"What calls do I have, Claudia?" he asked, a sudden ice shaft in his stomach. Mata and Tightfist had been his ace, the only one left.
She hesitated, glanced at the list. "Hiro Toda called from Tokyo, person to person. Please return the call when you've a moment. Alastair Struan the same from Edinburgh.... David MacStruan from Toronto... your father from Ayr... old Sir Ross Struan from Nice..."
"Uncle Trussler from London," he said, interrupting her, "Uncle Kelly from Dublin... Cousin Cooper from Atlanta, cous—"
"From New York," Claudia said.
"From New York. Bad news travels fast," he told her calmly.
"Yes. Then there was..." Her eyes filled with tears. "What're we going to do?"
"Absolutely not cry," he said, knowing that a large proportion of her savings was in Struan stock.
"Yes! Oh yes." She sniffed and used a handkerchief, sad for him but thanking the gods she had had the foresight to sell at the top of the market and not buy when the Head of the House of Chen had whispered for all the clan to buy heavily. "Ayeeyah, tai-pan, sorry, so sorry, please excuse me... yes. But it's very bad, isn't it?"
"Och aye, lassie," he said, aping a broad Scots accent, "but only when you're deaded. Isn't that what the old tai-pan used to say?" The old tai-pan was Sir Ross Struan, Alastair's father, the first tai-pan he could remember. "Go on with the calls."
"Cousin Kern from Houston and Cousin Decks from Sydney. That's the last of the family."
"That's all of them." Dunross exhaled. Control of the Noble House rested with those families. Each had blocks of shares that had been handed down to them, though by House law he alone voted all the stock—while he was tai-pan. The family holdings of the Dunrosses, descended from Dirk Struan's daughter Winifred, were 10 percent; the Struans from Robb Struan, Dirk's half-brother, 5 percent; the Trusslers and Kellys from Culum and Hag Struan's youngest daughter, each 5 percent; the Coopers, Kerns and Derbys, descended from the American trader, Jeff Cooper of Cooper-Tillman, Dirk's lifetime friend who had married Hag Struan's eldest daughter, each 5 percent; the MacStruans, believed illegitimate from Dirk, 2 l/2 percent; and the Chens 7 1/2 percent. The bulk of the stock, 50 percent, the personal property and legacy of Hag Struan, was left in a perpetual trust, to be voted by the tai-pan "whoever he or she may be, and the profit therefrom shall be divided yearly, 50 percent to the tai-pan, the remainder in proportion to family holdings—but only if the tai-pan so decides," she had written in her firm, bold hand. "If he decides to withhold profit from my shares from the family for any reason he may, then that increment shall go into the tai-pan's private fund for whatever use he deems fit. But let all following tai-pans beware: the Noble House shall pass from safe Hand to safe Hand and the clans from safe Harbour to safe Harbour as the tai-pan himself decreed or I shall add my curse, before God, to his, on him or her who fails us...."
Dunross felt a chill go through him as he remembered the first time he had read her will—as dominating as the legacy of Dirk Struan. Why are we so possessed by these two? he asked himself again. Why can't we be done with the past, why should we be at the beck and call of ghosts, not very good ghosts at that?
I'm not, he told himself firmly. I'm only trying to measure up to their standards.
He looked back at Claudia, matronly, tough and very together but now scared, scared for the first time. He had known her all his life and she had served old Sir Ross, then his father, then Alastair, and now himself with a fanatical loyalty, as had Phillip Chen.
Ah Phillip, poor Phillip.
"Did Phillip call?" he asked.
"Yes, tai-pan. And Dianne. She called four times."
"Who else?"
"A dozen or more. The more important ones are Johnjohn at the bank, General Jen from Taiwan, Gavallan pere from Paris, Four Finger Wu, Pug—"
"Four Fingers?" Dunross's hope peaked. "When did he call?"
She referred to her list. "2:56."
I wonder if the old pirate has changed his mind, Dunross thought, his excitement growing.
Yesterday afternoon late he had gone to Aberdeen to see Wu to seek his help but, as with Lando Mata, he had got only vague promises.
"Listen, Old Friend," he had told him in halting Haklo, "I've never sought a favour from you before."
"A long line of your tai-pan ancestors have sought plenty favours and made great profits from my ancestors," the old man had answered, his cunning eyes darting. "Favours? Fornicate all dogs, tai-pan, I have not that amount of money.20 millions? How could a poor old fisherman like me have that cash?"
"More came out of the Ho-Pak yesterday, old friend."
"Ayeeyah, fornicate all those who whisper wrong informations! Perhaps I withdrew my money safely but it all has gone, gone to pay for goods, goods I owed money for."
"I hope not for the White Powder," he had told him grimly. "The White Powder is terrible joss. Rumour has it you are interested in it. I advise against it as a friend. My ancestors, Old Green-Eyed Devil and Hag Struan of the Evil Eye and Dragon's Teeth, they both put a curse on those who deal in the White Powder, not on opium but on all White Powders and those who deal in them," he had said stretching the truth, knowing how superstitious the old man was. "I advise against the Killing Powder. Surely your gold business is more than profitable?"
"I know nothing of White Powder." The old man had forced a smile, showing his gums and a few twisted teeth. "And I don't fear curses, even from them!"
"Good," Dunross had said, knowing it to be a lie. "Meanwhile help me to get credit.50 million for three days is all I want!"
"I will ask among my friends, tai-pan. Perhaps they can help, perhaps we can help together. But don't expect water from an empty well. At what interest?"
"High interest, if it's tomorrow."
"Not possible, tai-pan."
"Persuade Tightfist, you're an associate and old friend."
"Tightfist is the only fornicating friend of Tightfist," the old man had said sullenly and nothing Dunross could say would change the old man's attitudes.
He reached for the phone. "What other calls were there, Claudia?" he asked as he dialled.
"Johnjohn at the bank, Phillip and Dianne... oh I told you about them.... Superintendent Crosse, then every major stockholder we have and every managing director of every subsidiary, most of the Turf Club... Travkin, your trainer, it's endless...."
"Just a moment, Claudia." Dunross held onto his anxiety and said into the phone, in Haklo, "This is the tai-pan. Is my Old Friend there?"
"Sure, sure, Mr. Dunross," the American voice said politely in English. "Thanks for returning the call. He'll be right with you, sir."
"Mr. Choy, Mr. Paul Choy?"
"Yes sir."
"Your uncle told me all about you. Welcome to Hong Kong."
"I... here he is sir."
"Thank you." Dunross concentrated. He had been asking himself why Paul Choy was with Four Fingers now and not busily engaged in worming his way into Gornt's affairs and why Crosse called and why Johnjohn.
"Tai-pan?"
"Yes, Old Friend. You wanted to speak to me?"
"Yes. Can... can we meet this evening?"
Dunross wanted to shout, Have you changed your mind? But good manners forbade it and Chinese did not like phones, always preferring to meet face-to-face. "Of course. About eight bells, in the middle watch," he said casually. Near midnight. "As near as I can," he added, remembering he was to meet Brian Kwok at 10:45 P.M.
"Good. My wharf. There will be a sampan waiting."
Dunross replaced the phone, his heart thumping. "First Crosse, Claudia, then bring in the Kirks. Then we'll go through the list. Set up a conference call with my father, Alastair and Sir Ross, make it for five, that's nine their time and ten in Nice. I'll call David and the others in the States this evening. No need to wake them in the middle of their night."
"Yes, tai-pan." Claudia was already dialling. She got Crosse, handed him the phone and left, closing the door after her.
"Yes, Roger?"
"How many times have you been into China?"
The unexpected question startled Dunross for a moment. "That's all a matter of record," he said. "It's easy for you to check."
"Yes, Ian, but could you recall now? Please."
"Four times to Canton, to the fair, every year for the last four years. And once to Peking with a trade commission, last year."
"Did you ever manage to get outside Canton—or Peking?"
"Why?"
"Did you?"
Dunross hesitated. The Noble House had many associations of long standing in China, and many old and trusted friends. Some were now committed Communists. Some were outwardly communists but inwardly totally Chinese and therefore far-seeing, secretive, cautious and nonpolitical. These men ranged in importance up to one in the Praesidium. And all of these men, being Chinese, knew that history repeated itself, that eras could change so quickly and the Emperor of this morning could become the running dog of this afternoon, that dynasty followed dynasty at the whim of the gods, that the first of any dynasty inevitably mounted the Dragon throne with bloodstained hands, that an escape route was always to be sought after—and that certain barbarians were Old Friends and to be trusted.
But he knew most all of that Chinese were a practical people. China needed goods and help. Without goods and help they were defenceless against their historic and only real enemy, Russia.
So many times, because of the special trust in which the Noble House was held, Dunross had been approached officially and unofficially, but always secretly. He had many private potential deals simmering for all kinds of machinery and goods in short supply, including the fleet of jet airliners. Oftentimes he had gone where others could not go. Once he had gone to a meeting in Hangchow, the most beautiful part of China. This was to greet other members of the 49 Club privately, to be wined and dined as honoured guests of China. The 49 Club consisted of those companies that had continued to trade with the PRC after 1949, mostly British firms. Britain had recognised Mao Tse-tung's government as the government of China shortly after Chiang Kai-shek abandoned the Mainland and fled to Taiwan. Even so, relations between the two governments had always been strained. But, by definition, relations between Old Friends were not, unless an Old Friend betrayed a confidence, or cheated.
"Oh I went on a few side trips," Dunross said airily, not wanting to lie to the chief of SI. "Nothing to write home about. Why?"
"Could you tell me where, please."
"If you're more specific, Roger, certainly," he replied, his voice hardening. "We're traders and not politicians and not spies and the Noble House has a special position in Asia. We've been here quite a few years and it's because of traders the Union Jack flies over... used to fly over half the earth. What had you in mind, old chap?"
There was a long pause. "Nothing, nothing in particular. Very well, Ian, I'll wait till we've had the pleasure of reading the papers, then I'll be specific. Thanks, so sorry to trouble you. 'Bye."
Dunross stared at the phone, troubled. What does Crosse want to know? he asked himself. Many of the deals he had made and would be making certainly would not conform to official government policy in London, or, even more, in Washington. His short-term and long-term attitude toward China clearly was opposed to theirs. What they would consider contraband he did not.
Well, as long as I'm tai-pan, he told himself firmly, come hell or typhoon, our links with China will remain our links with China and that's the end of that. Most politicians in London and Washington just won't realise Chinese are Chinese first and Communist second. And Hong Kong's vital to the peace of Asia.
"Mr. and Mrs. Jamie Kirk, sir."
Jamie Kirk was a pedantic little man with a pink face and pink hands and a pleasing Scots accent. His wife was tall, big and American.
"Oh so pleased to m—" Kirk began.
"Yes we are, Mr. Dunross," his wife boomed good-naturedly over him. "Get to the point, Jamie, honey, Mr. Dunross's a very busy man and we've shopping to do. My husband's got a package for you, sir."
"Yes, it's from Alan Medford G—"
"He knows it's from Alan Medford Grant, honey," she said happily, talking over him again. "Give him the package."
"Oh. Oh yes and there's a—"
"A letter from him too," she said. "Mr. Dunross's very busy so give them to him and we can go shopping."
"Oh. Yes, well..." Kirk handed Dunross the package. It was about fourteen inches by nine and an inch thick. Brown, nondescript and heavily taped. The envelope was sealed with red sealing wax. Dunross recognised the seal. "Alan said to—"
"To give it to you personally and give you his best wishes," she said with another laugh. She got up. "You're so slow, sweetness. Well, thank you, Mr. Dunross, come along, hon—"
She stopped, startled as Dunross held up an imperious hand and said with polite though absolute authority, "What shopping do you want to do, Mrs. Kirk?"
"Eh? Oh. Oh some clothes, er, I want some clothes made and honey needs some shirts an—"
Dunross held up his hand again and punched a button and Claudia was there. "Take Mrs. Kirk to Sandra Lee at once. She's to take her at once to Lee Foo Tap downstairs and by the Lord God tell him to give Mrs. Kirk the best possible price or I'll have him deported! Mr. Kirk will join her there in a moment!" He took Mrs.
Kirk by the arm and before she knew it she was contentedly out of the room, Claudia solicitously listening to what she wanted to buy.
Kirk sighed in the silence. It was a deep, long-suffering sigh. "I wish I could do that," he said gloomily, then beamed. "Och aye, tai-pan, you're everything Alan said you were."
"Oh? I didn't do anything. Your wife wanted to go shopping didn't she?"
"Yes but..." After a pause Kirk added, "Alan said that you should, er, you should read the letter while I'm here. I... I didn't tell her that. Do you think I should have?"
"No," Dunross said kindly. "Look, Mr. Kirk, I'm sorry to tell you bad news but I'm afraid AMG was killed in a motorcycle accident last Monday."
Kirk's mouth dropped. "What?"
"Sorry to have to tell you but I thought you'd better know."
Kirk stared at the rain streaks, lost in thought. "How terrible," he said at length. "Bloody motorbikes, they're death traps. He was run down?"
"No. He was just found in the road, beside the bike. Sorry."
"Terrible! Poor old Alan. Dear oh dear! I'm glad you didn't mention it in front of Frances, she's, she was fond of him too. I, er, I... perhaps you'd better read this letter then... Frances wasn't a great friend so I don't... poor old Alan!" He stared down at his hands. The nails were bitten and disfigured. "Poor old Alan!"
To give Kirk time, Dunross opened the letter. It read: "My dear Mr. Dunross: This will introduce an old schoolfriend, Jamie Kirk, and his wife Frances. The package he brings, please open in private. I wanted it safely in your hands and Jamie agreed to stop over in Hong Kong. He's to be trusted, as much as one can trust anyone these days. And, please, don't mind about Frances, she's a good sort really, good to my old friend and quite well off from previous husbands which gives Jamie the freedom he requires to sit and to think—a rare, very rare privilege these days. By the way, they're not in my line of work though they know I'm an amateur historian with private means." Dunross would have smiled but for the fact that he was reading a letter from a dead man. The letter concluded, "Jamie's a geologist, a marine geologist, one of the best in the world. Ask him about his work, the last years, preferably not with Frances there—not that she's not party to everything he knows but she does carry on a bit. He has some interesting theories that could perhaps benefit the Noble House and your contingency planning. Kindest regards, AMG."
Dunross looked up. "AMG says you're old school friends?"
"Oh yes. Yes, we were at school together. Charterhouse actually. Then I went on to Cambridge, he to Oxford. Yes. We've, er, kept in contact over the years, haphazardly, of course. Yes. Have you, er, known him long?"
"About three years. I liked him too. Perhaps you don't want to talk now?"
"Oh. Oh no, that's all right. I'm... it's a shock of course but well, life must go on. Old Alan... he's a funny sort of laddie isn't he, with all his papers and books and pipe and ash and carpet slippers." Kirk sadly steepled his fingers. "I suppose I should say he was. It doesn't seem right yet to talk about him in the past tense... but I suppose we should. Yes. He always wore carpet slippers. I dinna think I've ever been to his chambers when he wasn't wearing carpet slippers."
"You mean his flat? I've never been there. We always met in my London office though he did come to Ayr once." Dunross searched his memory. "I don't remember him wearing carpet slippers there."
"Ah, yes, he told me about Ayr, Mr. Dunross. Yes, he told me. It was, er, a high point in his life. You're... you're very lucky to have such an estate."
"Castle Avisyard's not mine, Mr. Kirk, though it's been in the family for more than a hundred years. Dirk Struan bought it for his wife and family—a country seat so to speak." As always, Dunross felt a sudden glow at the thought of all that loveliness, gentle rolling hills, lakes, moors, forests, glades, six thousand acres or more, good shooting, good hunting and Scotland at its best. "It's tradition that the current tai-pan's always laird of Avisyard—while he's tai-pan. But, of course, all the families, particularly children of the various families, know it well. Summer holidays... Christmas at Avisyard's a wonderful tradition. Whole sheep and sides of beef, haggis at New Year, whiskey and huge roaring fires, the pipes sounding. It's a bonnie place. And a working farm, cattle, milk, butter—and not forgetting the Loch Vey distillery! I wish I could spend more time there—my wife just left today to get things ready for the Christmas vacation. Do you know that part of the world?"
"A wee bit. Mostly I know the Highlands. I know the Highlands better. My family came from Inverness."
"Ah, then you must visit us when we're in Ayr, Mr. Kirk. AMG says in his letter you're a geologist, one of the best in the world?"
"Oh. Oh he's too kind—was too kind. My, er, my speciality's marine. Yes. With particular emph—" He stopped abruptly.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh, er, nothing, nothing really, but do you think Frances will be all right?"
"Absolutely. Would you like me to tell her about AMG?"
"No. No I can do that later. No, I... I, on second thought I think I'm going to pretend he's not dead, Mr. Dunross. You need not have told me, then I won't have to spoil her holiday. Yes. That's best, don't you think?" Kirk brightened a little. "Then we can discover the bad news when we get home."
"Whatever you wish. You were saying? With particular emphasis on?"
"Oh yes... petrology, which is, of course, the broad study of rocks including their interpretation and description. Within petrology my field has been narrowed down more recently to sedimentary rocks. I've, er, I've been on a research project for the last few years as a consultant on Paleozoic sedimentaries, porous ones. Yes. The study concentrated on the eastern coastal shelf of Scotland. AMG thought you might like to hear about it."
"Of course." Dunross curbed his impatience. His eyes were looking at the package on his desk. He wanted to open it and call Johnjohn and do a dozen other pressing things. There was so much to do and he did not yet understand the AMG connection between the Noble House and Kirk. "It sounds very interesting," he said. "What was the study for?"
"Eh?" Kirk stared at him, startled. "Hydrocarbons." At Dunross's blank look he added hastily, "Hydrocarbons are only found in porous sedimentary rocks of the Paleozoic era. Oil, Mr. Dunross, crude oil."
"Oh! You were exploring for oil?"
"Oh no! It was a research project to determine the possibility of hydrocarbons being present offshore. Off Scotland. I'm happy to say I think they'll be there abundantly. Not close in but out in the North Sea." The small man's pink face became pinker and he mopped his brow. "Yes. Yes, I think there'll be quite a number of good fields out there." Dunross was perplexed, still not seeing the connection. "Well, I know a little about offshore drilling in the Middle East and the Texas Gulf but out in the North Sea? Good God, Mr. Kirk, that sea's the worst in the world, probably the most fickle in the world, almost always in storm with mountainous seas. How could you drill there? How could you make the rigs safe, how would you supply the rigs, how could you possibly get the oil in bulk ashore, even if you found it? And if you got it ashore, my God, the cost'd be prohibitive."
"Oh quite right, Mr. Dunross," Kirk agreed. "Everything you say's quite right, but then it's not my job to be commercial, just to find our elusive, supremely valuable hydrocarbons." He added proudly, "This is the first time we've ever thought they could exist there. Of course, it's still only a theory, my theory—you never know for certain until you drill—but part of my expertise's in seismic interpretation, that's the study of waves resulting from induced explosions, and my approach to the latest findings was a wee bitty unorthodox...."
Dunross listened now with only the surface of his brain, still trying to puzzle out why AMG should consider this important. He allowed Kirk to continue for a while then politely brought him back. "You've convinced me, Mr. Kirk. I congratulate you. How long are you staying in Hong Kong?"
"Oh. Oh just till Monday. Then, er, then we're going to New Guinea."
Dunross concentrated, very concerned. "Where in New Guinea?"
"To a place called Sukanapura, on the north coast, that's in the new Indonesian part. I've been..." Kirk smiled. "Sorry, of course you'd know President Sukarno took over Dutch New Guinea in, May."
"Stolen might be another way of putting it. If it hadn't been for more ill-advised U. S. pressure, Dutch New Guinea'd still be Dutch and far better off, I think. I don't believe it'd be a good idea at all for you and Mrs. Kirk to go there for a while. It's very dicey, the political situation's very unstable and President Sukarno's hostile. The insurrection in Sarawak is Indonesian-sponsored and supported—he's very antagonistic to the West, to all Malaysia, and pro his Marxists. Besides Sukanapura is a hot, rotten, spooky port with lots of disease on top of all the other troubles."
"Oh you don't have to worry, I have a Scots constitution, and we're invited by the government."
"My point is that, presently, there's very little government influence."
"Ah, but there're some very interesting sedimentaries they want me to look at. You don't have to worry, Mr. Dunross, we're geologists, not political. Everything's arranged—this was the whole purpose of our trip—no need to worry. Well, I should be going."
"There's... I'm having a small cocktail party on Saturday from 7:30 to 9:00 P.M.," he said. "Perhaps you and your wife would like to come?
Then we can talk further about New Guinea."
"Oh, oh that's awfully kind of you. I, er, we'd love to. Where wo—"
"I'll send a car for you. Now, perhaps you'd like to join Mrs. Kirk—I won't mention AMG if you're sure that's what you want."
"Oh! Oh yes. Poor Alan. For a moment, discussing sedimentaries, I'd forgotten about him. Curious, isn't it, how soon one can forget."
Dunross sent him off with another assistant and closed the door. Carefully he broke the seals of AMG's package. Inside there was an envelope and an inner package. The envelope was addressed: "Ian Dunross, private and confidential." Unlike the other letter, which was neatly handwritten, this was typed: "Dear Mr. Dunross, This comes in haste to you through my old friend Jamie. I've just had some very disquieting news. There is another very serious security leak somewhere in our system, British or American, and it's quite clear our adversaries are stepping up their clandestine attacks. Some of this might even spill over onto me, even to you, hence my anxiety. To you because it could be the existence of our highly classified series of papers has been discovered. Should anything untoward happen to me please call 871-65-65 in Geneva. Ask for Mrs. Riko Gresserhoff. To her, my name is Hans Gresserhoff. Her real name is Riko Anjin. She speaks German, Japanese and English—a little French—and if I'm owed any money please assign it to her. There are certain papers she will give you, some for transmission. Please deliver them personally when convenient. As I said, it's rare to find someone to trust. I trust you. You're the only one on earth who knows about her and her real name. Remember, it is vital that neither this letter nor my previous papers go out of your hands to anyone.
"First, to explain about Kirk: Within ten years or so I believe the Arab nations will bury their differences and use the real power they have, not against Israel directly but against the Western world—forcing us into an intolerable position: Do we abandon Israel... or do we starve? They use their oil as a weapon of war.
"If they ever manage to work together, a handful of sheiks and feudal kings in Saudi Arabia, Iran, the Persian Gulf States, Iraq, Libya, can, at their whim, cut off Western and Japanese supplies of the one raw material that is indispensable. They have an even more sophisticated opportunity: to raise the price to unprecedented heights and hold our economies to ransom. Oil is the ultimate weapon for Arabia. Unbeatable so long as we're dependent on their oil. Hence my immediate interest in Kirk's theory.
"Nowadays it costs about eight cents American to get one barrel of oil to the surface of an Arabian desert. From the North Sea it would cost seven dollars to bring one barrel ashore, in bulk, to Scotland. If Arabian oil jumped from its present three dollars a barrel on the world market to nine... I'm sure you get the point immediately. At once North Sea becomes immensely possible, and a British national treasure.
"Jamie says the fields are to the north and east of Scotland. The port of Aberdeen would be the logical place to bring it ashore. A wise man would start looking at wharfing, real estate, airfields, in Aberdeen. Don't worry about bad weather, helicopters will be the connecting links to the rigs. Expensive yes, but viable. Further, if you will accept my forecast that Labour will win the next election because of the Profumo scandal..."
The case had filled the newspapers. Six months before, in March, the Secretary of State for War, John Profumo, had formally denied that he had ever had an affair with a notorious call girl, Christine Keeler, one of several girls who had suddenly sprung to international prominence with their procurer, Stephen Ward—up to that time just a well-known osteopath in London's high society. Unsubstantiated rumours began to circulate that the girl had also been having an affair with one of the Soviet attaches, a well-known KGB agent, Commander Yevgeny Ivanov, who had been recalled to Russia the previous December. In the uproar that followed, Profumo resigned, and Stephen Ward committed suicide.
"It is curious that the affair was revealed to the press at the perfect time for the Soviets," Grant continued. "I have no proof, yet, but it's not just a coincidence in my opinion. Remember it is Soviet doctrine to fragment countries—North Korea and South, East Germany and West, and so on—then to let their indoctrinated underlings do their work for them. So I think the pro-Soviet Socialists will help fragment Britain into England, Scotland, Wales and south and north Ireland (watch Eire and Northern Ireland which is a ready-made arena for Soviet merrymaking).
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