"Casey, you'd better make sure you know all a man's weak points before you battle with him. I wiped the board with you to prove a point. I don't play games for pleasure—just to win. I'm not playing games with you. I want you, nothing else matters. Let's forget the deal we made and get married and..."
That was just a few months after she had started working for Linc Bartlett. She was just twenty and already in love with him. But she still wanted revenge on the other man more, and independent wealth more and to find herself more, so she had said, "No, Linc, we agreed seven years. We agreed up front, as equals. I'll help you get rich and I'll get mine on the way to your millions, and neither of us owes the other anything. You can fire me anytime for any reason, and I can leave for any reason. We're equals. I won't deny that I love you with all my heart but I still won't change our deal. But if you're still willing to ask me to marry you when I reach my twenty-seventh birthday, then I will. I'll marry you, live with you, leave you—whatever you want. But not now. Yes I love you but if we become lovers now I'll... I'll never be able to... I just can't, Linc, not now. There's too much I have to find out about myself." Casey sighed. What a twisted crazy deal it is. Has all the power and dealing and wheeling—and all the years and tears and loneliness been worth it?
I just don't know. I just don't know. And Par-Con? Can I ever reach my goal: Par-Con and Linc, or will I have to choose between them?
"Ciranoush?" came through the earpiece. "Oh! Hello, Mr. Gornt!" She felt a surge of warmth. "This is a pleasant surprise," she added, collecting her wits. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"
"Not at all. What can I do for you?"
"I wondered if you are able to confirm this Sunday yet, if you and Mr. Bartlett are available? I want to plan my boat party and I'd like the two of you as my honoured guests."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gornt, but Linc can't make it. He's all tied up."
She heard the hesitation and then the covered pleasure in his voice. "Would you care to come without him? I was thinking of having a few business friends. I'm sure you'd find it interesting."
It might be very good for Par-Con if I went, she thought. Besides, if Linc and the tai-pan are going to Taipei without me, why can't I go boating without them? "I'd love to," she said, warmth in her voice, "if you're sure I won't be in the way."
"Of course not. We'll pick you up at the wharf, just opposite the hotel, near the Golden Ferry. Ten o'clock—casual. Do you swim?"
"Sure."
"Good—the water's refreshing. Water-ski?"
"Love it!"
"Very good!"
"Can I bring anything? Food or wine or anything?"
"No. I think we'll have everything aboard. We'll go to one of the outer islands and picnic, water-ski—be back just after sunset."
"Mr. Gornt, I'd like to keep this excursion to ourselves. I'm told Confucius said, 'A closed mouth catches no flies.' "
"Confucius said many things. He once likened a lady to a moonbeam."
She hesitated, the danger signals up. But then she heard herself say lightly, "Should I bring a chaperone?"
"Perhaps you should," he said and she heard his smile.
"How about Dunross?"
"He'd hardly be a chaperone—merely the destruction of what could perhaps be a perfect day."
"I look forward to Sunday, Mr. Gornt."
"Thank you." The phone clicked off instantly.
You arrogant bastard! she almost said aloud. How much are you taking for granted? Just thank you and click and no good-bye.
I'm Linc's and not up for grabs.
Then why did you play the coquette on the phone and at the party? she asked herself. And why did you want that bastard to keep your Sunday date quiet?
Women like secrets too, she told herself grimly. Women like a lot of things men like.
8:35 PM
The coolie was in the dingy gold vaults of the Ho-Pak Bank. He was a small, old man who wore a tattered grimy undershirt and ragged shorts. As the two porters lifted the canvas sack onto his bent back, he adjusted the forehead halter and leaned against it, taking the strain with his neck muscles, his hands grasping the two worn straps. Now that he had the full weight, he felt his overtaxed heart pumping against the load, his joints shrieking for relief.
The sack weighed just over ninety pounds—almost more than his own weight. The tally clerks had just sealed it. It contained exactly 250 of the little gold smuggler bars, each of five taels—a little over six ounces—just one of which would have kept him and his family secure for months. But the old man had no thought of trying to steal even one of them. All of his being was concentrated on how to dominate the agony, how to keep his feet moving, how to do his share of the work, to get his pay at the end of his shift, and then to rest.
"Hurry up," the foreman said sourly, "we've still more than twenty fornicating tons to load. Next!"
The old man did not reply. To do so would take more of his precious energy. He had to guard his strength zealously tonight if he was to finish. With an effort he set his feet into motion, his calves knotted and varicosed and scarred from so many years of labour.
Another coolie took his place as he shuffled slowly out of the dank concrete room, the shelves ladened with a seemingly never-ending supply of meticulous stacks of little gold bars that waited under the watchful eyes of the two neat bank clerks—-waited to be loaded into the next canvas sack, to be counted and recounted, then sealed with a flourish.
On the narrow stairway the old man faltered. He regained his balance with difficulty, then lifted a foot to climb another step—only twenty-eight more now—and then another and he had just made the landing when his calves gave out. He tottered against the wall, leaning against it to ease the weight, his heart grinding, both hands grasping the straps, knowing he could never resettle the load if he stepped out of the harness, terrified lest the foreman or a subfore-man would pass by. Through the spectrum of pain he heard footsteps coming toward him and he fought the sack higher onto his back and into motion once more. He almost toppled over.
"Hey, Nine Carat Chu, are you all right?" the other coolie asked in Shantung dialect, steadying the sack for him.
"Yes... yes..." He gasped with relief, thankful it was his friend from his village far to the north and the leader of his gang of ten. "Fornicate all gods, I... I just slipped...."
The other man peered at him in the coarse light from the single bare light overhead. He saw the tortured, rheumy old eyes and the stretched muscles. "I'll take this one, you rest a moment," he said. Skillfully he eased off the weight and swung the sack to the floorboards. "I'll tell that motherless foreigner who thinks he's got brains enough to be a foreman that. you've gone to relieve yourself." He reached into his ragged, torn pants pocket and handed the old man one of his small, screwed-up pieces of cigarette foil. "Take it. I'll deduct it from your pay tonight."
The old man mumbled his thanks. He was all pain now, barely thinking. The other man swung the sack onto his back, grunting with the effort, leaned against the head band, then, his calves knotted, slowly went back up the stairs, pleased with the deal he had made.
The old man slunk off the landing into a dusty alcove and squatted down. His fingers trembled as he smoothed out the cigarette foil with its pinch of white powder. He lit a match'and held it carefully under the foil to heat it. The powder began to blacken and smoke. Carefully he held the smoking powder under his nostrils and inhaled deeply, again and again, until every grain had vanished into the smoke that he pulled oh so gratefully into his lungs.
He leaned back against the wall. Soon the pain vanished and left euphoria. It was all-pervading. He felt young again and strong again and now he knew that he would finish his shift perfectly and this Saturday, when he went to the races, he would win the double quinella. Yes, this would be his lucky week and he would put most of his winnings down on a piece of property, yes, a small piece of property at first but with the boom my property will go up and up and up and then I'll sell that piece and make a fortune and buy more and more and then I'll be an ancestor, my grandchildren flocking around my knees...
He got up and stood tall then went back down the stairs again and stood in line, waiting his turn impatiently. "Dew neh loh moh hurry up," he said in his lilting Shantung dialect, "I haven't all night! I've another job at midnight."
The other job was on a construction site in Central, not far from the Ho-Pak and he knew he was blessed to have two bonus jobs in one night on top of his regular day job as a construction labourer. He knew, too, that it was the expensive white powder that had transformed him and taken his fatigue and pain away. Of course, he knew the white powder was dangerous. But he was sensible and cautious and only took it when he was at the limit of strength. That he took it most days now, twice a day most days now, did not worry him. Joss, he told himself with a shrug, taking the new canvas sack on his back.
Once he had been a farmer and the eldest son of landowning farmers in the northern province of Shantung, in the fertile, shifting delta of the Yellow River where, for centuries, they had grown fruit and grain and soybeans, peanuts, tobacco and all the vegetables they could eat.
Ah, our lovely fields, he thought happily, climbing the stairs now, oblivious of his pounding heart, our lovely fields rich with growing crops. So beautiful! Yes. But then the Bad Times began thirty years ago. The Devils from the Eastern Sea came with their guns and their tanks and raped our earth, and then, after warlord Mao Tse-tung and warlord Chiang Kai-shek beat them off, they fought among themselves and again the land was laid waste. So we fled the famine, me and my young wife and my two sons and came to this place, Fragrant Harbour, to live among strangers, southern barbarians and foreign devils. We walked all the way. We survived. I carried my sons most of the way and now my sons are sixteen and fourteen and we have two daughters and they all eat rice once a day and this year will be my lucky year. Yes. I'll win the quinella or the daily double and one day we'll go home to my village and I'll take our lands back and plant them again and Chairman Mao will welcome us home and let us take our lands back and we'll live so happily, so rich and so happy....
He was out of the building now, in the night, standing beside the truck. Other hands lifted the sack and stacked it with all the other sacks of gold, more clerks checking and rechecking the numbers. There were two trucks in the side street. One was already filled and waiting under its guards. A single unarmed policeman was watching idly as the traffic passed. The night was warm.
The old man turned to go. Then he noticed the three Europeans, two men and a woman, approaching. They stopped near the far truck, watching him. His mouth dropped open.
"Dew neh loh moh! Look at that whore—the monster with the straw hair," he said to no one in particular.
"Unbelievable!" another replied.
"Yes," he said.
"It's revolting the way their whores dress in public, isn't it?" a wizened old loader said disgustedly. "Flaunting their loins with those tight trousers. You can see every fornicating wrinkle in her lower lips."
"I'll bet you could put your whole fist and whole arm in it and never reach bottom!" another said with a laugh.
"Who'd want to?" Nine Carat Chu asked and hawked loudly and spat and let his mind drift pleasantly to Saturday as he went below again. "I wish they wouldn't spit like that. It's disgusting!" Casey said queasily.
"It's an old Chinese custom," Dunross said. "They believe there's an evil god-spirit in your throat which you've got to get rid of constantly or it will choke you. Of course spitting's against the law but that's meaningless to them."
"What'd that old man say?" Casey asked, watching him plod back into the side door of the bank, now over her anger and very glad to be going to dinner with them both.
"I don't know—I didn't understand his dialect."
"I'll bet it wasn't a compliment."
Dunross laughed. "You'd win that one, Casey. They don't think much of us at all."
"That old man must be eighty if he's a day and he's carried his load as though it was a feather. How'd they stay so fit?"
Dunross shrugged and said nothing. He knew.
Another coolie heaved his burden into the truck, stared at her, hawked, spat and plodded away again. "Up yours too," Casey muttered and then parodied an awful hawk and a twenty-foot spit and they laughed with her. The Chinese just stared.
"Ian, what's this all about? What're we here for?" Bartlett asked.
"I thought you might like to see fifty tons of gold."
Casey gasped. "Those sacks're filled with gold?"
"Yes. Come along." Dunross led the way down the dingy stairs into the gold vault. The bank officials greeted him politely and the unarmed guards and loaders stared. Both Americans felt disquieted under the stares. But their disquiet was swamped by the gold. Neat stacks of gold bars on the steel shelves that surrounded them—ten to a layer, each stack ten layers high.
"Can I pick one up?" Casey asked.
"Help yourself," Dunross told them, watching them, trying to test the extent of their greed. I'm gambling for high stakes, he thought again. I have to know the measure of these two.
Casey had never touched so much gold in her life. Nor had Bartlett. Their fingers trembled. She caressed one of the little bars, her eyes wide, before she lifted it. "It's so heavy for its size," she muttered.
"These're called smuggler bars because they're easy to hide and to transport," Dunross said, choosing his words deliberately. "Smugglers wear a sort of canvas waistcoat with little pockets in it that hold the bars snugly. They say a good courier can carry as much as eighty pounds a trip—that's almost 1,300 ounces. Of course they have to be fit and well trained."
Bartlett was hefting two in each hand, fascinated by them. "How many make up eighty pounds?"
"About two hundred, give or take a little."
Casey looked at him, her hazel eyes bigger than usual. "Are these yours, tai-pan?"
"Good God, no! They belong to a Macao company. They're shifting it from here to the Victoria Bank. Americans or English aren't allowed by law to own even one of these. But I thought you might be interested because it's not often you see fifty tons all in one place."
"I never realised what real money was like before," Casey said. "Now I can understand why my dad's and uncle's eyes used to light up when they talked about gold."
Dunross was watching her. He could see no greed in her. Just wonder. "Do banks make many shipments like this?" Bartlett asked, his voice throaty.
"Yes, all the time," Dunross said and he wondered if Bartlett had taken the bait and was considering a Mafioso-style hijack with his friend Banastasio. "We've a very large shipment coming in in about three weeks," he said, increasing the lure.
"What's fifty tons worth?" Bartlett asked.
Dunross smiled to himself remembering Zeppelin Tung with his exactitude of figures. As if it mattered! "63 million dollars legally, give or take a few thousand."
"And you're moving it just with a bunch of old men, two trucks that're not even armoured and no guards?"
"Of course. That's no problem in Hong Kong, which's one of the reasons our police are so sensitive about guns here. If they've the only guns in the Colony, well, what can the crooks and nasties do except curse?"
"But where're the police? I didn't see but one and he wasn't armed."
"Oh, they're around, I suppose," Dunross said, deliberately underplaying it.
Casey peered at the gold bar, enjoying the touch of the metal. "It feels so cool and so permanent. Tai-pan, if it's 63 million legal, what's it worth on the black market?"
Dunross noticed tiny beads of perspiration now on her upper lip. "However much someone's prepared to pay. At the moment, I hear the best market's India. They'd pay about $80 to $90 an ounce, U.S., delivered into India."
Bartlett smiled crookedly and reluctantly put his four bars back onto their pile. "That's a lot of profit."
They watched in silence as another canvas bag was sealed, the bars checked and rechecked by both clerks. Again the two loaders lifted the sack onto a bent back and the man plodded out.
"What're those?" Casey asked, pointing to some much bigger bars that were in another part of the vault.
"They're the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars," Dunross said. "They weigh around twenty-five pounds apiece." The bar was stamped with a hammer and sickle and 99,999. "This's Russian. It's 99.99 percent pure. South African gold is usually 99.98 percent pure so the Russian's sought after. Of course both're easy to buy in the London gold market." He let them look awhile longer, then said, "Shall we go now?"
On the street there was still only one policeman and the sloppy, unarmed bank guards, the two truck drivers smoking in their cabins. Traffic eased past from time to time. A few pedestrians.
Dunross was glad to get out of the close confinement of the vault. He had hated cellars and dungeons ever since his father had locked him in a cupboard when he was very small, for a crime he could not now remember. But he remembered old Ah Tat, his amah, rescuing him and standing up for him—him staring up at his father, trying to hold back the terror tears that would not be held back.
"It's good to be out in the air again," Casey said. She used a tissue. Inexorably her eyes were dragged to the sacks in the nearly full truck. "That's real money," she muttered, almost to herself. A small shudder wracked her and Dunross knew at once that he had found her jugular.
"I could use a bottle of beer," Bartlett said. "So much money makes me thirsty."
"I could use a Scotch and soda!" she said, and the spell was broken.
"We'll stroll over to the Victoria and see the delivery begin, then we'll eat—" Dunross stopped. He saw the two men chatting near the trucks, partially in shadow. He stiffened slightly.
The two men saw him. Martin Haply of the China Guardian and Peter Marlowe.
"Oh, hello, tai-pan," young Martin Haply said, coming up to him with his confident grin. "I didn't expect to see you here. Evening, Miss Casey, Mr. Bartlett. Tai-pan, would you care to comment on the Ho-Pak matter?"
"What Ho-Pak matter?"
"The run on the bank, sir."
"I didn't know there was one."
"Did you happen to read my column about the various branches and the rumo—"
"My dear Haply," Dunross said with his easy charm, "you know I don't seek interviews or give them lightly... and never on street corners."
"Yes sir." Haply nodded at the sacks. "Transferring all this gold out's kinda rough for the Ho-Pak, isn't it? That'll put the kiss of death on the bank when all this leaks."
Dunross sighed. "Forget the Ho-Pak, Mr. Haply. Can I have a word in private?" He took the young man's elbow and guided him away with velvet firmness. When they were alone, half covered by one of the trucks, he let go of the arm. His voice dropped. Involuntarily, Haply flinched and moved back half a pace. "Since you are going out with my daughter, I just want you to know that I'm very fond of her and among gentlemen there are certain rules. I'm presuming you're a gentleman. If you're not, God help you. You'll answer to me personally, immediately and without mercy." Dunross turned and went back to the others, full of sudden bonhomie. "Evening, Marlowe, how're things?"
"Fine, thank you, tai-pan." The tall man nodded at the trucks. "Astonishing, all this wealth!"
"Where did you hear about the transfer?"
"A journalist friend mentioned it about an hour ago. He said that some fifty tons of gold were being moved from here to the Victoria. I thought it'd be interesting to see how it was done. Hope it's not... hope I'm not treading on any corns."
"Not at all." Dunross turned to Casey and Bartlett. "There, you see, I told you Hong Kong was just like a village—you can never keep any secrets here for long. But all this"—he waved at the sacks—"this is all lead—fool's gold. The real shipment was completed an hour ago. It wasn't fifty tons, only a few thousand ounces. The majority of the Ho-Pak's bullion's still intact." He smiled at Haply who was not smiling but listening, his face set.
"This's all fake after all?" Casey gasped.
Peter Marlowe laughed. "I must confess I did think this whole operation was a bit haphazard!"
"Well, good night you two," Dunross said breezily to Marlowe and Martin Haply. He took Casey's arm momentarily. "Come on, it's time for dinner." They started down the street, Bartlett beside them.
"But tai-pan, the ones we saw," Casey said, "the one I picked up, that was fake? I'd've bet my life, wouldn't you have, Linc?"
"Yes," Bartlett agreed. "But the diversion was wise. That's what I'd've done."
They turned the comer, heading along toward the huge Victoria Bank building, the air warm and sticky.
Casey laughed nervously. "That golden metal was getting to me—and it was fake all the time!"
"Actually it was all real," Dunross said quietly and she stopped.
"Sorry to confuse you, Casey. I only said that for Haply and Marlowe's benefit, to pour suspicion on their source. They could hardly prove it one way or another. I was asked to make the arrangements for the transfer little more than an hour ago—which I did, obviously, with great caution." His heart quickened. He wondered how many other people knew about the AMG papers and the vault and the box number in the vault.
Bartlett watched him. "I bought what you said, so I guess they did," he said, but he was thinking, Why did you bring us to see the gold? That's what I'd like to know.
"It's curious, tai-pan," Casey said with a little nervous laugh. "I knew, I just knew the gold was real to begin with. Then I believed you when you said it was fake, and now I believe you back again. Is it that easy to fake?"
"Yes and no. You only know for certain if you put acid on it—you've got to put it to the acid test. That's the only real test for gold. Isn't it?" he added to Bartlett and saw the half-smile and he wondered if the American understood.
"Guess that's right, Ian. For gold—or for people."
Dunross smiled back. Good, he thought grimly, we understand each other perfectly.
It was quite late now. Golden Ferries had stopped running and Casey and Linc Bartlett were in a small private hire-launch chugging across the harbour, the night grand, a good sea smell on the wind, the sea calm. They were sitting on one of the thwarts facing Hong Kong, arm in arm. Dinner had been the best they had ever eaten, the conversation filled with lots of laughter, Dunross charming. They'd ended with cognac atop the Hilton. Both were feeling marvellously at peace with the world and with themselves.
Casey felt the light pressure of his arm and she leaned against him slightly. "It's romantic, isn't it, Linc? Look at the Peak, and all the lights. Unbelievable. It's the most beautiful and exciting place I've ever been."
"Better than the south of France?"
"That was_ so different." They had had a holiday on the Cote d'Azur two "years ago. It was the first time they had holidayed together. And the last. It had been too much of a strain on both of them to stay apart. "lan's fantastic, isn't he?"
"Yes. And so are you."
"Thank you, kind sir, and so are you." They laughed, happy together.
At the wharf, Kowloon side, Linc paid the boat off and they strolled to the hotel, arm in arm. A few waiters were still on duty in the lobby.
"Evening, sir, evening, missee," the old elevator man said sibilantly, and, on their floor, Nighttime Chang scurried ahead of them to open the door of the suite. Automatically Linc gave him a dollar and they were bowed in. Nighttime Chang closed the door.
She bolted it.
"Drink?" he asked.
"No thanks. It'd spoil that brandy."
She saw him looking at her. They were standing in the centre of the living room, the huge picture window displaying all of Hong Kong behind him, his bedroom to the right, hers to the left. She could feel the vein in her neck pulsing, her loins seemed liquid and he looked so handsome to her.
"Well, it's... thanks for a lovely evening, Linc. I'll... I'll see you tomorrow," she said. But she did not move.
"It's three months to your birthday, Casey."
"Thirteen weeks and six days."
"Why don't we finesse them and get married now. Tomorrow?"
"You've... you've been so wonderful to me, Linc, so good to be patient and put up with my... my craziness." She smiled at him. It was a tentative smile. "It's not long now. Let's do it as we agreed. Please?"
He stood there and watched her, wanting her. Then he said, "Sure." At his door he stopped. "Casey, you're right about this place. It is romantic and exciting. It's got to me too. Maybe, maybe you'd better get another room."
His door closed.
That night she cried herself to sleep.
WEDNESDAY
5:45 AM
The two racehorses came out of the turn into the final stretch going very fast. It was false dawn, the sky still dark to the west, and the Happy Valley Racecourse was spotted with people at the morning workout.
Dunross was up on Buccaneer, the big bay gelding, and he was neck and neck with Noble Star, ridden by his chief jockey, Tom Leung. Noble Star was on the rails and both horses were going well with plenty in reserve. Then Dunross saw the winning post ahead and he had that sudden urge to jam in his heels and best the other horse. The other jockey sensed the challenge and looked across at him. But both riders knew they were there just to exercise and not to race, there to confuse the opposition, so Dunross bottled his almost blinding desire.
Both horses had their ears down now. Their flanks were wet with sweat. Both felt the bit in between their teeth. And now, well into the stretch, they pounded toward the winning post excitedly, the inner training sand track not as fast as the encircling grass, making them work harder. Both riders stood high in the stirrups, leaning forward, reins tight.
Noble Star was carrying less weight. She began to pull away. Dunross automatically used his heels and cursed Buccaneer. The pace quickened. The gap began to close. His exhilaration soared. This gallop was barely half a lap so he thought he would be safe. No opposing trainer could get an accurate timing on them so he kicked harder and the race was on. Both horses knew. Their strides lengthened. Noble Star had her nose ahead and then, feeling Buccaneer coming up fast, she took the bit, laid to and charged forward on her own account and drew away and beat Dunross by half a length.
Now the riders slackened speed and, standing easily, continued around the lovely course—a patch of green surrounded by massed buildings and tiers of high rises that dotted the mountainsides. When Dunross had cantered up the final stretch again, he broke off the exercising, reined in beside where the winner's circle would normally be and dismounted. He slapped the filly affectionately on the neck, threw the reins to a stable hand. The man swung into the saddle and continued her exercise.
Dunross eased his shoulders, his heart beating nicely, the taste of blood in his mouth. He felt very good, his stretched muscles aching pleasantly. He had ridden all of his life. Horse racing was still officially all amateur in Hong Kong. When he was young he had raced two seasons and he would have continued, but he had been warned off the course by his father, then tai-pan and chief steward, and again by Alastair Struan when he took over both jobs, and ordered to quit racing on pain of instant dismissal. So he had stopped racing though he continued to exercise the Struan stable at his whim. And he raced in the dawn when the mood was on him. It was the getting up when most of the world slept, to gallop in half light—the exercise and excitement, the speed, and the danger that cleared his head.
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