Casey.
What about Casey?
Our rules are quite clear, always have been. She set them: If I have a date or she has a date, we have dates and no questions and no recriminations.
Then why is it I'm all uptight now that I've decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?
He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.
There was a half-hearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. "Missee," the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.
"Oh hi, Casey," Bartlett said. "I was just going to phone you."
"Hi, Linc," she called out and then said, "Dohjeh," in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. "Got some stuff for you." She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting grey pants and flat grey shoes with a grey silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. "The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It's all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There's a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M. in L.A.—that gives us plenty of time to get back. I've ask—"
"Turn down bed, Master?" Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.
Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. "Urn ho, " she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. "Chaz'er, dohjeh. " No thank you, please do it later.
Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. "Wat?"
Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. "Turn down bed, heya? Now heya?" he asked in bad English.
Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, "Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later."
Nighttime Song beamed, having made her lose face. "Yes, Mis-see." He closed the door with just enough of a slam to make his point.
"Asshole," she muttered. "He had to understand me, I know I said it right, Linc. Why is it they insist on not understanding? I tried it on my maid and all she said was Va?' too." She laughed in spite of herself as she aped the coarse guttural, "Wat you say, heya?"
Bartlett laughed. "They're just ornery. But where'd you learn Chinese?"
"It's Cantonese. I got a teacher—fitted in an hour this morning—thought I should at least be able to say, Hi, Good morning, Give me the bill please... ordinary things. Goddamn but it's complicated. All the tones. In Cantonese there are seven tones—seven ways of saying the same word. You ask for the check, it's mai dan, but if you say it just a little wrong, it means fried eggs, they're mai dan too, and one'll get you fifty the waiter'll bring you the fried eggs just to put you down." She sipped her martini and added an extra olive. "I needed that. You want another beer?"
Bartlett shook his head. "This's fine." He had read all the telexes.
Casey sat on the sofa and opened her notepad. "Vincenzo Banastasio's secretary phoned and asked me to confirm his suite for Saturday an—"
"I didn't know he was due in Hong Kong. You?"
"I think I remember him saying something about going to Asia the last time we saw him... at the track last month—at Del Mar—the time John Chen was there. Terrible about John, isn't it?"
"I hope they get those Werewolves. Bastards to murder him and put that sign on him like that."
"I wrote a condolence note for us to his father and to his wife Dianne—you remember we met her at Ian's and at Aberdeen-Jesus, that seems like a million years ago."
"Yes." Bartlett frowned. "I still don't remember Vincenzo saying anything. He staying here?"
"No, he wants to be Hong Kong side. I confirmed the booking at the Hilton by phone and I'll do it in person tomorrow. He's on JAL's Saturday morning flight from Tokyo." Casey peered at him over her glasses. "You want me to schedule a meeting?"
"How long's he staying?"
"Over the weekend. A few days. You know how vague he is. How about Saturday after the races? We'll be Hong Kong side and it's an easy walk from Happy Valley if we can't get a ride."
Bartlett was going to say, Let's make it Sunday, but then he remembered Taipei on Sunday. "Sure, Saturday after the races." Then he saw her look. "What?"
"I was just wondering what Banastasio's about."
"When he bought 4 percent of our Par-Con stock," he said, "we ran it through Seymour, the SEC and a few others and they're all satisfied his money was clean. He's never been arrested or charged, though there're a lot of rumours. He's never given us any trouble, never wanted in on any board, never turns up for any shareholder meetings, always gives me his proxy, and he came through with the money when we needed it." He stared at her. "So?"
"So nothing, Linc. You know my opinion of him. I agree we can't take the stock back. He bought it free and clear and asked first, and we sure as hell needed his money and put it to great use." She adjusted her glasses and made a note. "I'll fix the meeting and be polite as always. Next: Our company account at the Victoria Bank's operating. I put in 25,000 and here's your chequebook. We've established a revolving fund and First Central's ready to transfer the initial 7 million to the account whenever we say so. There's a confirm telex there. I also opened a personal account for you at the same bank—here's your chequebook with another 25 grand—-20 in an HK treasury bill on a daily rollover." She grinned. "That should buy a couple of bowls of chop suey and a good piece of jade though 1 hear the phonies are hard to tell from the real ones."
"No jade." Bartlett wanted to look at his watch but he did not, just sipped his beer. "Next?"
"Next: Clive Bersky called and asked a favour."
"You told him to blow it out of his muffler?"
She laughed. Clive Bersky was chief executive of their branch of the First Central of New York. He was very meticulous, pedantic and drove Bartlett crazy with his need for perfect documentation. "He asks that if the Struan deal goes through, we put our funds through the..." She referred to her pad. "... the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank here."
"Why them?"
"I don't know. I'm checking them out. We've a date for a drink with the local chief exec at eight. The First Central's just bought his bank—it's got branches here, Singapore, Tokyo."
"You deal with him, Casey."
"Sure. I can drink and run. You want to eat afterwards? We could go down to the Escoffier or up to the Seven Dragons or maybe walk up Nathan Road for some Chinese chow. Somewhere close—the weatherman says more rain's expected."
"Thanks but not tonight. I'm going Hong Kong side."
"Oh? Wh—" Casey stopped. "Fine. When are you leaving?"
"About now. No hurry." Bartlett saw the same easy smile on her face as her eyes went down the list but he was sure she had instantly realised where he was going and suddenly he was furious. He kept his voice calm. "What else do you have?"
"Nothing that won't wait," she said in the same nice voice. "I've an early meeting with Captain Jannelli about your Taipei trip-Armstrong's office sent over the documentation temporarily lifting the impounding on the aeroplane. All you have to do is sign the form agreeing to come back to H. K. I put Tuesday on it. Is that right?"
"Sure. Tuesday's D Day."
She got up. "That's it for tonight, Linc. I'll deal with the banker and the rest of this stuff." She finished her martini and put the glass back on the mirrored cabinet. "Hey that tie, Linc! Your blue one'd go better. See you at breakfast." She blew him her usual kiss and walked off as she usually did and closed the door with her usual, "Sweet dreams, Linc!"
"Why the hell'm I so goddamn mad?" he muttered angrily, out loud. "Casey's done nothing. Son of a bitch!" Unaware, he had crushed his empty beer can. Son of a bitch! Now what? Do I forget it and go or what?
Casey was walking up the corridor toward her own room, seething. I'll bet my life he's going out with that goddamn tramp. I should've drowned her while I had the chance.
Then she noticed that Nighttime Song had opened her door for her and was holding it wide with a smile she read as a smirk.
"Andyoucanblowitoutofyourasstoo!" she snarled at him before she could stop herself, then slammed the door and threw her papers and pad on the bed and was about to cry. "You're not to cry," she ordered herself out loud, tears on the words. "No goddamn man is going to get you down no way. No way!" She stared down at her fingers, which were trembling with the rage that possessed her.
"Oh shit on all men!"
7:40 PM
"Excuse me, your Excellency, you're wanted on the phone."
"Thank you, John." Sir Geoffrey Allison turned back to Dunross and the others. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?"
They were in Government House, the governor's official residence above Central, the French doors open to the cool of the evening, the air fresh and washed, trees and shrubs dripping nicely, and the governor walked across the crowded anteroom where pre-dinner cocktails and snacks were being served, very pleased with the way the evening had gone so far. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There was banter and good conversation, some laughter and no friction yet between the Hong Kong tai-pans and the MPs. At his request, Dunross had gone out of his way to soothe Grey and Broadhurst, and even Grey seemed to have mellowed.
The aide closed the door of his study, leaving him alone with the telephone. The study was dark green and pleasing, with blue flock wallpaper, fine Persian carpets from his two-year sojourn in the Teheran embassy, cherished crystal and silver and more showcases with fine Chinese porcelains. "Hello?"
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Crosse said.
"Oh hello, Roger." The governor felt his chest tighten. "No bother," he said.
"Two rather good pieces of information, sir. Somewhat important. I wonder if I might drop by?"
Sir Geoffrey glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantel over the fireplace. "Dinner's served in fifteen minutes, Roger. Where are you now?"
"Just three minutes away from you, sir. I won't delay your dinner. But, if you prefer, I could make it afterwards."
"Come now, I could use some good news. With this whole banking affair and the stock market... Use the garden door if you wish. John will meet you."
"Thank you, sir." The phone clicked off. By custom, the head of SI had a key to the iron garden gate which was set into the high surrounding walls.
In exactly three minutes Crosse was crossing the terrace, walking lightly. The ground was very wet. He dried his feet carefully before he came through the French windows. "We've caught a rather big fish, sir, an enemy agent, caught him with his hands in the honey pot," he said softly. "He's a major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. We caught him in the middle of an espionage act with an American computer expert off the nuclear carrier."
The governor's face had gone red. "That blasted Ivanov! Good God, Roger, a major? Have you any idea of the diplomatic and political storm this will precipitate with the USSR, the U. S. and London?"
"Yes sir. That's why I thought I'd better consult at once."
"What the devil was the fellow doing?"
Crosse gave him the broad facts. He ended, "Both of them are sedated now and very safe."
"What was on the film?"
"It was blank, sir, fogged. Wh—"
"What?"
"Yes. Of course both men denied any espionage was involved. The sailor denied there was a drop, denied everything, said he'd won the $2,000 U. S. we found on him playing poker. Childish to lie once you're caught, childish to make things difficult, we always get the truth eventually. I thought we'd either missed the real film or it was a microdot transfer. We re-searched their clothing and I ordered immediate emetics and stool examinations. Major... the KGB agent passed the real negative film an hour ago." Crosse offered the big manila envelope. "These're eight-by-ten prints, sir, frame by frame."
The governor did not open the envelope. "What are they of? In general?"
"One set shows part of the ship's radar guidance system manual." Crosse hesitated. "The other set's a photocopy of a complete manifest of the carrier's arsenal, ammunition, missiles and warheads. Quantities, qualities, their numbers and where stored in the ship."
"Jesus Christ! Including nuclear warheads? No, please don't answer that." Sir Geoffrey stared at Crosse. After a pause he said, "Well, Roger, it's marvellous that the information didn't get into enemy hands. You're to be congratulated. Our American friends will be equally relieved, and they'll owe you a number of very great favours. Good God, in expert hands that knowledge would lay bare the ship's entire strike capability!"
"Yes sir." Crosse smiled thinly.
Sir Geoffrey studied him.
"But what to do about this major of yours?"
"I would send the major to London with a special escort by RAF transport at once. I think they should do the debriefing there even though we're better equipped, more practised, and more efficient here. My worry is that his superiors will surely know within an hour or so and might attempt to rescue him or to render him useless. They might even use extreme diplomatic pressure to force us to release him to the Ivanov. Besides, when the PRC and Nationalists hear we've caught such an official, they might try to acquire him themselves."
"What about the American sailor?"
"It might be politic to turn him over to the CIA at once, with the negative of the film and these—they're the only prints I made. I developed and made them myself for obvious security reasons. I suspect Rosemont would be the best person."
"Ah yes, Rosemont. He's here now."
"Yes sir."
Sir Geoffrey's eyes hardened. "You have copies of all my guest lists, Roger?"
"No sir. Half an hour ago I called the consulate to find out where he was. They told me."
Sir Geoffrey looked back at him under his shaggy eyebrows, disbelieving him, sure that the chief of SI did know whom he invited and when. Never mind, he thought testily, that's his job. And I'll bet a golden guinea to a doughnut that these prints aren't the only copies Roger made, for he knows our Admiralty would love to see them too and it's his duty to provide them. "Could this have any connection with the AMG business?"
"No. No not at all," Crosse said and the governor thought he heard the momentary mutter in Crosse's voice. "I don't think there's any connection."
Sir Geoffrey got out of the tall chair and paced for a moment, his mind sifting possibilities. Roger's right. Chinese Intelligence on both sides of the bamboo fence are bound to find out quickly, as every one of our Chinese police has PRC or Nationalist sympathies. So it's far better to have the spy out of reach. Then no one will be tempted—at least, not here. "I think I should chat with the minister at once."
"Perhaps, under the circumstances, sir, you could inform the minister what I've done about the major—sending him to London under es—"
"He's already gone?"
"No sir. But it's well within my authority to expedite that—if you agree."
Thoughtfully Sir Geoffrey glanced again at the clock. At length he said with a small smile, "Very well. It's lunchtime now in London, I'll inform him in an hour or so. Is that sufficient time?"
"Oh yes, thank you, sir. Everything's arranged."
"I presumed it was."
"I'll breathe a lot easier when the fellow's en route home, sir. Thank you."
"Yes. And the sailor?"
"Perhaps you could ask the minister to approve our handing him over to Rosemont, sir."
There were a dozen questions Sir Geoffrey would like to have asked but he asked none of them. From long experience he knew he was not a good liar, so the less he knew the better. "Very well. Now, what's the second piece of 'good' news. I trust this will be better."
"We've caught the mole, sir."
"Ah! Good. Excellent! Very good. Who?"
"Senior Superintendent Kwok."
"Impossible!"
Crosse kept the pleasure off his face. "I agree, sir. Even so, Superintendent Kwok's a Communist mole and spy for the PRC." Crosse related how Brian Kwok's cover had been penetrated. "I suggest Superintendent Armstrong should get a commendation—also Spectacles Wu. I'm taking him into SI, sir."
Sir Geoffrey was staring out of the window, stunned. "Bless my soul! Young Brian! Why? He would have been an assistant commissioner in a year or two.... I suppose there's no mistake?"
"No sir. As I said, the proof is irrefutable. Of course, we don't know the how or the why yet but we soon will."
Sir Geoffrey heard the finality and he saw the thin, hard face and cold eyes and he felt very sorry for Brian Kwok, whom he had liked for many years. "Keep me advised about him. Perhaps we can discover what makes a man like that do such a thing. Good God, such a charming chap and a first-class cricketer too. Yes, keep me advised."
"Certainly, sir." Crosse got up. "Interesting. I could never understand why he was always so anti-American—it was his only flaw. Now it's obvious. I should have spotted that. Sorry sir, and sorry to interrupt your evening."
"You're to be congratulated, Roger. If the Soviet agent's being sent to London perhaps Brian Kwok should go too? The same reasons would apply to him?"
"No sir. No I don't think so. We can deal with Kwok here much quicker and better. We're the ones who need to know what he knows—London wouldn't understand. Kwok's a threat to Hong Kong, not to Britain. He's a PRC asset—the other man's Soviet. The two don't parallel."
Sir Geoffrey sighed heavily, knowing Crosse was right. "I agree. This has really been a quite dreadful day, Roger. First the bank runs, then the stock market... the deaths last night, poor Sir Charles Pennyworth and Toxe's wife... and this morning the Aberdeen mud-slide deaths... the Noble House's tottering... it looks as though this storm front's developing into a blasted typhoon which will probably wreck Saturday's racing... and now all your news, an American sailor betrays his country and ship and honour for a paltry $2,000?"
Crosse smiled his thin smile again. "Perhaps $2,000 wasn't paltry to him."
We live in terrible times, Sir Geoffrey was going to say, but he knew it was not the times. It was merely that people were people, that greed pride lust avarice jealousy gluttony anger and the bigger lust for power or money ruled people and would rule them forever. Most of them.
"Thank you for coming, Roger. Again, you're to be congratulated. I will so inform the minister. Good night."
He watched Crosse walk off, tall, confident and deadly. When the iron door in the high wall had been bolted behind him by his aide, Sir Geoffrey Allison allowed the real unasked question to surface once more.
Who's the mole in my police?
AMG's paper was quite clear. The traitor's a Soviet asset, not from the PRC. Brian Kwok has been flushed out by chance. Why didn't Roger point out the obvious?
Sir Geoffrey shuddered. If Brian could be a mole anyone could. Anyone.
8:17 PM
Almost before he took his finger off the bell the door swung open.
"Oh, Linc," Orlanda said breathlessly, her happiness spilling over, "I'd given you up. Please come in!"
"Sorry to be late," Bartlett said, taken aback by her beauty and marvellous warmth. "The traffic's snarled to hell and the ferries jammed and I couldn't get to a phone."
"You're here so you're not late, not at all. I was just afraid that..." Then she added in a rush, "I was afraid you wouldn't come back tonight and then I'd've been shattered. There, I've said it and all my defences are down but I'm so happy to see you I don't care." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him a swift happy kiss, took his arm and shut the door behind them.
Her perfume was delicate and barely there but he felt it as a physical presence. The dress she wore was knee-length white chiffon that sighed as she moved, close at the wrists and neck. It showed but somehow didn't quite show her golden skin. "I'm so happy you're here," she said again and took his umbrella and put it into a rack.
"So am I."
The room was prettier by night, mostly candlelit, the tall glass doors of the terrace open to the air. They were just below the overcast and the city sprawled down the mountain to the sea, the lights misting from time to time as whiskers of the low clouds passed by. Sea level was seven hundred feet below. Kowloon was dim and the harbour dim but he knew the ships were there and he could see the huge carrier at the wharf, her great angled deck floodlit, the needle-nosed jets floodlit, her battle-grey bridge reaching for the sky—the Stars and Stripes hanging damp and listless.
"Hey," he said, leaning on the terrace railing, "what a great night, Orlanda."
"Oh yes, yes it is. Come and sit down."
"I'd rather look at the view, if it's okay."
"Of course, anything you want's fine, anything. That suit's great on you, Linc, and I love your tie." She said it happily, wanting to compliment him even though she did not think the tie matched too well. Never mind, she thought, he's just not colour conscious like Quillan, and needs helping. I'll do what Quillan taught me to do, not criticise but go out and buy one I like and give it to him. If he likes it, marvellous, if not never mind, for what does it matter—he's the one who's wearing it. Blue, blue would match Linc's eyes and go better with that shirt. "You dress very well."
"Thanks, so do you." He was remembering what Casey had said about his tie and how furious he had been with her tonight all the way across the ferry, all the time waiting for a cab, and the old woman who had trod on his foot shoving past to usurp his cab but he had foiled her and cursed her back.
It was only now that his rage-temperature had vanished. It was Orlanda's pleasure at seeing me that did it, he told himself. It's years since Casey lit up like a Christmas tree or said anything when I... the hell with that. I'm not going to worry about Casey tonight. "The view's fantastic and you're as pretty as a picture!"
She laughed. "So're you and... oh your drink, sorry..." She whirled away for the kitchen, her skirt flying. "I don't know why but you make me feel like a schoolgirl," she called out. In a moment she came back. On the tray was an earthenware pot of pate and rounds of fresh toast and a bottle of iced beer. "I hope this's right."
It was Anweiser. "How did you know my brand?"
"You told me this morning, don't you remember?" Her warmth flooded over again at his obvious pleasure. "Also that you like drinking it out of the bottle."
He took it and grinned at her. "Is that going to be in the article too?"
"No. No, I've decided not to write about you."
He saw her sudden seriousness. "Why?"
She was pouring herself a glass of white wine. "I decided I could never do you justice in an article so I won't write one. Besides, I don't think you'd like that hanging over you." Her hand went to her heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die, no article, everything private. No article, no journalism, I swear by the Madonna," she added, meaning it.
"Hey, no need to be dramatic!"
She was leaning with her back against the railing, an eighty-foot drop to the concrete below. He saw the sincerity in her face and he believed her completely. He was relieved. The article had been the only flaw, the only danger point for him—that and her being a journalist. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, deliberately lightly. "Sealed with a kiss. Thanks."
"Yes."
They watched the view for a moment.
"Is the rain over for good?"
"I hope not, Linc. We need a good series of storms to fill the reservoirs. Keeping clean's so hard and we still only get water one day in four." She smiled mischievously as a child would. "Last night during the torrent I stripped and bathed here. It was fantastic. The rain was even heavy enough to wash my hair."
The thought of her naked, here, in the night, touched him. "You'd better be careful," he said. "The railing's not that high. I wouldn't want you to slip."
"Strange, I'm frightened to death of the sea but heights don't bother me a bit. You certainly saved my life."
"C'mon! You would have made it without me."
"Perhaps, but you certainly saved my face. Without you there I would surely have disgraced myself. So thanks for my face."
"And that's more important than life out here, isn't it?"
"Sometimes, yes, yes it is. Why do you say that?"
"I was just thinking about Dunross and Quillan Gornt. Those two're having at each other, mostly over face."
"Yes. You're right, of course." She added thoughtfully, "They're both fine men, in one way, both devils in another."
"How do you mean?"
"They're both ruthless, both very very strong, very hard, adept and... and well conversed with life." As she talked she heaped one of the rounds of toast with pate and offered it to him, her nails long and perfect. "The Chinese have a saying: 'Chan ts'ao, chu ken'—when pulling weeds make sure you get rid of the roots. The roots of those two go deep in Asia, very deep, too deep. It would be hard to get rid of those roots." She sipped her wine and smiled a little smile. "And probably not a good idea, not for Hong Kong. Some more pate?"
"Please. It's wonderful. You make it?"
"Yes. It's an old English recipe."
"Why wouldn't it be good for Hong Kong?"
"Oh, perhaps because they balance each other. If one destroys the other—oh I don't mean just Quillan or Dunross, I mean the hongs themselves, the companies, Struan's and Rothwell-Gornt. If one eats up the other, perhaps the remaining one would be too strong, there would certainly be no competition, then perhaps the tai-pan would become too greedy, perhaps he'd decide to dump Hong Kong." She smiled hesitantly. "Sorry... I'm talking too much. It's just an idea. Another beer?"
"Sure, in a moment, thanks, but that's an interesting thought." Yes, Bartlett was thinking, and one that hadn't occurred to me—or to Casey. Are those two necessary to each other? And Casey and I? Are we necessary to each other? He saw her watching him and he smiled back. "Orlanda, it's no secret I'm thinking about making a deal with one of them. If you were me, which one would you go with?"
"Neither," she said at once and laughed. "Why?"
"You're not British, not one of the 'old boys,' not a hereditary member of any of the clubs, and however much your money and power here, it's the Old Boy network that will finally decide what is to be." She took his empty bottle and went and brought another. "You think I couldn't make a go of it?"
"Oh I didn't mean that, Linc. You asked about Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt, about going into business with one of them. If you do, they'll be the winners in the end."
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