?" she asked, disquieted. The man was misshapen, a hunchbacked dwarf, his eyes curious and his smile sardonic. "Was he a tai-pan too?"
"No. That's Stride Orlov, he was Dirk's chief captain. After the tai-pan was killed in the great typhoon and Culum took over, Stride Orlov became master of our clipper fleet. Legend has it he was a great seaman."
After a 'pause she said, "Sorry but there's something about him that gives me the creeps." There were pistols in Orlov's belt and a clipper ship in the background. "It's a frightening face," she said.
"He had that effect on everyone—except the tai-pan and Hag Struan—even Culum was supposed to have hated him." Dunross turned and studied her and she felt his probing. It made her feel warm and at the same time unsettled.
"Why did she like him?" she asked.
"The story is that right after the great typhoon when everyone in Hong Kong was picking up the pieces, Culum included, Devil Tyler started to take over the Noble House. He gave orders, assumed control, treated Culum and Tess like children... he sent Tess aboard his ship, the White Witch, and told Culum to be aboard by sunset or else. As far as Tyler was concerned the Noble House was now Brock-Struan and he was the tai-pan! Somehow or other—no one knows why or how Culum got the courage—my God, Culum was only twenty then and Tess barely sixteen—but Culum ordered Orlov to go aboard the White Witch and fetch his wife ashore. Orlov went alone, at once—Tyler was still ashore at the time. Orlov brought her back and in his wake left one man dead and another half a dozen with broken heads or limbs." Dunross was looking at her and she recognised the same half-mocking, half-violent, half-devilish smile that was on the tai-pan's face. "Ever afterwards, Tess—Hag Struan to be—loved him, so they say. Orlov served our fleet well until he vanished. He was a fine man, and a great seaman, for all his ugliness."
"He vanished? He was lost at sea?"
"No. Hag Struan said he went ashore one day in Singapore and never returned. He was always threatening to leave and go home to Norway. So perhaps he went home. Perhaps he was knifed. Who knows, Asia's a violent place, though Hag Struan swore no man could kill Stride Orlov and that it must have been a woman. Perhaps Tyler ambushed him. Who knows?"
Inexorably her eyes went back to Tyler Brock. She was fascinated by the face and the implications of the knife. "Why did she do that to her father's image?"
"One day I'll tell you but not tonight, except to say that she hammered the knife into the wall with my grandfather's cricket bat and cursed before God and the devil anyone who took her knife out of her wall." He smiled at Casey and again she noticed an extraordinary tiredness in him and was glad because her own tiredness was creeping up on her and she did not want to make any mistakes now. He put out his hand. "We have to shake on a deal."
"No," Casey said calmly, glad to begin. "Sorry, I have to cancel out."
His smile evaporated. "What?"
"Yes. Linc told me the changes you want. It's a two-year deal—that ups our ante so I can't approve it."
"Oh?"
"No." She continued in the same flat but pleasant tone, "Sorry, 20 million's my limit so you'll have to close with Linc. He's waiting in the bar."
Understanding flashed over his face for an instant—and relief, she thought—and then he was calm again. "Is he now?" he said softly, watching her.
"Yes." She felt a wave of heat go through her, her cheeks began to burn and she wondered if the colour showed.
"So we can't shake, you and I. It has to be Linc Bartlett?"
With an effort she kept her eyes unwavering. "A tai-pan should deal with a tai-pan."
"That's a basic rule, even in America?" His voice was soft and gentle.
"Yes."
"Is this your idea or his?"
"Does it matter?"
"Very much."
"If I say it's Linc's, he loses face, and if I say it's mine, he still loses face, though in a different way."
Dunross shook his head slightly and smiled. The warmth of it increased her inner warmth. Although she was very much in charge of herself, she felt herself responding to his unadulterated masculinity.
"We're all bound by face, aren't we, in some way or another," he said.
She did not answer, just glanced away to give herself time. Her eyes saw the portrait of the girl. How could such a pretty girl become known as the Hag, she wondered. It must be hateful to become old in face and body when you're young at heart and still strong and tough—so unfair for a woman. Will I be known one day as Hag Tcholok? Or "that old dyke Tcholok" if I'm still alone, unmarried, in the business world, the man's world, still working for the same things they work for—identity, power and money—and hated for being as good or better than they are at it?
I don't care so long as we win, Linc and I. So play the part you've chosen tonight, she told herself, and thank the French lady for her advice. "Remember, child," her father had drummed into her, "remember that advice, good advice, comes from unexpected places at unexpected times." Yes, Casey thought happily, but for Susanne's reminder about how a lady should operate in this man's world, Ian, perhaps I wouldn't have given you that face-saving formula. But don't be mistaken, Ian Struan Dunross. This is my deal, and in this I'm tai-pan of Par-Con.
Casey felt an untoward glow as another current went through her. Never before had she articulated her actual position in Par-Con to herself. Yes, she thought, very satisfied, that's what I am.
She looked at the girl in the portrait critically and she saw, now, how wrong she had been before and how very special the girl was. Wasn't she the tai-pan, in embryo, even then?
"You're very generous," Dunross said, breaking into her thoughts.
"No," she replied at once, prepared, and glanced back at him, and she was thinking, If you want the truth, tai-pan, I'm not generous at all. I'm merely being demure and sweet and gentle because it makes you feel more at home. But she said none of this to him, only dropped her eyes and murmured with the right amount of softness, "It's you who're generous."
He took her hand and bowed over it and kissed it with old-fashioned gallantry.
She was startled and tried to cover it. No one had ever done that to her before. In spite of her resolve she was moved.
"Ah Ciranoush," he said with mock gravity, "any time you need a champion, send for me." Then he grinned suddenly. "I'll probably make a bog of it but never mind."
She laughed, all tension gone now, liking him very much. "You've got yourself a deal."
Casually he put his arm around her waist and gently propelled her toward the stairs. The contact with him felt good—too good, she thought. This one's no child. Be cautious.
11:58 PM
Phillip Chen's Rolls screeched to a halt in the driveway of his house. He got out of the backseat, flushed with rage, Dianne nervously in tow. The night was dark, the lights of the city and ships and high rises blazing far below. "Bolt the gates, then you come inside too," he snapped to his equally nervous chauffeur, then hurried for the front door.
"Hurry up, Dianne," he said, irritably shoving his key into the lock.
"Phillip, what on earth's the matter with you? Why can't you tell me? Wh—"
"Shut up!" he shouted, his temper snapping, and she jerked to a halt, shocked. "Just shut up and do what you're told!" He ripped the front door open. "Get the servants here!"
"But Phi—"
"Ah Sun! Ah Tak!"
The two tousled, sleepy amahs appeared hastily out of the kitchen and gaped at him, shocked at his untoward rage. "Yes Father? Yes Mother?" they chorused in Cantonese. "What in the name of all gods ha—"
"Hold your tongues!" Phillip Chen roared, his neck red and now his face more red. "Go into that room and stay there until I tell you all to come out!" He pulled the door open. It was their dining room and the windows faced the road north. "All of you stay there until I tell you to come out and if any of you moves or looks out of the windows before I come back I'll... I'll have some friends put weights on you and get you all thrown into the harbour!"
The two amahs began wailing but everyone hurriedly obeyed him and he slammed the door shut.
"Stop it both of you!" Dianne Chen screeched at the amahs, then reached over and pinched one sharply on the cheek. This stopped the old woman's wailing and she gasped, her eyes rolling, "What's got into everyone? What's got into Father? Oh oh oh, his rage's gone to Java... oh oh oh...."
"Shut up, Ah Tak!" Dianne fanned herself, seething, beside herself with fury. What in the name of all gods has got into him? Doesn't he trust me—me, his only true wife and the love of his life? In all my life... And to rush off like that from the tai-pan's party when everything was going so fine—us the talk of Hong Kong and everyone admiring my darling Kevin, fawning on him, now surely the new heir of the House of Chen, for everyone agrees John Chen would certainly have died of shock when his ear was cut off. Anyone would! I certainly would.
She shivered, feeling her own ear being cut again and being kidnapped as in her dream this afternoon when she had awoken in a cold sweat from her nap.
"Ayeeyah," she muttered to no one in particular. "Has he gone mad?"
"Yes, Mother," her chauffeur said confidently, "I think he has. It's the result of the kidnapping. I've never seen Father like this in all my yea—"
"Who asked you?" Dianne shrieked. "It's all your fault anyway! If you'd brought my poor John home instead of leaving him to his mealy-mouthed whores this would never have happened!"
Again the two amahs began whimpering at her fury and she turned her spleen on them for a moment, adding, "And as to you two, while I think of it, the quality of service in this house's enough to give anyone loose bowels. Have you asked me if I need a physic or aspirins? Or tea? Or a cold towel?"
"Mother," one of them said placatingly, hopefully pointing at the lacquered sideboard, "I can't make tea but would you like some brandy?"
'Wat? Ah, very good. Yes, yes, Ah Tak."
At once the old woman bustled over to the sideboard and opened it, brought out some cognac that she knew her mistress liked, poured it into a glass. "Poor Mother, to have Father in such a rage! Terrible! What's possessed him and why doesn't he want us to look out of the window?"
Because he doesn't want you turtle-dung thieves to see him dig up his secret safe in the garden, Dianne was thinking. Or even me. She smiled grimly to herself, sipping the fine smooth liquor, calmer in the knowledge that she knew where the iron box was buried. It was only right that she should have protected him by secretly watching him bury it, in case, God forbid, the gods took him from this earth before he could tell her where the secret hiding place was. It had been her duty to break her promise not to watch him that night during the Japanese Occupation when he had wisely scooped up all their valuables and hidden them.
She did not know what was in the box now. She did not care. It had been opened and closed many times, all in secret, as far as he was concerned. She did not care so long as she knew where her husband was, where all his deposit boxes of various kinds were, their keys, just in case.
After all, she told herself confidently, if he dies, without me the House of Chen will crumble. "Stop snivelling, Ah Sun!" She got up and closed the long drapes. Outside the night was dark and she could see nothing of the garden, only the driveway, the tall iron gates and the road beyond.
"More drink, Mother?" the old amah asked.
"Thank you, little oily mouth," she replied affectionately, the warmth of the spirit soothing her anger away. "And then you can massage my neck. I've got a headache. You two sit down, hold your tongues and don't make a sound till Father gets back!"
Phillip Chen was hurrying down the garden path, a flashlight in one hand, a shovel in the other. The path curled downward through well-tended gardens that meandered into a grove of trees and shrubs. He stopped a moment, getting his bearings, then found the place he sought. He hesitated and glanced back, even though he knew he was well hidden from the house now. Reassured that he could not be watched he switched on the flashlight. The circle of light wandered over the undergrowth and stopped at the foot of a tree. The spot appeared to be untouched. Carefully he pushed aside the natural mulch. When he saw the earth below had been disturbed he cursed obscenely. "Oh the swine... my own son!" Collecting himself with difficulty he began to dig. The earth was soft.
Ever since he had left the party he had been trying to remember exactly when he had last dug up the box. Now he was sure it had been in the spring when he needed the deeds to a row of slum dwellings in Wanchai that he had sold for fifty times cost to Donald McBride for one of his great new developments.
"Where was John then?" he muttered. "Was he in the house?"
As he dug he tried to recall but he could not. He knew that he would never have dug up the box when it was dangerous or when there were strangers in the house and that he would always have been circumspect. But John? Never would I have thought... John must have followed me somehow.
The shovel struck the metal. Carefully he cleaned off the earth and pulled the protective cloth away from the box and heavy lock and opened it. The hinges of the lid were well greased. His fingers shaking, he held the flashlight over the open box. All his papers and deeds and private balance sheets seemed to be in order and undisturbed, but he knew they must all have been taken out and read—and copied or memorised. Some of the information in his son's safety deposit box could only have come from here.
All the jewel boxes, big and small, were there. Nervously he reached out for the one he sought and opened it. The half-coin had vanished and the document explaining about the coin had vanished.
Tears of rage seeped down his cheeks. He felt his heart pounding and smelled the damp earth and knew if his son was there he would happily have strangled him with his own hands.
"Oh my son my son... all gods curse you to hell!"
His knees were weak. Shakily he sat on a rock and tried to collect his wits. He could hear his father on his deathbed cautioning him: "Never lose the coin my son—it's our key to ultimate survival and power over the Noble House."
That was in 1937 and the first time he had learned the innermost secrets of the House of Chen: that he who became compradore became the ranking leader in Hong Kong of the Hung Mun—the great secret triad society of China that, under Sun Yat-sen, had become the 14K, originally formed to spearhead China's revolt against their hated Manchu overlords; that the compradore was the main, legitimate link between the Chinese hierarchy on the Island and the inheritors of the 14K on the Mainland; that because of Chen-tse Jin Arn, known as Jin-qua, the legendary chief merchant of the co-hong that had possessed the Emperor's monopoly on all foreign trade, the House of Chen was perpetually interlinked with the Noble House by ownership and by blood.
"Listen carefully, my son," the dying man had whispered. "The tai-pan, Great-Grandfather Dirk Struan, was Jin-qua's creation, as was the Noble House. Jin-qua nurtured it, formed it and Dirk Struan. The tai-pan had two concubines. The first was Kai-sung, one of Jin-qua's daughters by a fifth wife. Their son was Gordon Chen, my father, your grandfather. The tai-pan's second concubine was T'Chung Jin May-may, his mistress for six years whom he married in secret just before the great typhoon that killed them both. She was twenty-three then, a brilliant, favoured granddaughter of Jin-qua, sold to the tai-pan when she was seventeen to teach him civilised ways without his knowing he was being taught.
From them came Duncan and Kate who took the surname T'Chung and were brought up in my father's house. Father married off Kate to a Shanghai China Trader called Peter Gavallan—Andrew Gavallan is also a cousin though he doesn't know it.... So many stories to tell and now so little time to tell them. Never mind, all the family trees are in the safe. There are so many. We're all related, the Wu, Kwang, Sung, Kau, Kwok, Ng—all the old families. Use the knowledge carefully. Here's the key to the safe.
"Another secret, Phillip, my son. Our line comes from my father's second wife. Father married her when he was fifty-three and she sixteen. She was the daughter of John Yuan, the illegitimate son of the great American Trader Jeff Cooper, and a Eurasian lady, Isobel Yau. Isobel Yau was the oh-so-secret Eurasian daughter of Robb Struan, the tai-pan's half-brother and cofounder of the Noble House, so we have blood from both sides of the Struans. Alastair Struan is a cousin and Colin Dunross is a cousin—the MacStruans are not; their history's in Grandfather's diaries. My son, the English and Scots barbarians came to China and they never married those whom they adored and most times abandoned when they returned to the grey island of mist and rain and overcast. My God how I hate the English weather and loathe the past!
"Yes, Phillip, we're Eurasian, not of one side or the other. I've never been able to come to terms with it. It is our curse and our cross but it is up to all of us to make it a blessing. I pass our House on to you rich and strong like Jin-qua wished—do so to your son and make sure he does it to his. Jin-qua birthed us, in a way, gave us wealth, secret knowledge, continuity and power—and he gave us one of the coins. Here, Phillip, read about the coin."
The calligraphy of the ancient scroll was exquisite: "On this eighth day of the sixth month of the year 1841 by barbarian count, I, Chen-tse Jin Arn of Canton, Chief Merchant of the co-hong, have this day loaned to Green-Eyed Devil the tai-pan of the Noble House, chief pirate of all foreign devils who have made war on the Heavenly Kingdom and have stolen our island Hong Kong, forty lacs of silver... one million sterling in their specie... and have, with this bullion, saved him from being swallowed by One-Eye, his arch-enemy and rival. In return, the tai-pan grants us special trade advantages for the next twenty years, promises that one of the House of Chen will forever be compradore to the Noble House, and swears that he or his descendents will honour all debts and the debt of the coins. There are four of them. The coins are broken into halves. I have given the tai-pan four halves. Whenever one of the other halves is presented to him, or to a following tai-pan, he has sworn whatever favour is asked will be granted... whether within their law, or ours, or outside it.
"One coin I keep; one I give to the warlord Wu Fang Choi, my cousin; one will be given to my grandson Gordon Chen; and the last recipient I keep secret. Remember, he who reads this in the future, do not use the coin lightly, for the tai-pan of the Noble House must grant anything—but only once. And remember that though the Green-Eyed Devil himself will honour his promise and so will his descendents, he is still a mad-dog barbarian, cunning as a filthy Manchu because of our training, and as dangerous always as a nest of vipers."
Phillip Chen shuddered involuntarily, remembering the violence that was always ready to explode in Ian Dunross. He's a descendent of Green-Eyed Devil all right, he thought. Yes, him and his father.
Goddamn John! What possessed him? What devilment has he planned with Linc Bartlett? Has Bartlett got the coin now? Or does John still have it with him and now perhaps the kidnappers have it.
While his tired brain swept over the possibilities, his fingers checked the jewel boxes, one by one. Nothing was missing. The big one he left till last. There was a tightness in his throat as he opened it but the necklace was still there. A great sigh of relief went through him. The beauty of the emeralds in the flashlight gave him enormous pleasure and took away some of his anxiety. How stupid of Hag Struan to order them to be burned with her body. What an arrogant, awful, unholy waste that would have been! How wise of Father to intercept the coffin before the fire and remove them.
Reluctantly he put the necklace away and began to close up the safe.
What to do about the coin? I almost used it the time the tai-pan took away our bank stock—and most of our power. Yes. But I decided to give him time to prove himself and this is the third year and nothing is yet proved, and though the American deal seems grand it is not yet signed. And now the coin is gone.
He groaned aloud, distraught, his back aching like his head. Below was all the city, ships tied up at Glessing's Point and others in the roads. Kowloon was equally brilliant and he could see a jetliner taking off from Kai Tak, another turning to make a landing, another whining high overhead, its lights blinking.
What to do? he asked himself exhaustedly. Does Bartlett have the coin? Or John? Or the Werewolves?
In the wrong hands it could destroy us all.
TUESDAY
12:36 AM
Gornt said, "Of course Dunross could have buggered my brakes, Jason!"
"Oh come on, for God's sake! Climbing under your car during a party with two hundred guests around? Ian's not that stupid."
They were in Jason Plumm's penthouse above Happy Valley, the midnight air good though the humidity had increased again. Plumm got up and threw his cigar butt away, took a fresh one and lit it. The tai-pan of Asian Properties, the third largest hong, was taller than Gornt, in his late fifties, thin-faced and elegant, his smoking jacket red velvet. "Even Ian bloody Dunross's not that much of a bloody berk."
"You're wrong. For all his Scots cunning, he's an animal of sudden action, unpremeditated action, that's his failing. I think he did it."
Plumm steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "What did the police say?"
"All I told them was that my brakes had failed. There was no need to involve those nosy buggers, at least not yet. But Rolls brakes just don't go wrong by themselves for God's sake. Well, never mind. Tomorrow I'll make sure Tom Nikklin gets me an answer, an absolute answer, if there is one. Time enough for the police then."
"I agree." Plumm smiled thinly. "We don't need police to wash our various linens however droll—do we?"
"No." Both men laughed.
"You were very lucky. The Peak's no road to lose your brakes on. Must have been very unpleasant."
"For a moment it was, Jason, but then it was no problem, once I was over the initial shock." Gornt stretched the truth and sipped his whiskey and soda. They had eaten an elegant dinner on the terrace overlooking Happy Valley, the racecourse and city and sea beyond, just the two of them—Plumm's wife was in England on vacation and their children grown up and no longer in Hong Kong. Now they were sitting over cigars in great easy chairs in Plumm's book-lined study, the room luxurious though subdued, in perfect taste like the rest of the ten-room penthouse. "Tom Nikklin'll find out if my car was tampered with if anyone can," he said with finality.
"Yes." Plumm sipped a glass of iced Perrier water. "Are you going to wind up young Nikklin again about Macao?"
"Me? You must be joking!"
"No. I'm not, actually," Plumm said with his mocking well-bred chuckle. "Didn't Dunross's engine blow up during the race three years ago and he bloody nearly killed himself?"
"Racing cars are always going wrong."
"Yes, yes they do frequently, though they're not always helped by the opposition." Plumm smiled.
Gornt kept his smile but inside he was not smiling. "Meaning?"
"Nothing, dear boy. Just rumours." The older man leaned over and poured more whiskey for Gornt, then used the soda syphon. "Rumour has it that a certain Chinese mechanic, for a small fee, put... put, as we say, a small spanner in the works."
"I doubt if that'd be true."
"I doubt if it could be proved. One way or another. It's disgusting, but some people will do anything for quite a small amount of money."
"Yes. Fortunately we're in the big-money market."
"My whole point, dear boy. Now." Plumm tapped the ash off his cigar. "What's the scheme?"
"It's very simple: providing Bartlett does not actually sign a deal with Struan's in the next ten days we can pluck the Noble House like a dead duck."
"Lot's of people have thought that before and Struan's is still the Noble House."
"Yes. But at the moment, they're vulnerable."
"How?"
"The Toda Shipping notes, and the Orlin instalment."
"Not true. Struan's credit is excellent—oh, they're stretched, but no more than anyone else. They'll just increase their line of credit—or Ian will go to Richard Kwang—or Blacs."
"Say Blacs won't help—they won't—and say Richard Kwang's neutralised. That leaves only the Victoria."
"Then Dunross'll ask the bank for more credit and we'll have to give it to him. Paul Havergill will put it to a vote of the board. We all know we can't outvote the Struan's block so we'll go along with it and save face, pretending we're very happy to oblige, as usual."
"Yes. But this time I'm happy to say Richard Kwang will vote against Struan's. That will tie up the board, the credit request will be delayed—he won't be able to make his payments, so Dunross goes under."
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