Poor bugger, Dunross thought sadly.
Yesterday he had smuggled the counterfeit files into the vault, replacing the originals in the other box. He would have liked to have destroyed the originals then but there was no way to do that safely and anyway he had to wait for his meeting with the Japanese woman. Better and safer to leave them where they are for the moment, he said to himself. Plenty of ti— Suddenly he felt eyes. His hand sneaked for the automatic. When his fingers had grasped it, he looked around. His stomach seemed to turn over. Crosse was watching him. And Johnjohn. They were at the entrance to the vault.
After a moment Crosse said, "I just wanted to thank you for your cooperation, Ian. Mr. Sinders and I appreciate it."
Relief poured through Dunross. "That's all right. Glad to help." Trying to be casual he relaxed his hold on the automatic and let it slide away. The false bottom fell silently into place. He saw Crosse's scrutiny but shrugged it off. From where the superintendent stood he did not think it possible for him to have seen the real files. Dunross blessed his joss that had prevented him from taking one of the files out to leaf through it. Carelessly he slammed the box shut and his breathing began again. "It really is quite stuffy in here, isn't it?"
"Yes. Again, Ian, thank you." Crosse left.
"How did you open that box?" Johnjohn asked coldly.
"With a key."
"Two keys, Ian. That's against regulations." Johnjohn held out his hand. "May I have our property please."
"Sorry, old chum," Dunross said calmly, "it's not your property."
Johnjohn hesitated. "We always suspected you had a duplicate master key. Paul is right about one thing: you've too much power, you consider this bank yours, our funds yours and the Colony yours."
"We've had a long and happy association with both, and it's only in the last few years when Paul Havergill's had some measure of power that I've had a hard time, me personally, and my House personally. But worse than that, he's old-fashioned and I voted him out for that reason only. You're not, you're modern. You'll be fairer, far-seeing, less emotional and straighter."
Johnjohn shook his head. "I doubt it. If I ever become tai-pan of the bank I'm going to see it's wholly owned by its stockholders and controlled by directors appointed by them."
"It is now. We just own 21 percent of the bank."
"You used to own 21 percent. That stock's pledged against your revolving fund which you can't and probably never will repay. Besides, 21 percent is not control, thank God."
"It very nearly is."
"My whole point." Johnjohn's voice was metallic. "That's dangerous for the bank, very dangerous."
"I don't think so."
"I do. I want 11 percent back."
"No sale, old lad."
"When I'm tai-pan, old lad, I'll get it by hook or by crook."
"We'll see."
"When I'm tai-pan I'm going to make lots of changes. All these locks for example. No master keys, privately owned."
"We'll see." Dunross smiled.
On Kowloon side, Bartlett jumped from the wharf to the pitching boat, helped Orlanda aboard. Automatically she kicked off her high heels to protect the fine teak deck.
"Welcome aboard the Sea Witch, Mr. Bartlett. Evening, Orlanda," Gornt said with a smile. He was at the helm and at once he motioned to his deckhand who cast off from the wharf that was near the Kowloon ferry terminal. "I'm delighted you accepted my invitation to dinner, Mr. Bartlett."
"I didn't know I had one until Orlanda told me half an hour ago... hey, this's a great boat!"
Gornt jovially put the engines into slow astern. "Until an hour ago I didn't know you two were going to dinner by yourselves. I presumed you'd never seen Hong Kong harbour by night so I thought it'd make a change for you. There were a couple of things I wanted to discuss privately so I asked Orlanda if she'd mind if I invited you aboard."
"I hope it was no trouble to come Kowloon side."
"No trouble, Mr. Bartlett. It's routine to pick up guests here." Gornt smiled a secret smile, thinking about Orlanda and all the other guests he had fetched from this Kowloon wharf over the years. Deftly Gornt backed the motor cruiser away from the Kowloon dock near Golden Ferry where the waves slapped the quay dangerously. He put the engine levers into half ahead and swung the tiller starboard to get out into the roads and set a westerly course.
The boat was seventy feet, trim, elegant, sparkling and she handled like a speedboat. They were on the bridge deck, glass-sided, open to the air aft, awnings overhead tight and crackling in the breeze, the wake churning. Gornt wore rough, casual sea clothes, a light reefer jacket and a jaunty peaked cap sporting the Yacht Club emblem. The clothes and his trimmed black, grey-flecked beard suited him. He swayed easily with the motion of the boat, very much at home.
Bartlett was watching him, at home too in sneakers and casual sweat shirt. Orlanda was beside him and he could feel her though they were not touching. She wore a dark evening pants suit and a shawl against the sea cold and she stood swaying easily, the wind in her hair, tiny without shoes.
He looked aft across the harbour at the ferries, junks, liners and the immense bulk of the battle-grey nuclear carrier, her decks floodlit, her flag fluttering bravely. A jet shrieked into the night sky from Kai Tak and incoming jets approaching Kowloon were stacked up.
He could not see the airport or his own aeroplane from this angle but he knew where it was parked. This afternoon he had visited it with police permission to check and fetch some papers and provisions.
Orlanda, beside him, touched him casually and he looked at her. She smiled back and he was warmed.
"Great, isn't it?"
Happily she nodded. There was no need to answer. Both knew.
"It is," Gornt said, thinking that Bartlett was talking to him and looked around at him. "It's grand to be afloat at night, master of your own craft. We go west, then almost due south around Hong Kong—about three quarters of an hour." He beckoned his captain who was nearby, a silent lithe Shanghainese wearing neat, starched white ducks.
"Shey-shey," thank you, the man said taking the helm.
Gornt waved to the chairs aft around a table. "Shall we?" He glanced at Orlanda. "You're looking very pretty, Orlanda."
"Thank you," she said.
"You're not too cold?"
"Oh no, Quillan, thank you."
A liveried steward came from below. On his tray were hot and cold canapes. In the ice bucket beside the table was an opened bottle of white wine, four glasses, two cans of American beer and some soft drinks. "What can I offer you, Mr. Bartlett?" Gornt asked. "The wine's Frascati but I hear you prefer iced cold beer out of the can?"
"Tonight Frascati—beer later, if I may?"
"Orlanda?"
"Wine please, Quillan," she said calmly, knowing that he knew she preferred Frascati to any other wine. I'll have to be very wise tonight, she thought, very strong and very wise and very clever. She had agreed to Gornt's suggestion at once for she, too, loved the water at night and the restaurant was a favourite though she would have preferred to have been alone with Linc Bartlett. But it was clearly an... No, she thought, correcting herself. It wasn't an order, it was a request. Quillan's on my side. And in this, my side and his side have the same aim in common: Linc. Oh how I enjoy Linc!
When she looked at him she saw he was watching Gornt. Her heart quickened. It was like once when Gornt had taken her to Spain and she had seen a mno a no. Yes, these two men are like matadors tonight. I know Quillan still desires me whatever he says. She smiled back at him, her excitement in place. "Wine would be fine for me."
It was dark on deck, the lighting comfortable and intimate. The steward poured, this wine as always very good, delicate, dry and enticing. Bartlett opened an air carry bag that he had brought with him. "It's an old American custom to bring a gift the first time you go to a home—I guess this is a home." He put the wine bottle on the table.
"Oh that's very kind of..." Gornt stopped. Delicately he picked up the bottle and stared at it, then got up and looked at it under the binnacle light. He sat down again. "That's not a gift, Mr. Bartlett, that's bottled magic. I thought my eyes were deceiving me." It was a Chateau Margaux, one of the great premier cru clarets from the Medoc in the province of Bordeaux. "I've never had the '49. That was a dream year for clarets. Thank you. Thank you very much."
"Orlanda said you liked red better than white but I guessed we might have some fish." Casually he put the second bottle beside the first.
Gornt stared at it. It was a Chateau Haut-Brion. In good years Chateau Haut-Brion red compared with all the great Medocs, but the white—dry, delicate and little known because it was so scarce—was considered one of the finest of all the great Bordeaux whites. The year was '55.
Gornt sighed. "If you know so much about wines, Mr. Bartlett, why do you drink beer?"
"I like beer with pasta, Mr. Gornt,—and beer before lunch. But wine with food." Bartlett grinned. "Come Tuesday, we'll have beer with the pasta, then Frascati or Verdicchio or the Umbrian Casale with... with what?"
"Piccata?"
"Great," Bartlett said, not wanting any piccata other than Orlanda's. "That's just about my favourite." He kept his attention on Gornt and did not glance at Orlanda but he knew she knew what he meant. I'm glad I tested her.
"Oh did you have a good time?" she had said when she had called for him this morning at the small hotel on Sunning Road. "Oh I do hope so, Linc, darling."
The other girl had been beautiful but there had been no feeling other than lust, the satisfaction of the joining minimal. He had told her.
"Oh then that's my fault. We chose wrong," she had said unhappily. "Tonight we'll have dinner and we'll try somewhere else."
Involuntarily he smiled and looked at her. The sea breeze was making her more beautiful. Then he noticed Gornt watching them. "Are we eating fish tonight?"
"Oh yes. Orlanda, did you tell Mr. Bartlett about Pok Liu Chau?"
"No, Quillan, just that we've been invited for a sail."
"Good. It won't be a banquet but the seafood there's excellent, Mr. Bartlett. You pi—"
"Why don't you call me Linc and let me call you Quillan? The 'mister' bit gives me indigestion."
They all laughed. Gornt said, "Linc, with your permission we'll not open your gift tonight. Chinese food's not for these great wines, they wouldn't complement each other. I'll keep them, if I may, for our dinner Tuesday?"
"Of course."
There was a small silence within the muted thunder of the diesel engines below. Immediately sensing Gornt wanted privacy, Orlanda got up with a smile. "Excuse me a second, I just want to powder my nose."
"Use the forward cabins, the forward gangway, Orlanda," Gornt said, watching her.
"Thank you," she said and walked off, in one way glad, in another hurt. The forward cabins were for guests. She would have automatically gone down this gangway to the main cabin, to the toilet off the master suite—the suite that once was theirs. Never mind. The past is the past and now there's Linc, she thought, going forward.
Bartlett sipped his wine, wondering why Orlanda had seemed to hesitate. He concentrated on Gornt. "How many does this boat sleep?"
"Ten comfortably. There's a regular crew of four—captain-engineer, a deckhand, cook and steward. I'll show you around later if you like." Gornt lit a cigarette. "You don't smoke?"
"No, no thanks."
"We can cruise for a week without refuelling. If necessary. We still conclude our deal on Tuesday?"
"That's still D Day."
"Have you changed your mind? About Struan's?"
"Monday'll still decide the battle. Monday at 3:00 P.M. When the market closes, you've got Ian or you haven't and it's a standoff again."
"This time it won't be a standoff. He's ruined."
"It sure as hell looks that way."
"Are you still going to Taipei with him?"
"That's still the plan."
Gornt took a deep drag of his cigarette. His eyes checked the lie of his ship. They were well out into the main channel. Gornt got up and stood beside the captain a moment but the captain had also seen the small unlit junk ahead and he skirted it without danger. "Full ahead," Gornt said and came back. He refilled the glasses, chose one of the deep-fried dim sum and looked at the American. "Linc, may I be blunt?"
"Sure."
"Orlanda."
Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"
"As you probably know, she and I were very good friends once. Very good. Hong Kong's a very gossipy place and you'll hear all sorts of rumours, but we're still friends though we haven't been together for three years." Gornt looked at him under his shaggy black-grey eyebrows. "I just wanted to say that I wouldn't want her harmed." His teeth glinted with his smile in the gimbaled light over the table. "And she's as fine a person and companion as you could find."
"I agree."
"Sorry, don't want to belabour anything, just wanted to make three points, one man to another. That was the first. The second's that she's as closed-mouthed as any woman I've ever known. The third's that she's nothing to do with business—I'm not using her, she's not a prize, or bait or anything like that."
Bartlett let the silence hang. Then he nodded. "Sure."
"You don't believe me?"
Bartlett laughed. It was a good laugh. "Hell, Quillan, this's Hong Kong! I'm out of my depth in more ways than you can shake a stick at. I don't even know if Pok Liu Chau's the name of the restaurant, a part of Hong Kong or in Red China." He drank the wine, enjoying it. "As to Orlanda, she's great and you've no need to worry. I got the message."
"I hope you don't mind my mentioning it."
Bartlett shook his head. "I'm glad you did." He hesitated, then because the other man was open he decided to get everything into the open. "She told me about the child."
"Good."
"Why the frown?"
"I'm just surprised she'd mention her now. Orlanda must like you very much."
Bartlett felt the power of the eyes watching him and he tried to read if there was envy there. "I hope she does. She said you'd been great to her since you split. And to her folks."
"They're nice people. It's rough in Asia to raise five children, raise them well. It was always our company policy to help families where we could." Gornt sipped his wine. "The first time I saw Orianda was when she was ten. It was a Saturday at the races in Shanghai. In those days everyone would dress up in their best clothes and stroll the paddocks. It was her first formal coming out. Her father was a manager in our shipping division—a good fellow, Eduardo Ramos, third-generation Macao, his wife pure Shang-hainese. But Orlanda..." Gornt sighed. "Orlanda was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. Her dress was white... I don't remember seeing her after that until she came back from school. She was almost eighteen then and, well, I fell madly in love with her." Gornt looked up from his glass. "I can't tell you how lucky I felt all those years with her." His eyes hardened. "Did she tell you I broke the man who seduced her?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then you know it all." Gornt added with great dignity, "I just wanted to mention my three points."
Bartlett felt a sudden warmth toward the other man. "I appreciate them." He leaned forward to accept more wine. "Why don't we leave it this way. Come Tuesday all debts and friendships are cancelled and we start fresh. All of us. "
"Meanwhile, which side are you on?" Gornt asked, the front of his face a smile.
"For the raid, yours, one hundred percent!" Bartlett said at once. "For Par-Con's probe into Asia? I'm in the middle. I wait for the winner. I lean toward you and I hope you're the winner, but I'm waiting."
"The two aren't the same?"
"No. I set the ground rules of the raid way back. I said the raid was a onetime operation, a fool's mate." Bartlett smiled. "Sure, Quillan, I'm a hundred percent with you on the raid—didn't I put up the 2 million with no chop, no paper, just a handshake?"
After a pause, Gornt said, "In Hong Kong, sometimes that's more valuable. I haven't the exact figures but on paper we're between 24 and 30 million HK ahead."
Bartlett raised his glass. "Hallelujah! But meanwhile how about the bank run? How will that affect us?"
Gornt frowned. "I don't think it will. Our market's very volatile but Blacs and the Vic are solid, unbreakable, the government has to support both of them. There's a rumour the governor'll declare Monday a bank holiday and close the banks for as long as needed—it's just a matter of time before cash becomes available to stop the loss of confidence. Meanwhile, a lot will get burned and a lot of banks will go to the wall but that shouldn't affect our plan."
"When do you buy back in?"
"That depends on when you dump Struan's."
"How about noon Monday? That gives you plenty of time before closing for you and your secret nominees to buy after the news leaks and the shares go down some more."
"Excellent. Chinese work on rumours, very much, so the market can swing from boom to bust or vice versa very easily. Noon is fine. You'll do that in Taipei?"
"Yes."
"I'll need a telex confirmation."
"Casey'll give it to you."
"She knows? About the plan?"
"Yes. Now she does. How many shares do you need for control?"
"You should have that information."
"That's the only piece missing."
"When we buy in we'll have enough to give us at least three immediate seats on the board and Ian's through. Once we're on the board Struan's is in our power, and then, very soon, I merge Struan's with Rothwell-Gornt."
"And you're tai-pan of the Noble House."
"Yes." Gornt's eyes glinted. He refilled the glasses. "Health!"
"Health!"
They drank, content with their deal. But in their secret hearts neither trusted the other, not even a little. Both were very glad they had contingency plans—if need be.
Grim-faced, the three men came out of Government House and got into Crosse's car. Crosse drove. Sinders sat in the front, Rosemont in the back and both of them held on tightly to their still unread copies of the AMG files. The night was dark, the sky scudding and the traffic heavier than usual.
Rosemont, sitting in the back, said, "You think the guv'll read the originals before he shreds them?"
"I would," Sinders replied without turning to look at him.
"Sir Geoffrey's much too clever to do that," Crosse said. "He won't shred the originals until your copy's safely in the minister's hands, just in case you don't arrive. Even so he's far too shrewd to read something that could be an embarrassment to Her Majesty's plenipotentiary and therefore Her Majesty's Government."
Again there was a silence.
Then, unable to hold back anymore, Rosemont said coldly, "What about Metkin? Eh? Where was the foul-up, Rog?"
"Bombay. The aircraft had to have been sabotaged there, if it was sabotage."
"For chrissake, Rog, gotta be. Of course someone was tipped.
Where was the leak? Your goddamn mole again?" He waited but neither man answered him. "What about the Ivanov, Rog? You going to impound her and make a sudden search?"
"The governor checked with London and they thought it unwise to create an incident."
"What the hell do those meatheads know?" Rosemont said angrily. "She's a spy ship, for chrissake! Betcha fifty to a bent hatpin we'd get current code books, a look at the best surveillance gear in the USSR and five or six KGB experts. Huh?"
"Of course you're right, Mr. Rosemont," Sinders said thinly. "But we can't, not without the necessary approval."
"Let me and my guys d—"
"Absolutely not!" Irritably Sinders took out his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Crosse offered his.
"So you're going to let 'em get away with it?"
"I'm going to invite the captain, Captain Suslev, to HQ tomorrow and ask him for an explanation," Sinders said.
"I'd like to be party to that."
"I'll consider it."
"You'll have an official okay before 9:00 A.M."
Sinders snapped, "Sorry, Mr. Rosemont, but if I wish I can override any directives from your brass while I'm here."
"We're allies for chrissake!"
Crosse said sharply, "Then why did you raid 32 Sinclair Towers, uninvited?"
Rosemont sighed and told them.
Thoughtfully Sinders glanced at Crosse, then back at Rosemont. "Who told you that it was an enemy safe house, Mr. Rosemont?"
"We've a wide network of informers here. It was part of a debriefing. I can't tell you who but I'll give you copies of the sets of fingerprints off the glass we got if you want them."
Sinders said, "That would be very useful. Thank you."
"That still doesn't absolve you from a fatuous, unauthorised raid," Crosse said coldly.
"I said I'm sorry, okay?" Rosemont flared and his chin jutted. "We all make mistakes. Like Philby, Burgess and Maclean! London's so goddamn smart, eh? We've a hot tip you've a fourth guy—higher up, equally well placed and laughing at you."
Crosse and Sinders were startled. They glanced at one another. Then Sinders craned around. "Who?"
"If I knew, he'd be jumped. Philby got away with so much of our stuff it cost us millions to regroup and recede."
Sinders said, "Sorry about Philby. Yes, we all feel very bad about him."
"We all make mistakes and the only sin's failure, right? If I'd caught a couple of enemy agents last night you'd be cheering. So I failed. I said I'm sorry, okay? I'll ask next time, okay?"
Crosse said, "You won't but it would save us all a lot of grief if you did."
"What have you heard about a fourth man?" Sinders asked, his face pale, the stubble of his beard making him appear even more soiled than he was.
"Last month we busted another Commie ring, Stateside. Shit, they're like roaches. This cell was four people, two in New York, two in Washington. The guy in New York was Ivan Egorov, another officer in the UN Secretariat." Rosemont added bitterly, "Jesus, why don't our side wake up that the goddamn UN's riddled with plants, and the best Soviet weapon since they stole our goddamn bomb! We caught Ivan Egorov and his wife Alessandra passing industrial espionage secrets, computers. The guys in Washington, both'd taken American names of real people who were dead: a Roman Catholic priest and a woman from Connecticut. The four bastards were tied in with a joker from the Soviet Embassy, an attache who was their controller. We pounced on him trying to recruit one of our CIA guys to spy for them. Sure. But before we ordered him out of the States, we frightened him enough to blow the cover on the other four. One of them tipped us that Philby wasn't kingpin, that there was a fourth man."
Sinders coughed and lit another cigarette from the stub of the other. "What did he say. Exactly?"
"Only that Philby's cell was four. The fourth's the guy who inducted the others, the controller of the cell and the main link to the Soviets. Rumour was he's up there. VVIP."
"What sort? Political? Foreign Office? Gentry?"
Rosemont shrugged. "Just VVIP."
Sinders stared at him, then went back into his shell. Crosse swung into Sinclair Road, and stopped at his own apartment to let Sinders off, then drove to the consulate that was near Government House. Rosemont got a copy of the fingerprints then guided Crosse to his office. The office was large and well stocked with liquor. "Scotch?"
"Vodka with a dash of Rose's lime juice," Crosse said, eyeing the AMG files that Rosemont had put carelessly on his desk.
"Health." They touched glasses. Rosemont drank his Scotch deeply. "What's on your mind, Rog? You've been like a cat on a hot tin roof all day."
Crosse nodded at the files. "It's them. I want that mole. I want Sevrin smashed."
Rosemont frowned. "Okay," he said after a pause, "let's see what we got."
He picked up the first file, put his feet on the desk and began reading. It took him barely a couple of minutes to finish, then he passed it over to Crosse who read equally fast. Quickly they went through the files one by one. Crosse closed the last page of the last one and handed it back. He lit a cigarette.
"Too much to comment on now," Rosemont muttered absently.
Crosse caught an undercurrent in the American's voice and wondered if he was being tested. "One thing jumps out," he said, watching Rosemont. "These don't compare in quality with the other one, the one we intercepted."
Rosemont nodded. "I got that too, Rog. How do you figure it?"
"These seem flat. All sorts of questions are unanswered. Sevrin's skirted, so's the mole." Crosse toyed with his vodka then finished it. "I'm disappointed."
Rosemont broke the silence. "So either the one we got was unique and different, written differently, or these're phonies or phonied up?"
"Yes."
Rosemont exhaled. "Which leads back to Ian Dunross. If these're phony, he's still got the real ones."
"Either actually, or in his head."
"What do you mean?"
"He's supposed to have a photographic memory. He could have destroyed the real ones and prepared these, but still remember the others."
"Ah, so he could be debriefed if he... if he's cheated us."
Crosse lit another cigarette. "Yes. If the powers-that-be decided it was necessary." He looked up at Rosemont. "Of course, any such debriefing would be highly dangerous and would have to be ordered solely under the Official Secrets Act."
Rosemont's used face became even grimmer. "Should I take the ball and run?"
"No. First we have to be sure. That should be relatively easy." Crosse glanced at the liquor cabinet. "May I?"
"Sure. I'll take another shot of whiskey."
Crosse handed him the refill. "I'll make a deal with you: You really cooperate, completely, you don't do anything without telling me in advance, no secrets, no jumping the gun..."
"In return for?"
Crosse smiled his thin smile and took out some photocopies. "How would you like to influence, perhaps even control, certain presidential hopefuls—perhaps even an election?"
"I don't follow you."
Crosse passed over the letters of Thomas K. K. Lim that Armstrong and his team had acquired in the raid on Bucktooth Lo two days before. "It seems that certain very rich, very well-connected U. S. families are in league with certain U. S. generals to build several large but unnecessary airfields in Vietnam, for personal gain. This documents the how, when and who. " Crosse told him where and how the papers had been found and added, "Isn't Senator Wilf Tillman, the one that's here now, a presidential hopeful? I imagine he'd make you head of the CIA for these goodies—*if* you wanted to give them to him. These two're even juicier." Crosse put them on the desk. "These document how certain rather well-connected politicians and the same well-connected families have got congressional approval to channel millions into a totally fraudulent aid program in Vietnam.8 millions have already been paid over."
Дата добавления: 2015-11-04; просмотров: 33 | Нарушение авторских прав
| <== предыдущая лекция | | | следующая лекция ==> |