The wine came but he hardly tasted it. His whole being was concentrated, sifting, preparing.
Gornt saw the tall American come through the crowds and, for a moment, he envied him his lean, trim figure and the easy, careless dress—jeans, open-neck shirt, sports coat—and his obvious confidence. He saw the elaborate camera, smiled sardonically, then looked for Casey. When it was obvious Bartlett was alone he was disappointed. But this disappointment did not touch the glorious anticipation that had possessed him ever since he had put the phone down.
Gornt leaned over and opened the side door. "Welcome Hong Kong side, Mr. Bartlett," he said with forced joviality, starting the engine. He drove off along Gloucester Road toward Glessing's Point and the Yacht Club. "Your inside information's astonishing."
"Without spies you can't operate, can you?"
"You can, but then that's amateur. How's Miss Casey? I thought she'd be with you."
"She's not in this. Not yet."
"Oh?"
"No. No, she's not in on the initial attack. She's more valuable if she knows nothing."
"She knows nothing of this? Not even your call to me?"
"No. Nothing at all."
After a pause he said, "I thought she was your executive VP... your right arm you called her."
"She is, but I'm boss of Par-Con, Mr. Gornt."
Gornt saw the level eyes and, for the first time, felt that that was true and that his original estimation was wrong. "I've never doubted it," he said, waiting, his senses honed, waiting him out.
Then Bartlett said, "Is there somewhere we can park—I've got something I want to show you."
"Certainly." Gornt was driving along the sea front on Gloucester Road in the usual heavy traffic. In a moment he found a parking place near Causeway Bay typhoon shelter with its massed, floating islands of boats of all sizes.
"Here." Bartlett handed him a typed folder. It was a detailed copy of Struan's balance sheet for the year before the company went public. Gornt's eyes raced over the figures. "Christ," he muttered. "So Lasting Cloud's cost them 12 million?"
"It almost broke them. Seems they had all sorts of wild-assed cargo aboard. Jet engines for China, uninsured."
"Of course they'd be uninsured—how the hell can you insure contraband?" Gornt was trying to take in all the complicated figures. His mind was dazed. "If I'd known half of this I'd've got them the last time. Can I keep it?"
"When we've made a deal I'll give you a copy." Bartlett took the folder back and gave him a paper. "Try this one on for size." It showed, graphically, Struan's stockholdings in Kowloon Investments and detailed how, through nominee companies, the tai-pan of Struan's exercised complete control over the huge insurance-property-wharfing company that was supposedly a completely separate company and quoted as such on the stock exchange.
"Marvellous," Gornt said with a sigh, awed by the beauty of it. "Struan's have only a tiny proportion of the stock publicly held but retain 100 percent control, and perpetual secrecy."
"In the States whoever figured this out'd be in jail."
"Thank God Hong Kong laws aren't the same, and that this's all perfectly legal, if a trifle devious." The two men laughed.
Bartlett pocketed the paper. "I've got similar details of the rest of their holdings."
"Bluntly, what have you in mind, Mr. Bartlett?"
"A joint attack on Struan's, starting today. A blitzkrieg. We go 50-50 on all spoils. You get the Great House on the Peak, the prestige, his yacht—and 100 percent of the box at the Turf Club including his stewardship."
Gornt glanced at him keenly. Bartlett smiled. "We know that's kind of special to you. But everything else right down the middle."
"Except their Kai Tak operations. I need that for my airline."
"All right. But then I want Kowloon Investments."
"No," Gornt said, immediately on guard. "We should split that 50-50, and everything 50-50."
"No. You need Kai Tak, I need Kowloon Investments. It'll be a great nucleus for Par-Con's jump into Asia."
"Why?"
"Because all great fortunes in Hong Kong are based on property. K. I. will give me a perfect base."
"For further raids?"
"Sure," Bartlett said easily. "Your friend Jason Plumm's next on the list. We could swallow his Asian Properties easy.50-50. Right?"
Gornt said nothing for a long time. "And after him?"
"Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms."
Again Gornt's heart leapt. He had always hated Dunstan Barre and that hatred was tripled last year when Barre had been given a knighthood in the Queen's Birthday Honours List—an honour manoeuvred, Gornt was sure, with judicious contributions to the Conservative Party fund. "And how would you swallow him?"
"There's always a time when any army, any country, any company's vulnerable. Every general or company president has to take chances, sometime, to stay ahead. You've got to, to stay ahead. There's always some enemy snapping at your heels, wanting yours, wanting your place in the sun, wanting your territory. You've got to be careful when you're vulnerable."
"Are you vulnerable now?"
"No. I was two years ago but not now. Now I've the muscle I need—we need. If you're in."
A flock of seabirds were dipping and weaving and cawing overhead. "What do you want me to do?"
"You're the pathfinder, the spearhead. I defend the rear. Once you've punched a hole through his defence, I'll deliver the knockout. We sell Struan's short—I guess you've already taken a position on the Ho-Pak?"
"I've sold short, yes. Modestly." Gornt told the lie easily.
"Good. In the States you could get their own accountants to leak the cash flow facts to the right big mouth. That'd soon be all over town. Could the same ploy work here?"
"Probably. But you'd never get their accountants to do that."
"Not for the right fee?"
"No. But rumours could be started." Gornt smiled grimly. "It's very bad of Dunross to hide his inept position from his shareholders. Yes. That's possible. And then?"
"You sell Struan's short, as soon as the market opens. Big."
Gornt lit a cigarette. "I sell short, and what do you do?"
"Nothing openly. That's our ace in the hole."
"Perhaps it really is, and I'm being set up," Gornt said.
"What if I cover all losses? Would that be proof enough I'm with you?"
"What?"
"I pay all losses and take half the profit for today, tomorrow and Friday. If we haven't got him on the run by Friday afternoon you buy back in, just before closing, and we've failed. If it looks like we've got him, we sell heavily, to the limit, just before closing. That'll sweat him out over the weekend. Monday I jerk the rug and our blitzkrieg's on. It's infallible."
"Yes. If you're to be trusted."
"I'll put $2 million in any Swiss bank you name by ten o'clock today. That's 10 million HK which sure as hell's enough to cover any shorting losses you might have. $2 million with no strings, no paper, no promissory note, just your word it's to cover any losses, that if we win we split profits and the rest of the deal as it's been laid out—50-50 except Kowloon Investments for me, Struan's at Kai Tak Airport for you, and for Casey and me, voting membership at the Turf Club. We'll put it to paper Tuesday—after he's crashed."
"You'll put up 2 million U.S., and it's my decision as to when I buy to cover any losses?" Gornt was incredulous.
"Yes.2 million's the extent of my gamble. So how can you get hurt? You can't. And because he knows how you feel about him, if you mount the attack he won't be suspicious, won't be prepared for a flanking blitz from me."
"This all depends on whether your figures are correct—the amounts and the dates."
"Check them out. There must be a way you can do that—enough to convince yourself."
"Why the sudden change, Mr. Bartlett? You said you'd wait till Tuesday—perhaps later."
"We've done some checking and I don't like the figures I've come up with. We owe Dunross nothing. We'd be crazy to go with him when he's so weak. As it is, what I'm offering you is a great gamble, great odds: the Noble House against 2 lousy million. If we win that'd be parlayed into hundreds of millions."
"And if we fail?"
Bartlett shrugged. "Maybe I'll go home. Maybe we'll work out a Rothwell-Gornt-Par-Con deal. You win sometimes and you lose a lot more times. But this raid's too good not to try it. Without you it'd never work. I've seen enough of Hong Kong to know it has its own special rules. I've no time to learn them. Why should I—when I've got you."
"Or Dunross?"
Bartlett laughed and Gornt read no guile in him. "You're not stretche'd, you're not vulnerable, he is—that's his bad luck. What d'you say? Is the raid on?"
"I'd say you're very persuasive. Who gave you the information—and the document?"
"Tuesday I'll tell you. When Struan's have crashed."
"Ah, there's a payoff to Mister X?"
"There's always a payoff. It'll come off the top, but no more than 5 percent—any more comes out of my share."
"Two o'clock Friday, Mr. Bartlett? That's when I decide to buy back in and perhaps lose your 2 million—or we confer and continue the surge?"
"Friday at two."
"If we continue over the weekend you'll cover any further risk with further funds?"
"No. You won't need any more.2 million's tops. By Friday afternoon either his stock will be way down and we'll have him running scared, or not. This's no long-term, well-organised raid. It's a once, er, a onetime attempt to fool's mate an opponent." Bartlett grinned happily. "I risk 2 lousy million for a game that will go down in history books. In less than a week we knock off the Noble House of Asia!"
Gornt nodded, torn. How far can I trust you, Mr. Bloody Raider, you with the key to Devil Dunross? He glanced out of the window and watched a child skulling a boat among the junks, the sea as safe and familiar to her as dry land. "I'll think about what you said."
"How long?"
"Till eleven."
"Sorry, this's a raid, not a business deal. It's now—or not at all!"
"Why?"
"There's a lot to do, Mr. Gornt. I want this settled now or not at all."
Gornt glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time. A call to the right Chinese newspaper and whatever he told them would be on the stands in an hour. He smiled grimly to himself. His own ace in the hole was Havergill. Everything dovetailed perfectly.
A seabird cawed and flew inland, riding some thermals toward the Peak. He watched it. Then his eyes noticed the Great House on the crest, white against the green of the slopes.
"It's a deal," he said and stuck out his hand.
Bartlett shook. "Great. This is strictly between us?"
"Yes."
"Where d'you want the 2 million?"
"The Bank of Switzerland and Zurich, in Zurich, account number 181819." Gornt reached into his pocket, noticing his fingers were trembling. "I'll write it down for you."
"No need. The account's in your name?"
"Good God, no! Canberra Limited."
"Canberra Limited's 2 million richer! And in three days with any luck, you'll be tai-pan of the Noble House. How about that!" Bartlett opened the door and got out. "See you."
"Wait," Gornt said, startled, "I'll drop you wh—"
"No thanks. I've got to get to a phone. Then at 9:15 I've an interview with your friend Orlanda, Miss Ramos—thought there was no harm in it. After that maybe I'll take a few pictures." He waved cheerily and walked off.
Gornt wiped the sweat off his hands. Before leaving the club he had phoned Orlanda to phone Bartlett and make the date. That's very good, he thought, still in shock. She'll keep an eye on him once they're lovers, and they will be, Casey or not. Orlanda has too much to gain.
He watched Bartlett, envying him. In a few moments the American had vanished into the crowds of Wanchai.
Suddenly he was very tired. It's all too pat, too fine, too easy, he told himself. And yet... and yet! Shakily he lit a cigarette. Where did Bartlett get those papers?
Inexorably his eyes went back to the Great House on the Peak. He was possessed by it and by a hatred so vast that it swept his mind back to his ancestors, to Sir Morgan Brock whom the Struans broke, to Gorth Brock whom Dirk Struan murdered, to Tyler Brock whom his daughter betrayed. Without wishing it, he renewed the oath of vengeance that he had sworn to his father, that his father had sworn to his—back to Sir Morgan Brock who, penniless, destroyed by his sister, Hag Struan, paralysed, a shell of a man, had begged for vengeance on behalf of all the Brock ghosts on the Noble House and all the descendents of the most evil man who had ever lived.
Oh gods give me strength, Quillan Gornt prayed. Let the American be telling the truth. I will have vengeance.
10:50 AM
The sun bore down on Aberdeen through a slight overcast. The air was sultry, ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit with ninety percent humidity. It was low tide. The smell of rotting kelp and offal and exposed mudflats added to the oppressive weight of the day.
There were five hundred or more sullen impatient people jamming against one another, trying to surge through the bottleneck of barriers ahead that the police had erected outside this branch of Ho-Pak. The barriers allowed only one person through at a time. Men and women of all ages, some with infants, were constantly jostling each other, no one waiting a turn, everyone trying to inch forward to get to the head of the line.
"Look at the bloody fools," Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth said. "If they'd stretch out and not crowd they'd all get through quicker, and we could leave one copper here to keep order and the rest of us could go to lunch instead of getting the riot squad ready. Do it!"
"Yes sir," Divisional Sergeant Mok said politely. Ayeeyah, he was thinking as he walked over to the squad car, the poor fool still doesn't understand that we Chinese are not stupid foreign devils—or devils from the Eastern Sea—who'll line up patiently for hours. Oh no, we civilised persons understand life and it's every man for himself. He clicked on the police transmitter. "Divisional Sergeant Mok! The chief inspector wants a riot squad here on the double. Park just behind the fish market but keep in contact!"
"Yes sir."
Mok sighed and lit a cigarette. More barriers had been erected across the street, outside Blacs and the Victoria Aberdeen branches, and more at the Ching Prosperity Bank around the corner. His khaki uniform was ironed sharp on the creases and there were big sweat rings under his arms. He was very concerned. This crowd was very dangerous and he did not want a repetition of yesterday. If the bank shut its doors before three he was sure the crowd would tear the place apart. He knew that if he still had any money in there, he would be the first to tear the door open to get his money. Ayeeyah, he thought, very thankful for the Snake's authority that had unlocked all their money this morning to the last penny.
"Piss on all banks!" Mok muttered to no one. "All gods, let the Ho-Pak pay all customers today! Let it fail tomorrow! Tomorrow's my day off so let it fail tomorrow." He stubbed out his cigarette.
"Sergeant Major?"
"Yes?"
"Look over there!" the eager young plainclothes detective said, hurrying up to him. He wore spectacles and was in his early twenties. "By the Victoria Bank. The old woman. The old amah. "
"Where? Oh yes, I see her." Mok watched her for a while but detected nothing untoward. Then he saw her scuttle through the crowd and whisper to a young tough, wearing jeans, who was leaning against a railing. She pointed to an old man who had just come out of the bank. At once the young tough sauntered after him and the old amah squeezed and squirmed and cursed her way back to the head of the barrier where she could see those who entered and those who came out.
"That's the third time, sir," the young detective said. "The old amah points out someone who's just come out of the bank to the tough, then off he goes. In a few minutes he comes back again. That's the third time. I'm sure I saw him slip her something once. I think it was money."
"Good! Very good, Spectacles Wu. It's bound to be a triad shakedown. The old hag's probably his mother. You follow the young bastard and I'll intercept him the other way. Keep out of sight!"
Divisional Sergeant Mok slipped around the corner, down a busy alley lined with stalls and street hawkers and open shops, moving carefully through the crowds. He turned into another alley just in time to catch a glimpse of some money being passed over by the old man. He waited until Wu had blocked the other end of the alley, then he walked ponderously forward.
"What's going on here?"
"What? Eh? Nothing, nothing at all," the old man said nervously, sweat running down his face. "What's the matter? I've done nothing!"
"Why did you give this young man money, heya? I saw you give him money!" The young thug stared back at Mok insolently, unafraid, knowing he was Smallpox Kin, one of the Werewolves who had all Hong Kong petrified. "Is he accosting you? Trying to squeeze you? He looks like a triad!"
"Oh! I... I... I owed him 500 dollars. I've just got it out of the bank and I paid him." The old man was clearly terrified but he blustered on, "He's my cousin." A crowd began to collect. Someone hawked and spat.
"Why're you sweating so much?"
"All gods fornicate all pigs! It's hot! Everyone's sweating. Everyone!"
"That's fornicating right," someone called out.
Mok turned his attention on the youth who waited truculently. "What's your name?"
"Sixth Son Wong!"
"Liar! Turn out your pockets!"
"Me, I've done nothing! I know the law. You can't search people without a warran—"
Mok's iron fist snapped out and twisted the youth's arm and he squealed. The crowd laughed. They fell silent as Spectacles Wu came out of nowhere to search him. Mok held Smallpox Kin in a vise. Another uneasy undercurrent swept through the onlookers as they saw the rolls of money, and change. "Where'd you get all this?" Mok snarled.
"It's mine. I'm... I'm a moneylender and I'm collecting forn—"
"Where's your place of business?"
"It's... it's in Third Alley, off Aberdeen Road."
"Come on, we'll go and look."
Mok released the young man who, unafraid, still stared back angrily. "First give me my money!" He turned to the crowd and appealed to them. "You saw him take it! I'm an honest moneylender! These're servants of the foreign devils and you all know them! Foreign devil law forbids honest citizens being searched!"
"Give him back his fornicating money!" someone shouted.
"If he's a moneylender..."
The crowd began to argue back and forth and then Smallpox Kin saw a small opening in the crowd and he darted for it. The crowd let him pass and he fled up the alley, vanishing into the traffic, but when Spectacles Wu charged in pursuit they closed up and jostled him and became a little uglier. Mok called him back. In the momentary melee the old man had disappeared. Wearily Mok said, "Let the motherless turd go! He was just a triad—another triad turd who preys on law-abiding people."
"What1 re you going to do with his fornicating money?" someone called out from the back of the crowd.
"I'm going to give it to an old woman's rest home," Mok shouted back equally rudely. "Go defecate in your grandmother's ear!"
Someone laughed and the crowd began to break up and then they all went about their business. In a moment Mok and Spectacles Wu were standing like stones in a river, the passersby eddying around them. Once back on the main street, Mok wiped his brow. "Dew neh loh moh!"
"Yes. Why're they like that, Sergeant Major?" the young detective asked. "We're only trying to help them. Why didn't the old man just admit that triad bastard was squeezing him?"
"You don't learn about mobs of people in schoolbooks," Mok said kindly, knowing the anxiety of the youth to succeed. Spectacles Wu was new, one of the recent university graduates to join the force. He was not one of Mok's private unit. "Be patient. Neither of them wanted anything to do with us because we're police and they all still believe we'll never help them, only ourselves. It's been the same in China since the first policeman."
"But this is Hong Kong," the youth said proudly. "We're different. We're British police."
"Yes." Mok felt a sudden chill. He did not wish to disillusion the youth. I used to be loyal too, loyal to the Queen and to the quai loh flag. I learned differently. When I needed help and protection and security I got none. Never once. The British used to be rich and powerful but they lost the war to those Eastern Sea Devils. The war took all their face away and humbled them and put the great tai-pans into Stanley Prison like common thieves—even the tai-pans of the Noble House and Great Bank and even the great high governor himself—put them away like common criminals, into Stanley with all their women and all the children and treated them like turds! And then after the war, even though they had humbled the Eastern Devils, they never regained their power, or their face.
Now in Hong Kong and in all Asia, now it's not the same and never will be as before. Now every year the British get poorer and poorer and less powerful and how can they protect me and my family from evildoers if they're not rich and powerful? They pay me nothing and treat me like dogmeat! Now my only protection is money, money in gold so that we can flee if need be—or money in land or houses if we do not need to flee. How can I educate my sons in England or America without money? Will the grateful Government pay? Not a fornicating brass cash, and yet I'm supposed to risk my life to keep the streets clean of fornicating triads and pickpockets and rioting lumps of leper turd!
Mok shivered. The only safety for my family is in my own hands as always. Oh how wise the teachings of our ancestors are! Was the police commissioner loyal to me when I needed money, even steerage money, for my son to go to school in America? No. But the Snake was. He loaned me 10,000 dollars at only 10 percent interest so my son went like a Mandarin by Pan American aircraft, with three years of school money, and now he's a qualified architect with a Green Card and next month he'll have an American passport and then he can come back and no one will be able to touch him. He can help protect my generation and will protect his own and his son's and his son's sons!
Yes, the Snake gave me the money, long since paid back with full interest out of money he helped me earn. I shall be loyal to the Snake—until he turns. One day he'll turn, all quai loh do, all snakes do, but now I'm a High Dragon and neither gods nor devils nor the Snake himself can hurt my family or my bank accounts in Switzerland and Canada.
"Come along, we'd better go back, young Spectacles Wu," he said kindly and when he got back to the barriers he told Chief Inspector Smyth what had happened.
"Put the money in our kitty, "Major," Smyth said. "Order a grand banquet for our lads tonight."
"Yes sir."
"It was Detective Constable Wu? The one who wants to join SI?"
"Yes sir. Spectacles is very keen."
Smyth sent for Wu, commended him. "Now, where's that old amah?"
Wu pointed her out. They saw her looking at the corner the thug had gone around, waiting impatiently. After a minute she squirmed out of the swarm and hobbled away, muttering obscenities.
"Wu," Smyth ordered, "follow her. Don't let yourself be seen. She'll lead you to the rotten little bugger who fled. Be careful, and when she goes to ground, phone the "major."
"Yes sir."
"Do not take any risks—perhaps we can catch the whole gang, there's bound to be a gang."
"Yes sir."
"Off you go." They watched him following her. "That lad's going to be good. But not for us, 'Major, eh?"
"No sir."
"I think I'll recommend him to SI. Perhaps—"
Suddenly there was an ominous silence, then shouts and an angry roar. The two policemen rushed back around the corner. In their absence the crowd had shoved aside parts of the barricade, overpowering the four policemen, and now were surging into the bank. Manager Sung and his assistant were vainly trying to close the doors against the shouting, cursing throng. The barricades began to buckle.
"Get the riot squad!"
Mok raced for the squad car. Fearlessly Smyth rushed to the head of the line with his bullhorn. The tumult drowned his order to stop fighting. More reinforcements came running from across the street. Quickly and efficiently they charged to Smyth's support, but the mob was gathering strength. Sung and his tellers slammed the door shut but it was forced open again. Then a brick came out of the crowd and smashed one of the plate-glass windows. There was a roar of approval. The people in front were trying to get out of the way and those at the back were trying to get to the door. More bricks were hurtled at the building, then pieces of wood grabbed from a building site nearby. Another stone went through the glass and it totally shattered. Roaring, the mob surged forward. A girl fell and was crushed.
"Come on," Smyth shouted, "give me a hand!" He grabbed one of the barriers and, with four other policemen, used it as a shield and shoved it against the front of the mob, forcing them back. Above the uproar he shouted for them to use their shoulders and they fought the frenzied crowd. Other policemen followed his lead. More bricks went into the bank and then the shout went up, "Kill the fornicating bank thieves, kill them, they've stolen our money..."
"Kill the fornicators..."
"I want my money..."
"Kill the foreign devils..."
Smyth saw the mood of those near him change and his heart stopped as they took up the shout and forgot the bank and their hands reached out for him. He had seen that look before and knew he was a dead man. That other time was during the riots of'56 when 200,000 Chinese suddenly went on a senseless rampage in Kowloon. He would have been killed then if he had not had a Sten gun. He had killed four men and blasted a path to safety. Now he had no gun and he was fighting for his life. His hat was ripped away, someone grabbed his Sam Browne belt and a fist went into his groin, another into his face and talons clawed at his eyes. Fearlessly, Mok and others charged into the milling mess to rescue him. Someone hacked at Mok with a brick, another with a piece of wood that tore a great gash in his cheek. Smyth was engulfed, his hands and arms desperately trying to protect his head. Then the riot squad's Black Maria, siren screaming, skidded around the corner. The ten-man team fell on the crowd roughly and pulled Smyth away. Blood seeped from his mouth, his left arm dangled uselessly.
"You all right, sir?"
"Yes, for chrissake get those sodding barriers up! Get those bastards away from the bank—fire hoses!"
But the fire hose& weren't necessary. At the first violent charge of the riot squad the front of the mob had wilted and now the rest had retreated to a safe distance and stood there watching sullenly, some of them still shouting obscenities. Smyth grabbed the bullhorn. In Cantonese he said, "If anyone comes within twenty yards, he'll be arrested and deported!" He tried to catch his breath. "If anyone wants to visit the Ho-Pak, line up a hundred yards away."
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