"No tears?"
"Always tears. But tears is a way of life for a girl."
"Not for you."
She sighed and put her hand on his arm. "I've had my share. But you make me forget all the tears I've ever had." A sudden burst of laughter made them look up. The four Japanese businessmen were hunched down with six girls, their table loaded with drinks and more arriving. "I'm so happy I don't have to... have to serve the Japanese," she said simply, "I bless my joss for that. But they are the biggest spenders, Linc, much more than any other tourists. They spend even more than the Shanghainese, so they get the best service even though they're hated and they know they're hated. They don't seem to care that their spending buys them nothing except falsehoods. Perhaps they know it, they're clever, very clever. Certainly they have a different attitude to pillowing and to Ladies of the Night, different from other people." Another burst of laughter. "Chinese call them long syin goufei in Mandarin, literally 'wolfs heart, dog's lungs,' meaning men without conscience." He frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"Oh but it does! You see Chinese cook and eat every part of fish, fowl or animal except for a wolfs heart and a dog's lungs. They're the only two things that you cannot flavour—they always stink whatever you do to them." She looked back at the other table. "To Chinese, Japanese men're long syin goufei. So is money. Money has no conscience either." She smiled a strange smile and sipped her liqueur. "Nowadays many mama-sans or owners will advance money to a girl to help her learn Japanese. To entertain, of course you have to communicate, no?"
Another bevvy of girls went past and she saw them look at Bartlett and then at her speculatively and look away again. Orlanda knew they despised her because she was Eurasian and with a quai loh customer. They joined another table. The club was filling up. "Which one do you want?" she asked. "What?"
She laughed at his shock. "Oh come now, Linc Bartlett, I saw your wandering eye. Is—"
"Stop it, Orlanda!" he said uncomfortably, a sudden edge to his voice.
"In this place it's impossible not to notice."
"Of course, that's why I suggested it," she said immediately, forcing her smile steady, her reactions very fast and again she touched him, her hand tender on his knee. "I picked this place for you so you could feast your eyes." She snapped her fingers. Instantly the maitre d' was there, kneeling politely beside their low table. "Give me your card," she said imperiously in Shanghainese, almost sick with an apprehension that she hid perfectly.
At once the man produced what looked like a playbill. "Leave me your flashlight. I'll call you when I need you."
The man went away. Like a conspirator she moved closer. Now their legs were touching. Linc put his arm around her. She directed the pencil light at the playbill. There were photographs, portraits of twenty or thirty girls. Underneath each were rows of Chinese characters. "Not all these girls will be here tonight, but if you see one you like we'll bring her over."
He stared at her. "Are you serious?"
"Very serious, Linc. You don't have to worry, I'll negotiate for you, if you like her, after you've met her and talked to her."
"I don't want one of these, I want you."
"Yes. Yes I know, my darling, and... but for tonight, bear with me, please. Play a little game, let me design your night."
"Jesus, you're something else!"
"And you're the most marvellous man I've ever known and I want to make your night perfect. I can't give you me now, much as I want to, so we'll find a temporary substitute. What do you say?"
Bartlett was still staring at her. He finished his drink and did not taste it. Another appeared out of nowhere. He drank half of it.
Orlanda knew the chance she was taking but felt that either way she would draw him tighter to her. If he accepted he would be beholden to her for an exciting night, a night that Casey or any quai loh woman would never in a thousand years have offered to him. If he refused, then he would still be grateful for her generosity. "Linc, this is Asia. Here sex is not Anglo-Saxon mumbo-jumbo and guilt-ridden. It's a pleasure to be sought like great food or great wine. What's the value of one night to a man, a real man, with one of these Pleasure Ladies? A moment of pleasure. A memory. Nothing more. What has that to do with love, real love? Nothing. I'm not for one night or for hire. I felt your yang.... No please, Linc," she added quickly as she saw him bridle. "About yang and yin things we cannot lie or tell falsehoods, that would destroy us. I felt you and I was filled with joy. Didn't you feel me? You're strong and a man, yang, and I'm a woman, yin, and when the music is soft and... Oh, Linc." She put her hand around his and looked up at him beseechingly. "I beg you, don't be bound by Anglo-American nonsense. This is Asia and I—I want to be everything a woman could be for you."
"Jesus, you really mean it?"
"Of course. By the Madonna, I would like to be everything that you could desire in a woman," she said. "Everything. And I also swear that when I'm old or you no longer desire me I will help arrange that part of your life to be joyous, openly, freely. All that I would ask is to be tai-tai, to be part of your life." Orlanda kissed him lightly. And then she saw the sudden change in him. She saw the awe and his defenselessness and she knew she had won. Her glee almost swamped her. Oh Quillan, you're a genius, she wanted to shout. I never believed, truly believed, that your suggestion would be so perfect, I never believed that you were so wise, oh thank you thank you.
But her face showed none of this and she waited patiently, motionless.
"What does tai-tai mean?" he asked throatily. Tai-tai meant "supreme of the supreme," wife. By ancient Chinese custom, in the home the wife was supreme, all powerful. "To be part of your life," she said softly, her whole being shouting caution.
Again she waited. Bartiett leaned down and she felt his lips brush hers. But his kiss was different and she knew that from now on their relationship would be on a different plane. Her excitement soared. She broke the spell. "Now," she said as though to a naughty child, "now, Mr. Linc Bartiett, which one do you choose?"
"You."
"And I choose you, but meanwhile we have to decide which one you're going to consider. If these aren't to your liking we'll go to another club." Deliberately she kept her voice matter-of-fact. "Now what about her?" The girl was lovely, the one he had looked at. Orlanda had already decided against her and had chosen the one that she would prefer but, she thought contentedly, very sure of herself, the poor boy's entitled to an opinion. Oh I'm going to be such a perfect wife for you! "Her resume says she's Lily Tee—all the girls have working names they choose themselves. She's twenty, from Shanghai, speaks Shanghainese and Cantonese and her hobbies are dancing, boating and..." Orlanda peered at the tiny characters and he saw the lovely curve of her neck. "... and hiking. What about her?"
His eyes went to the picture. "Listen, Orlanda, I haven't been with a whore for years, not since I was in the army. I've never been much on them."
"I understand completely and you're right," she told him patiently, "but these aren't whores, not in the American sense. There's nothing vulgar or secret about them or what I propose. These are Pleasure Ladies who may offer you their youth which has great wine, in exchange for some of your money which has almost none. It's a fair exchange, given and received with face on both sides. For instance, you should know in advance how much she should receive and you must never give her the money directly, you must only put it into her handbag. That's important, and it's very important to me that your first encounter be perfect. I've got to protect your face too, an—"
"Come on, Orlan—"
"But I'm serious, Linc. This choosing, this gift from me to you has nothing to do with you and me, nothing. What happens with us is joss. It's just important to me for you to enjoy life, to know what Asia is, really is, not what Americans think it is. Please?"
Bartiett was floundering now, all his well-tested signposts and guides shattered and useless against this woman who fascinated and astounded him.
He was drunk with her warmth and tenderness. All of him believed her.
Then, suddenly, he remembered and his inner self screamed caution. His euphoria fled. He had just remembered to whom he had mentioned how much he loved Italian food. Gornt. Gornt, a couple of days ago. Talking about the best meal he had ever had. Italian food with beer. Gornt. Jesus are these two in cahoots? Can't be, just can't be! Maybe I told her about the same meal. Did I?
He searched his mind but could not remember exactly, all of him rocked but his eyes kept seeing her waiting there, smiling at him, loving him. Gornt and Orlanda? They can't be in cahoots! No way! Even so, be cautious. You know almost nothing about her, so watch out for chrissake, you're in a web, her web. Is it a Gornt web too?
Test her, the devil in him shouted. Test her. If she means what she says then that's something else and she's from outer space and just as rare and you'll have to decide about her—you'll only have her on her terms.
Test her while you've the chance—you've nothing to lose.
"What?" she asked, sensing a change.
"I was just thinking about what you said, Orlanda. Shall I choose now?"
11:35 PM
Suslev was sitting in the half-dark of their safe house at 32 Sinclair Towers. Because of his meeting with Grey he had changed the rendezvous with Arthur to here.
He sipped his drink in the dark. Beside him on the side table was a bottle of vodka, two glasses and the telephone. His heart thumped heavily as it always did when he was waiting for a clandestine meeting. Will I never get used to them? he asked himself. No. Tonight I'm tired though everything has gone beautifully. Grey's programmed now. That poor fool, driven by hatred and envy and jealousy! Centre must further caution the leadership of the BCP about him—the trend's too vulnerable. And Travkin, once a prince, now nothing, and Jacques deVille—that impetuous incompetent—and all the others.
Never mind! Everything goes excellently. Everything's prepared against tomorrow and the arrival of the man Sinders. An involuntary shudder went through Suslev. I wouldn't want to be trapped by them. MI-6 are dangerous, committed and fanatic against us, like the CIA, but much worse. If the CIA and MI-6 plan, code name Anubis, to join Japan, China, England, Canada and America together ever comes to pass, Mother Russia will be ruined forever. Ah my country my country! How I miss Georgia, so beautiful and gentle and verdant.
The songs of his childhood, the folk songs of Georgia, welled up and took him back. He wiped away a small tear at the thought of so much beauty, so far away. Never mind, my leave's due soon. Then I'll be home. And my son will be home on leave at the same time from Washington with his young wife and their infant son, born so wisely in America. No trouble about a passport for him. He'll be our fourth generation to serve. We advance.
The darkness was pressing down on him. At Arthur's request, for further safety he had drawn the curtains and kept the windows closed though there was no possibility they could be seen. The apartment had air conditioning but again for safety he had been asked to leave it off, as well as the lights. It had been wise to leave the Finns' apartment before Grey in case there had been a change of plan and there was an SI tail on him. Crosse had told him there would be none tonight, though tomorrow another man would be assigned to him.
He had caught a taxi and stopped at Golden Ferry for the evening papers, pretending to lurch drunkenly in case he was being observed, then went to Rose Court and Clinker's and down the tunnel and then here. There was an SI man stationed outside Rose Court. The man was still outside and would stay there or not stay there. It made no difference.
The phone jangled. The sound made him jump even though the bell was carefully muted. Three rings, then silence. His heart picked up a beat. Arthur would be here shortly.
He touched the automatic that was secreted behind one of the cushions. Orders from Centre. It was one of many orders he disapproved of. Suslev did not like guns, handguns. Guns could make mistakes, poison never. His fingers touched the tiny phial that was buried in his lapel close enough for his mouth to reach it. What would it be like to live without instant death so close?
Deliberately he relaxed and concentrated his senses like radar, wanting to sense Arthur's presence before it was actually there. Would Arthur use the front door or the back?
From where he was sitting he could see both doors. His ears searched carefully, mouth slightly open to increase their sensitivity. The whine of the elevator. His eyes went to the front door but the whine ceased floors below. He waited. The back door opened before he sensed anything. His insides fell over as he failed to recognise the dark shape. For a moment he was paralysed. Then the shape straightened one shoulder and the slight stoop vanished.
"Kristos!" Suslev muttered. "You gave me a fright."
"All part of the service, old boy." The soft, clipped words were mixed with the dry, hacking, put-on cough. "Are you alone?"
"Of course!"
The shape moved noiselessly into the living room. Suslev saw the automatic being put away and he relaxed the hold on his but left it ready in hiding. He got up and stretched out his hand warmly. "You're on time for once."
They shook hands. Jason Plumm did not remove his gloves, "I very nearly didn't arrive," he said in his normal voice, the smile on the surface of his face only.
"What's wrong?" the Russian asked, reading the quality of the smile. "And why all the 'pull the curtains and keep the windows closed'?"
"I think this place may be under surveillance."
"Eh?" Suslev's disquiet soared. "Why didn't you mention it before?"
"I said, I think it may be. I'm not sure. We've gone to a lot of trouble to make this a safe house and I don't want it blown for any reason." The tall Englishman's voice had a raw edge to it. "Listen, comrade, all hell's broken loose. Si's caught a fellow called Metkin off your ship. He—"
"What?" Suslev stared at him with pretended shock. "Metkin. He's supposed to be political comm—"
"But that's impossible," Suslev said shakily, his acting consummate, hiding his delight that Metkin had fallen into his trap. "Metkin would never make a pickup himself!"
"Even so, SI have him! Armstrong got him and an American off the carrier. They caught them in the act. Does Metkin know about Sevrin?"
"No, absolutely not."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Even I didn't know until a few days ago when Centre told me to take over from Voranski," Suslev said, the twisted truth coming easily.
"You're sure? Roger almost hit the roof! Metkin's supposed to be your political commissar, and a major, KGB. Is he?"
"Yes, but it's ridic—"
"Why the devil didn't he or you or someone tell us you've an operation going so we could have been prepared in case of a foul-up! I'm head of Sevrin and now you're operating here without liaising or keeping me advised. It was always agreed. Voranski always told us in advance."
"But, comrade," Suslev said placatingly, "I didn't know anything about a pickup. Metkin does what he wants. He's the chief, the senior man on the ship. I'm not party to everything—you know that!" Suslev was suitably apologetic and irritable, keeping up his perpetual cover that he was not the real arbiter of Sevrin. "I can't think what possessed Metkin to have made a pickup himself. Stupid! He must've been mad! Thank God he's a dedicated man and his lapel's poisoned so there's no n—"
"They got him intact."
Suslev gasped, now in real shock. He'd expected Metkin to be long since dead. "You're sure?"
"They got him intact. They got his real name, rank and serial number and right now he's on an RAF transport under heavy guard heading for London."
Suslev's mind blanked out for a moment. He had cunningly set up Metkin to take over from the agent who should have made the pickup. For months now he had found Metkin increasingly critical of him and nosy and therefore dangerous. Three times in the last year he had intercepted private reports to Centre, written by his number two, criticising the easy way he ran his ship and his job, and his liaison with Ginny Fu. Suslev was sure Metkin was preparing a trap for him, maybe even trying to guarantee his retirement to the Crimea—a plum posting—by pulling off some coup, like, for example, whispering to Centre that he suspected there was a security leak aboard the Ivanov and that it must be Suslev.
Suslev shuddered. Neither Metkin, nor Centre nor any of the others would need proof, just suspicion would damn him.
"It's definite Metkin's alive?" he asked, thinking through this new problem.
"Yes. You're absolutely sure he knows nothing about Sevrin?"
"Yes. Yes, I've already told you." Suslev sharpened his voice. "You're the only one who knows all the members of Sevrin, eh? Even Crosse doesn't know them all, does he?"
"No." Plumm went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of water. Suslev poured himself a vodka, delighted that Sevrin had so many important safety valves within it: Plumm not aware that Roger Crosse was a KGB informer on the side... Crosse alone knowing Suslev's own real position in Asia but neither Crosse nor Plumm knowing his longtime connection with deVille... none of the other members knowing each other... and none of them aware of Banastasio and the guns or of the real extent of the Soviet thrust into the Far East.
Wheels within wheels within wheels and now Metkin, one of the faulty wheels, gone forever. It had been so easy to drop the honey to Metkin that safe acquisition of the carrier's armament manifest would guarantee promotion for the agent involved. "I'm surprised they caught him alive," he said, meaning it.
"Roger told me they had the poor bugger pinioned and a neck collar on him before he could get his teeth into the lapel."
"Did they find any evidence on him?"
"Roger didn't say. He had to work so damned fast. We thought the best thing to do was to whisk Metkin out of Hong Kong as quickly as possible. We were petrified he knew about us, being so senior. It'll be easier to deal with him in London." Plumm's voice was grave.
"Crosse will resolve Metkin."
"Perhaps." Uneasily Plumm drank some more water. "How did SI get to know about the pickup?" Suslev asked, wanting to find out how much Plumm knew. "There must be a traitor aboard my ship."
"No. Roger said the leak came through an informer MI-6 has aboard the carrier. Even the CIA didn't know."
"Kristos! Why the hell did Roger have to be so efficient?"
"It was Armstrong. SI has checks and balances. But so long as Metkin knows nothing there's no harm!"
Suslev felt the Englishman's scrutiny. He kept his face guileless. Plumm was no fool. The man was strong, cunning, ruthless, a secret protege and selectee of Philby's. "I'm certain Metkin knows nothing that could damage us. Even so, Centre should be informed at once. They can deal with it."
"I've already done that. I asked for Priority One help."
"Good," Suslev said. "You've done very well, comrade. You and Crosse. Acquiring Crosse for the cause was a brilliant coup. I must congratulate you again." Suslev meant the compliment. Roger Crosse was a professional and not an amateur like this man and all the others of Sevrin.
"Perhaps I acquired him, perhaps he acquired me. I'm not sure sometimes," Plumm said thoughtfully. "Or about you, comrade. Voranski I knew. We'd done business over the years but you, you're a new, untried quantity."
"Yes. It must be difficult for you."
"You don't seem too upset about the loss of your superior."
"I'm not. I must confess I'm not. Metkin was mad to put himself in such danger. That was totally against orders. To be frank... I think there have been security leaks from the Ivanov. Metkin was the only long-term member of the crew, apart from Voranski, who had access ashore. He was considered to be beyond reproach but you never know. Perhaps he made other mistakes, a loose tongue in a bar, eh?"
"Christ protect us from fools and traitors. Where did AMG get his information?"
"We don't know. As soon as we do, that leak will be plugged."
"Are you going to be Voranski's permanent replacement?"
"I don't know. I have not been told."
"I don't like change. Change is dangerous. Who killed him?"
"Ask Crosse. I want to know too." Suslev watched Plumm back. He saw him nod, apparently satisfied. "What about Sinders and the AMG papers?" he asked.
"Roger's covered everything. No need to worry. He's sure we'll get to look at them. You'll have your copy tomorrow." Again Plumm watched him. "What if we're named in the reports?"
"Impossible! Dunross would have told Roger at once—or one of his friends in the police, probably Chop Suey Kwok," Suslev said with a sneer. "If not him, the governor. Automatically it would get back to Roger. You're all safe."
"Perhaps, perhaps not." Plumm went to the window and looked at the brooding sky. "Nothing's ever safe. Take Jacques. He's a risk now. He'll never make tai-pan."
Suslev let himself frown and then, as though it was a sudden idea, he said, "Why not guide him out of Hong Kong? Suggest to Jacques he ask to be posted to... say Struan's in Canada. He could use his recent tragedy as an excuse. In Canada he'll be in a backwater and he'll die on the vine there. Eh?"
"Very good idea. Yes, that should be easy. He has a number of good contacts there which might be useful." Plumm nodded. "I'll be a lot happier when we've read those files, and even happier when you find out how the hell AMG discovered us."
"He discovered Sevrin, not you. Listen, comrade, I assure you you're safe to continue your vital work. Please continue to do everything you can to agitate the banking crisis and the stock market crash."
"No need to worry. We all want that to happen."
The phone came to life. Both men stared at it. It only sounded once. One ring. The code, danger, leaped into their heads. Aghast Suslev grabbed the hidden gun, remembering his fingerprints were on it as he hurtled through the kitchen for the back door, Plumm close behind him. He ripped open the door, letting Plumm through first onto the exit landing. At that moment there was the pounding of approaching feet and a crash against the front door behind them which held but buckled slightly. Suslev closed the back door silently, easing a bar into place. Another crash. He peered through a crack. Another crash. The front locks shattered. For an instant he saw the silhouettes of four men against the hall light, then he fled. Plumm was already down the stairs, covering him from the next landing, automatic out, and Suslev went down the steps three at a time past him to the next landing, then turned to cover in his turn. Above him the back door buckled nauseatingly. Silently Plumm ran past him and again covered him as they fled downward to the next landing. Then Plumm pulled away some camouflaging crates from the false door exit that branched off the main one. Footsteps noisily raced up toward them from downstairs. Another crash against the back door above. Suslev guarded as Plumm squeezed through the opening into the dark and he followed, pulling the partial door closed after him. Already Plumm had found the flashlight that was waiting in a clip. Footsteps raced closer. Cautiously Plumm led the way downward, both men moving well and silently. The footsteps passed with the sound of muffled voices. Both men stopped momentarily, trying to hear what was being said. But the sound was too indistinct and muted and they could not even tell if it was English or Chinese.
Plumm turned again and led the way downward. They hurried but with great caution, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise. Soon they were near the secret exit. Without hesitation the two men lifted the false floor and went below into the cool wet of the culvert. Once they were there and safe, they stopped for breath, their hearts pounding with the suddenness of it all. When he could talk, Suslev whispered, "Kuomintang?" Plumm just shrugged. He wiped the sweat off. A car rumbled overhead. He directed his light to the dripping ceiling. There were many cracks and another avalanche of stones and mud cascaded. The floor was awash with half a foot of water that covered their shoes.
"Best we part, old chap," Plumm said softly and Suslev noticed that though the man was sweating, his voice was icy calm and the light never wavered. "I'll get Roger to deal with whatever shower that was at once. Very bloody boring."
Suslev's heart was slowing. He still found it difficult to speak. "Where do we meet tomorrow?"
"I'll let you know." The Englishman's face was stark. "First Voranski, then Metkin and now this. Too many leaks." He jerked a thumb upward. "That was too close. Maybe your Metkin knew more than you think he did."
"No. I tell you he knew nothing about Sevrin, nothing, or about that apartment or Clinker or any of it. Only Voranski and me, we're the only ones who knew. There's no leak from our side."
"I hope you're right." Plumm added grimly, "We'll find out, Roger'll find out one way or another, one day, and then God help the traitor!"
"Good. I want him too."
After a pause Plumm said, "Call me every half an hour from various phone booths, from 7:30 P.M. tomorrow."
"All right. If for any reason there's a problem I'll be at Ginny's from eleven onwards. One last thing. If we don't get to look at the AMG papers, what's your opinion about Dunross?"
"His memory's incredible."
"Then we isolate him for a chemical interrogation?"
"Why not?"
"Good, tovarich. I'll make all the preparations."
"No. We'll snatch him and we'll deliver him. To the Ivanov?"
Suslev nodded and told him Metkin's suggestion of blaming the Werewolves, not saying it was Metkin's idea. "Eh?"
Plumm smiled. "Clever! See you tomorrow." He handed Suslev the flashlight, took out a pencil light and turned, going down the culvert, his feet still under water. Suslev watched until the tall man had turned the corner and vanished. He had never followed the culvert below. Plumm had told him not to, that it was dangerous and subject to rockfalls.
He took a deep breath, now over his fright. Another car rumbled heavily overhead. That's probably a truck, he thought absently. More mud and a piece of the concrete fell with a splash, startling him. Suslev waited, then began to pick his way carefully up the slope. Another tiny avalanche. Suddenly Suslev hated the subterranean tube. It made him feel insecure and doom ridden.
11:59 P.M.: Dunross was looking at the sad hulk of the burned-out Floating Dragon restaurant that lay on her side in twenty feet of Aberdeen water. The other multistoried eating palaces that floated nearby were still blazing with lights, gaudy and noisy, filled to capacity, their new, hastily erected, temporary kitchens on barges beside their mother ships, cauldrons smoking, fires under the cauldrons, and a mass of cooks and helpers like so many bees. Waiters hurried up and down precarious gangways with trays and dishes. Sampans sailed nearby, tourists staring, Hong Kong yan gaping, the hulk a great attraction.
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