"True," Armstrong replied sourly, "but that's no licence to mount a totally unauthorised raid on a totally clean flat belonging to the totally clean telephone company!"
"Who me?" Rosemont looked pained. "What flat?"
"Sinclair Towers, flat 32. You and your gorillas knocked down the door in the dead of the night. For what, may I ask?"
"How should I know?" Rosemont knew he had to bluff this one through, but he was still furious that whoever was in the apartment had escaped without identification. His rage over the carrier leak, Metkin's not being available for questioning, the whole Sevrin mess and Crosse's perfidy, had prompted him to order the raid. One of his Chinese informants had picked up a rumour that though the apartment was empty most of the time, sometimes it was used by Communist enemy agents—of gender unknown—and there was a meeting tonight. Connochie, one of his best agents, had led the raid and thought he caught a glimpse of two men going out the back but he wasn't sure, and though he searched diligently, they had vanished and he found nothing in the apartment to prove or disprove the rumour, just two half-empty glasses. The glasses were brought back and tested for fingerprints. One was clean, the other well marked. "I've never been to 32 Sinclair Towers, for chrissake!"
"Maybe, but your Keystone Kops were there. Several tenants reported four tall, meaty Caucasians charging up and down the stairs." Armstrong added even more sourly, "All fat-arsed and fat-headed. Have to be yours."
"Not mine. No sir."
"Oh yes they were and that mistake's going to backfire. Crosse's already sent two pretty foul cables to London. The pity of it is you failed to catch anything and we catch hell because of your continual screw-ups!"
Rosemont sighed. "Get off my back. I've got something for you." He told Armstrong of his conversation with Casey about Banastasio. "Of course we knew his connection with Par-Con but I didn't know he was arriving tomorrow. What do you think?"
Armstrong had seen the arrival recorded on Photographer Ng's calendar. "Interesting," he said noncommittally. "I'll tell the Old Man. But you'd better have a good explanation for him about Sinclair Towers and don't mention that I told you." His fatigue was almost overwhelming him. This morning at 6:30 A.M. he had begun the first real probe of Brian Kwok.
It was an orchestrated set piece: while still drugged, Brian Kwok had been taken out of his clean white cell and put naked into a filthy dungeon with dank walls and a stinking thin mattress on the mildewed floor. Then, ten minutes after the wake-up drug had jerked him into parched, aching consciousness, the light had blazed on and Armstrong had ripped the door open and cursed the SI jailer. "For chrissake, what're you doing to Superintendent Kwok? Have you gone mad? How dare you treat him like this!"
"Superintendent Crosse's orders, sir. This client's b—"
"There must be a mistake! I don't give a damn about Crosse!" He had thrown the man out and put his full, kind attention onto his friend. "Here, old chum, do you want a cigarette?"
"Oh Christ. Thank... thanks." Brian Kwok's fingers had trembled as he held the cigarette and drew the smoke deep. "Robert, what... what the hell's going on?"
"I don't know. I've just heard, that's why I'm here. I was told you'd been on leave for a few days. Crosse's gone mad. He claims you're a Communist spy."
"Me? For God's sake... what's the date today?"
"The thirtieth, Friday," he had said at once, expecting the question, adding seven days.
"Who won the fifth race?"
"Butterscotch Lass," he had said, caught off guard, astonished that Brian Kwok was still functioning so well and not at all certain if his own slight hesitation had been read for the lie it was. "Why?"
"Just wondered... just... Listen, Robert, this's a mistake. You've got to help me. Don't you s—"
On cue Roger Crosse had come in like the wrath of God. "Listen, spy, I want names and addresses of all your contacts right now. Who's your controller?"
Weakly Brian Kwok had stumbled to his feet. "Sir, it's all a mistake. There's no controller and I'm no spy an—"
Crosse had suddenly shoved blowups of the photos in his face. "Then explain how you were photographed in Ning-tok in front of your family pharmacy with your mother Fang-ling Wu. Explain how your real name's Chu-toy Wu, second son of these parents, Ting-top Wu and Fang-ling Wu..."
They had both seen the instant of shock on Brian Kwok's face.
"Lies," he had mumbled, "lies, I'm Brian Kar-shun Kwok and I'm—"
"You're a liar!" Crosse had shouted. "We have witnesses! We have evidence! You are identified by your gan sun, Ah Tarn!"
Another gasp, covered almost brilliantly, then "I... I have no gan sun called Ah Tarn. I h—"
"You'll spend the rest of your life in this cell unless you tell us everything. I'll see you in a week. You'd better answer everything truthfully or I'll put you in chains! Robert!" Crosse had whirled on him. "You're forbidden to come here without permission!" Then he had stalked out of the cell.
In the silence Armstrong remembered how nauseated he had been, having seen the truth written on his friend's face. He was too well trained an observer to be mistaken. "Christ, Brian," he had said, continuing the game, hating his hypocrisy even so. "What possessed you to do it?"
"Do what?" Brian Kwok had said defiantly. "You can't cheat me—or trick me, Robert... It can't be seven days. I'm innocent."
"And the photos?"
"Fake... they're fake, dreamed up by Crosse." Brian Kwok had held onto his arm, a desperate light behind his eyes, and whispered hoarsely, "I told you Crosse's the real mole. He's the mole, Robert... he's a homo—he's trying to frame me an—"
On cue, the brittle, officious SI jailer jerked the cell door open. "Sorry, sir, but you've got to leave."
"All right, but first give him some water."
"No water's allowed!"
"Goddamn you, get him some water!"
Reluctantly the jailer obeyed. While they were momentarily alone, Armstrong had slipped the cigarettes under the mattress. "Brian, I'll do what I can..." Then the jailer was back in the room with a battered cup.
"That's all you can have!" he said angrily. "I want the cup back!"
Thankfully Brian Kwok had gulped it and with it the drug. Armstrong left. The door slammed and the bolts shoved home. Abruptly the lights went out, leaving Brian Kwok in darkness. Ten minutes later Armstrong had gone back in with Dr. Dorn. And Crosse. Brian Kwok was unconscious, deeply drugged again and dreaming fitfully. "Robert, you did very well," Crosse had said softly. "Did you see the client's shock?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. So did I. No mistake about that,~or his guilt. Doctor, step up the sleep-wake-up every hour on the hour for the next twenty-four..."
"Christ," Armstrong burst out, "don't you th—"
"Every hour on the hour, Doctor, provided he checks out medically—I don't want him harmed, just pliable—for the next twenty-four. Robert, then you interrogate him again. If that doesn't work, we put him into the Red Room."
Dr. Dorn had flinched and Armstrong recalled how his heart had missed a beat. "No," he said.
"For chrissake, the client's guilty, Robert," Crosse snarled, no longer playacting. "Guilty! The client shopped Fong-fong and our lads and has done us God knows what damage. We're under the gun. The orders come from London! Remember Metkin, our great commissar catch from the Ivanov? I've just heard the RAF transport's vanished. It refuelled in Bombay then vanished somewhere over the Indian Ocean."
6:58 PM
The governor was in an Olympian rage. He got out of the car and stomped to the side door of the bank where Johnjohn was waiting for him.
"Have you read this?" The governor waved the evening edition of the Guardian in the night air. The huge headline read: MPs ACCUSE PRC. "Bloody incompetent fools, what?"
"Yes sir." Johnjohn was equally choleric. He led the way past the uniformed doorman into a large anteroom. "Can't you hang both of them?"
At their afternoon press conference, Grey and Broadhurst had proclaimed publicly everything that he, Johnjohn, Dunross and the other tai-pans had, at length, patiently condemned as totally against Britain's, Hong Kong's and China's interest. Grey had gone on at length discussing his private and personal opinion that Red China was bent on world conquest and should be treated as the great enemy of world peace. "I've already had one unofficial official scream."
Johnjohn winced. "Oh God, not from Tiptop?"
"Of course from Tiptop. He said, in that calm silky voice of his, 'Your Excellency, when our peers in Peking read how important members of your great English Parliament view the Middle Kingdom, I think they will be really quite angry.' I'd say our chances of getting the temporary use of their money now is nil."
Another wave of anger went over Johnjohn.
"That damned man implied his views were the committee's views, which is totally untrue! Ridiculous to inflame China under any circumstances. Without China's benevolence our position here is totally untenable. Totally! Bloody fool! And we all went out of our way to explain!" The governor took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. "Where are the others?"
"Superintendent Crosse and Mr. Sinders are using my office for a moment. Ian's on his way. What about Ian and Grey, sir, Grey being Ian's brother-in-law? Eh?"
"Extraordinary." Since Grey had mentioned it in response to a question this afternoon he had had a dozen calls about it. "Astonishing that Ian never mentioned it."
"Or Penelope! Very odd. Do you th—" Johnjohn glanced up and stopped. Dunross was walking toward them.
"Evening, sir."
"Hello, Ian. I put the time back to 7:00 P.M. to give me a chance to see Sinders and Stanley Rosemont." The governor held up the paper. "You've seen this?"
"Yes sir. The Chinese evening papers are so incensed, I'm surprised every edition's not on fire and all of Central with them."
"I'd try them for treason," Johnjohn said, his face sour. "What the devil can we do, Ian?"
"Pray! I've already spoken to Guthrie, the Liberal MP, and some of the Tories. One of the Guardian's top reporters is interviewing them right now and their opposite opinions will be the morning headlines refuting all this poppycock." Dunross wiped his hands. He could feel the sweat on his back as well. The combination of Grey, Tiptop, Jacques, Phillip Chen, the coin and the AMG files was unnerving him. Christ Jesus, he thought, what next? His meeting with Murtagh of the Royal Belgium had been what Casey had forecast—a long shot but a good one. Coming out of that meeting someone had given him the afternoon papers and the bombshell that such ill-advised remarks was going to create had almost knocked him over. "We'll have to just dismiss the whole thing publicly, and privately work like hell to make sure Grey's bill to bring Hong Kong down to Britain's level never gets to a vote, or is voted down, and Labour never gets elected." He felt his bile rising. "Broadhurst was just as bad if not worse."
"Ian, have you talked to Tiptop?"
"No, Bruce. His line's still busy though I did send a message around."
He told them what he had arranged with Phillip Chen. Then the governor related Tiptop's complaint. Dunross was aghast. "When did he call, sir?"
"Just before six."
"He would have had our message by then. " Dunross felt his heart thumping. "After this... this debacle, I'd lay heavy odds there's no chance for Chinese money."
"I agree."
Dunross was acutely aware they had not mentioned Grey's relationship to him. "Robin Grey's worse than a fool," he said, thinking he might just as well bring it out into the open. "My god-cursed brother-in-law could not have done better for the Soviets if he was a member of the Politburo. Broadhurst as well. Stupid!"
After a pause the governor said, "As the Chinese say, The devil gives you your relations, thank all gods you can choose your friends.'"
"You're so right. Fortunately, the committee's due to leave Sunday. With the races tomorrow and all the... all the other problems, perhaps it'll all get lost in the shuffle." Dunross mopped his brow. "It's close in here, isn't it?"
The governor nodded, then added testily, "Is everything ready, Johnjohn?"
"Yes sir. The va—" In the hall the elevator opened and Roger Crosse and Edward Sinders, chief of MI-6, came out.
"Ah, Sinders," the governor said as they both came into the anteroom, "I'd like you to meet Mr. Dunross."
"Pleased to meet you, sir." Sinders shook hands with Dunross. He was a middle-aged, middle height, nondescript man with crumpled clothes. His face was thin and colourless, the stubble of his beard grey. "Please excuse my rumpledness, sir, but I haven't been to the hotel yet."
"Sorry about that," Dunross replied. "This could certainly have waited until tomorrow. Evening, Roger."
"Evening, sir. Evening, Ian," Crosse said crisply. "As we're all here, perhaps we could proceed?"
Obediently Johnjohn began to lead the way but Dunross said, "Just a moment. Sorry, Bruce, could you excuse us a moment?"
"Oh certainly." Johnjohn covered his surprise, wondering what this was all about and who Sinders was, but much too wise to ask. He knew they would tell him if they wanted him to know. The door closed behind him.
Dunross glanced at the governor. "Do you attest, sir, formally, this is Edward Sinders, head of MI-6?"
"I do." The governor handed him an envelope. "I believe you wanted it in writing."
"Thank you, sir." To Sinders, Dunross said, "Sorry, but you understand my reluctance."
"Of course. Good, then that's settled. Shall we go, Mr. Dunross?"
"Who's Mary McFee?"
Sinders was shocked. Crosse and the governor stared at him, perplexed, then at Dunross. "You have friends in high places, Mr. Dunross. May I ask who told you that?"
"Sorry." Dunross kept his gaze on him. Alastair Struan had got the information from some VIP in the Bank of England who had approached someone high up in the government. "All we want to do is to be sure Sinders is who he pretends to be."
"Mary McFee's a friend," Sinders said uneasily.
"Sorry, that's not good enough."
"A girl friend."
"Sorry, neither's that. What's her real name?"
Sinders hesitated, then, his face chalky, he took Dunross by the arm and guided him to the far end of the room. He put his lips very close to Dunross's ear. "Anastasia Kekilova, First Secretary of the Czechoslovak Embassy in London," he whispered, his back to Crosse and the governor.
Dunross nodded, satisfied, but Sinders held on to his arm with surprising strength and whispered even more softly, "You'd better forget that name. If the KGB ever suspect you know they'll get it out of you. Then she's dead, I'm dead and so're you."
Dunross nodded. "Fair enough."
Sinders took a deep breath, then turned and nodded at Crosse. "Now let's have this done with, Roger. Your Excellency?"
Tensely they all followed him. Johnjohn was waiting at the elevator. Three floors below were the vaults. Two plainclothes guards waited in the small hallway in front of the heavy iron gates, one man CID, the other SI. Both saluted. Johnjohn unlocked the gates and let everyone through except the guards, then relocked them. "Just a bank custom."
"Have you ever had a break-in?" Sinders asked.
"No, though the Japanese did force the gates when the keys were, er, lost."
"Were you here then, sir?"
"No. I was lucky." After Hong Kong capitulated, at Christmas, the two British banks, Blacs and the Victoria, became prime Japanese targets and were ordered to be liquidated. All the executives were separated and kept under guard and forced to assist the process. Over the months and years they were all subjected to extreme pressures. They were forced to issue bank notes illegally. And then the Kampeitai, the hated and feared Japanese secret police, had become involved. "The Kampeitai executed several of our fellows and made the lives of the rest miserable," Johnjohn said. "The usual: no food, beatings, privation, shut up in cages. Some died of malnutrition—starvation's the real word—and both Blacs and we lost our chief execs." Johnjohn unlocked another grille. Beyond were rows and rows of safe deposit boxes in several interconnecting concrete, reinforced cellars. "Ian?"
Dunross took out his passkey. "It's 16.85.94."
Johnjohn led the way. Very uncomfortable, he inserted his bank key in one lock. Dunross did the same with his. They turned both keys. The lock clicked open. Now all eyes were on the box. Johnjohn took out his key. "I'll... I'll be waiting at the gate," he said, glad it was over, and left.
Dunross hesitated. "There are other things in here, private papers. Do you mind?"
Crosse did not move. "Sorry but either Mr. Sinders or myself should ensure we get possession of all the files."
Dunross noticed the sweat on both men. His own back was wet. "Your Excellency, would you mind watching?"
"Not at all."
Reluctantly the two other men retreated. Dunross waited until they were well away, then opened the box. It was large. Sir Geoffrey's eyes widened. The box was empty but for the blue covered files. Without comment he accepted them. There were eight. Dunross slammed the box closed and the lock clicked home.
Crosse came forward, his hand out. "Shall I take them for you, sir?"
"No."
Crosse stopped, startled, and bit back a curse. "But, Exce—"
"The minister set up a procedure—approved by our American friends—which I agreed to," Sir Geoffrey said. "We will all go back to my office. We will all witness the photocopying. Two copies only. One for Mr. Sinders, one for Mr. Rosemont. Ian, I have been directly ordered by the Minister to give Mr. Rosemont copies."
Dunross shrugged, desperately hoping that he still appeared unconcerned. "If that's what the minister wants, that's perfectly all right. When you've photocopied the originals, sir, please burn them." He saw them look at him but he was watching Crosse and he thought he saw an instant of pleasure. "If the files're so special then it's better they shouldn't exist—except in the correct hands, MI-6 and the CIA. Certainly I shouldn't have a copy. If they're not special—then never mind. Most of poor old AMG was too farfetched and now that he's dead I must confess I don't consider the files special so long as they're in your hands. Please burn or shred them, Excellency."
"Very well." The governor turned his pale blue eyes on Roger Crosse. "Yes, Roger?"
"Nothing, sir. Shall we go?"
Dunross said, "I've got to get some corporate papers to check while I'm here. No need to wait for me."
"Very well. Thank you, Ian," Sir Geoffrey said and left with the other two men.
When he was quite alone Dunross went to another bank of boxes in the adjoining vault. He took out his key ring and selected two keys, grimly aware that Johnjohn would have a coronary if he knew he had a duplicate master key. The lock sprang back soundlessly. This box was one of dozens the Noble House possessed under different names. Inside were bundles of U.S. $100 notes, ancient deeds and papers. On top was a loaded automatic. As always, Dunross's psyche was unsettled, hating guns, hating Hag Struan, admiring her. In her "Instructions to Tai-pans," written just before her death in 1917, that was part of her last will and testament and in the tai-pan's safe, she had laid down more rules and one of them was that there should always be substantial amounts of secret cash for the tai-pan's use, on hand, and another that there should be at least four loaded handguns perpetually available in secret places. She wrote: "I abhor guns but I know them to be necessary. On Michaelmas Eve in 1916 when I was infirm and sick, my grandson Kelly O'Gorman, fourth tai-pan (in name only), believing I was on my deathbed, forced me from my bed to the safe in the Great House to fetch the seal-chop of the Noble House—to assign to him absolute power as tai-pan. Instead I took the gun that was secretly in the safe and shot him. He lingered two days then died. I am God-fearing and I abhor guns and some killing, but Kelly became a mad dog and it is the duty of the tai-pan to protect the succession. I regret his death not a jot or tittle. You who read this beware: kith or kin lust for power as others do. Do not be afraid to use any method to protect Dirk Struan's legacy..."
A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. He remembered the hair on the nape of his neck rising when he had first read her instructions, the night he had taken over as tai-pan. He'd always believed that Cousin Kelly—eldest son of the Hag's last daughter Rose—had died of cholera in one of the great waves that perpetually washed Asia.
There were other monstrosities she had written about: "In 1894, that most terrible of years, the second of Jin-qua's coins was brought to me. That was the year plague had come to Hong Kong, bubonic plague. Amongst our heathen Chinese, tens of thousands were dying. Our own population was equally savaged and the plague took high and low, Cousin Hannah and three children, two of Chen-chen's children, five grandchildren. Legend foretold that bubonic plague was wind-borne. Others thought it was the curse of God or a flux like malaria, the killing 'bad air' of Happy Valley. Then the miracle! The Japanese research doctors Vitasato and Aoyama we brought to Hong Kong isolated the plague bacillus and proved the pest was flea-borne, and rat-borne, and that correct sanitation and the elimination of rats would cast out the curse forever. The eyesore hillside of Tai-ping Shan that Gordon owns—Gordon Chen, son of my beloved tai-pan—where most of our heathen always lived was a stinking, festering, overcrowded, rat-breeding cauldron for all pestilences, and as much as the authorities cajoled, ordered and insisted, the superstitious inhabitants there disbelieved everything and would do nothing to improve their lot, though the deaths continued and continued. Even Gordon, now a toothless old man, could do nothing—tearing his hair at his loss of rents, saving his energy for the four young women in his household.
"In the stench of late summer when it seemed the Colony was once more doomed, with deaths mounting daily, I had Tai-ping Shan put to the torch by night, the whole monstrous stenching mountainside. That some inhabitants were consumed is on my conscience, but without the cleansing fire the Colony was doomed and hundreds of thousands more doomed. I caused Tai-ping Shan to be fired but thereby I kept troth with Hong Kong. I kept troth with the Legacy. And I kept troth with the second of the half coins.
"On the twentieth of April a man called Chiang Wu-tah presented the half coin to my darling young cousin, Dirk Dunross, third tai-pan, who brought it to me, he not knowing the secret of the coins. I sent for the man Chiang who spoke English. The favour he asked was that the Noble House should grant immediate sanctuary and succour to a young, Westerneducated Chinese revolutionary named Sun Yat-sen; that we should help this Sun Yat-sen with funds; and that we should help him as long as he lived, to the limits of our power in his fight to overthrow the alien Manchu Dynasty of China. Supporting any revolutionary against China's ruling dynasty with whom we had cordial relations and on whom depended much of our trade and revenues was against my principles, and seemingly against the interests of the House. I said no, I would not assist the overthrow of their emperor. But Chiang Wu-tah said, 'This is the favour required from the Noble House.'
"And so it was done.
"At great risk I provided funds and protection. My darling Dirk Dunross spirited Dr. Sun out of Canton to the Colony and from there abroad to America. I wanted Dr. Sun to accompany young Dirk to England—he was leaving on the tide, Master of our steamer Sunset Cloud. That was the week I wanted to hand over to him as real tai-pan but he said, 'No, not until I return.' But he was never to return. He and all hands were lost at sea somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Oh how terrible my loss, our loss!
"But death is a part of life and we the living have our duty to be done. I do not yet know to whom I should hand over. It should have been Dirk Dunross, who was named for his grandfather. His sons are too young, none of the Coopers are adequate, or deVilles, Daglish is possible, none of the MacStruans are yet ready. Alastair Struan perhaps but there's a weakness there that comes down from Robb Struan.
"I don't mind admitting to you, future tai-pan, that I am weary unto death. But I am not yet ready to die. Pray God I am given the strength for a few more years. There is not one of my line or my beloved Dirk Struan's line worthy of his mantle. And now there is this Great War to see through, the House to rebuild, our merchant fleet to refurbish—so far German U-boats have sunk thirty of our ships, almost our whole fleet. Yes, and there is the favour of the second coin still to fulfil. This Dr. Sun Yat-sen must and will be supported until he dies and so retain our face in Asia...."
And we did, Dunross thought. The Noble House supported him in all his troubles, even when he tried to join with Soviet Russia, until he died in 1925 and Chiang Kai-shek, his Soviet-trained lieutenant, assumed his mantle and launched China into the future—until his old ally but ancient enemy, Mao Tse-tung, took the future away from him to mount the Dragon Throne in Peking with bloody hands, first of a new dynasty.
Dunross took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
The air in the vault was dusty and dry and a little caught in his throat and he coughed. His hands were sweaty too and he could still feel the chill on his back. He rummaged carefully to the bottom of the deep metal box and found his corporate chop that he would need over the weekend in case the Royal Belgium-First Central deal came to pass. I certainly owe Casey more than one favour if the deal is made, he told himself.
His heart was thumping again and he could not resist making sure. With great care he lifted the secret false bottom of the safety deposit box a fraction. In the two-inch space beneath were eight blue-covered files. AMG's real files. Those that moments ago he had passed over to Sinders had been in the sealed package that Kirk and his wife had brought yesterday—those eight counterfeit files and a letter: "Tai-pan: I am terribly worried that both you and I are betrayed and that information contained in previous files may fall into the wrong hands. The enclosed substitute files are safe and very similar. They drop vital names and vital information. You may pass these over if you are forced to do it, but only then. As to the originals, you should destroy them after you have seen Riko. Certain pages contain invisible writing. Riko will give you the key. Please excuse all these diversionary tactics but espionage is not for children; it deals in death, actual and in the future. Our lovely Britain is beset with traitors and evil walks the earth. Bluntly, freedom is under siege as never in history. I beg you to emulate your illustrious ancestor. He fought for freedom to trade, to live and to worship. Sorry, but I don't think he died in a storm. We'll never know the truth but I believe he was murdered, as I will be. Not to worry, my young friend. I've done very well in my life. I've put a lot of nails in the enemy coffin, more than my fair share—I ask you to do the same." The letter was signed, "With great respect."
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