The wide marble steps up to the V and A were ahead. Discreetly she let go of his arm and felt nearer to him because of her understanding. "Ian, you're a wise man. Do you think it's fair to make love to someone—if you don't love them?"
"Eh?" He was startled out of the pleasantness. Then he said lightly, "Love is a Western word, lady. Me, I'm China-manl"
"Seriously."
He laughed. "I don't think it's time to be serious."
"But do you have an opinion?"
"Always."
They went up the stairs into the foyer, crowded even this late. At once he felt many eyes and recognition which was why he had not left her on the steps. Every little helps, he thought. I must seem calm and confident. The Noble House is inviolate! I will not and cannot allow myself the luxury of normal fear—it would spill over and wreck others and do untold damage.
"Would you like a nightcap?" she asked. "I'm not sleepy. Maybe Linc'll join us if he's in."
"Good idea. Tea with lemon would be fine." The smiling head-waiter appeared miraculously. And an empty table. "Evening, tai-pan."
"Evening, Nighttime Gup."
"Tea and lemon's fine with me too," she said. A waiter scurried away. "I'll just check my messages."
"Of course." Dunross watched her walk away. Tonight, from the first moment in the Mandarin foyer, he had noticed how much more feminine she had seemed, nothing discernible, just a subtle change. Interesting woman. A sexuality that's waiting to explode. How the devil can I help her to get her drop dead money quickly?
Nighttime Gup was bustling around and he said quietly in Cantonese, "Tai-pan, we certainly hope you can deal with the stock market and Second Great House."
"Thank you." Dunross chatted awhile, exuding confidence, then his eyes strayed back to Casey at the front desk.
Nighttime Gup's shrewd old eyes twinkled. "The gun-runner's not in the hotel, tai-pan."
"Eh?"
"No. He left early with a girl. Around 7:00 P.M., I'd just come on duty," the neat old man said airily. "The gun-runner was dressed very casually. For a sail I imagine. A girl was with him."
Dunross concentrated now. "There are many girls in Hong Kong, Nighttime Gup."
"Not like this one, tai-pan." The old man guffawed carefully. "Once she was the mistress of Black Beard."
"Eeeee, old man, you have sharp eyes and a long memory. Are you sure?"
"Oh very sure!" Nighttime Gup was delighted with the way his news was received. "Yes," he added loftily, "since we hear the Americans may be joining the Noble House if you can extricate yourself from all those other fornicators it might be good for you to know that. Also that Golden Pubics has moved her ro—"
"Who?"
Nighttime Gup explained the reason for the nickname. "Can you imagine, tai-pan?"
Dunross sighed, astounded as always at how fast gossip travelled. "She's changed her room?"
"Oh yes, it's along the corridor, 276, on the same floor. Eeeee, tai-pan, I heard she was weeping in the night, two nights ago, and again this evening before she left. Yes. Third Toiletmaid Fung saw her crying tonight."
"They had a row? She and the gun-runner?"
"Oh no, not a row, no shoutings. But, oh ko, if Golden Pubics knows about the Orlanda flower that's cause enough for dragons to belch." Nighttime Gup smiled toothily at Casey as she came back, a sheaf of cables and messages in her hand. Dunross noticed that now there was a shadow in her eyes. No message from Linc Bartlett, he surmised, getting up. Nighttime Gup solicitously pulled a chair away for her, poured her tea, continuing in his gutter Cantonese, "Never mind, tai-pan, Golden Pubics or not it's all the same in the dark, heya?" The old man chuckled and left. Dunross glanced at her papers. "Trouble?"
"Oh no, just more of the same." She looked at him directly, "I've got them all compartmentalised for tomorrow. Tonight's mine. Linc's not back yet." She sipped her tea, enjoying it. "So I can monopolise you."
"I thought I was doing the monopolising. Isn't—" He stopped as he noticed Robert Armstrong and Sinders come in through the swing doors. The two men stood at the entrance, looking for a table.
"Your police work overtime," Casey said, and, as the men's gaze fell on them, waved back half-heartedly. The two men hesitated, then went to a vacant table at the other end of the room. "I like Armstrong," she said. "Is the other man police?"
"I imagine so. Where did you meet Robert?"
She told him. "Still nothing on the smuggled guns. Where they came from or whatever."
"Rotten business."
"Would you like a brandy?"
"Why not? One for the road, then I must be going. Waiter!" He ordered the drinks. "The car'll be here tomorrow at twelve sharp to pick you up,"
"Thank you. Ian, the invitation read, 'Ladies Hats and Gloves.' Do you really mean that?"
"Of course." He frowned. "Ladies have always worn hats and gloves at the races. Why?"
"I'll have to buy a hat. I haven't worn one in years."
"Actually, I like ladies in hats." Dunross glanced around the room. Armstrong and Sinders were watching him covertly. Is it a coincidence they're here? he wondered.
"You feel the eyes too, tai-pan? Everyone here seems to know you."
"It's not me, it's just the Noble House and what I represent."
The brandy came. "Health!" They touched glasses.
"Will you answer my question now?"
"The answer's yes." He swirled the brandy in the glass and inhaled it.
"Yes what?"
Abruptly he grinned. "Yes nothing, yes it's not fair but yes it happens all the time and I'm not going to get into one of those lovely self-analysing 'Have you stopped beating your wife recently?' things, though I do hear that most ladies like being beaten occasionally but with great care, with or without hats!"
She laughed and most of her shadows vanished. "It depends, does it?"
"It depends!" He watched her, his calm, easy smile on his face and he was thinking and she was thinking it depends on who and when and where and timing, circumstance and need, and right now it would be grand.
He reached out with his glass and touched hers. "Health," he said. "And here's to Tuesday."
She smiled back and lifted her glass, her heart quickening. "Yes."
"Everything can wait till then. Can't it?"
"Yes. Yes, I hope so, Ian."
"Well, I'll be on my way."
"I had a lovely time."
"So did I."
"Thanks for inviting me. Tomorr—" She stopped as Nighttime Gup bustled up to them. "Excuse me, tai-pan, telephone."
"Oh, thank you. I'll be right there." Dunross sighed. "No peace for the wicked! Casey, shall we?"
"Sure, sure, tai-pan." She got up too, her heart beating strongly, a sad sweet ache possessing her. "I'll take care of the check!"
"Thanks, but that's already done. They'll just send it on to the office." Dunross left a tip and guided her toward the elevator, both of them conscious of the eyes following them. For a second he was tempted to go upstairs with her just to set the tongues wagging. But that'd really be tempting the devil and I've enough devils surrounding me already, he thought. "Good night, Casey, see you tomorrow and don't forget cocktails 7:30 to 9:00 P.M. Give my best to Linc!" He waved cheerily and walked for the front desk.
She watched him go, tall, immaculate and confident. The elevator doors closed. If this wasn't Hong Kong you wouldn't escape, not tonight, Ian Dunross. Oh no, tonight we'd make love. Oh yes, yes we would.
Dunross stopped at the front desk and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Dunross."
"Tai-pan?"
"Oh hello, Lim," he said, recognising his majordomo's voice. "What's up?"
"Mr. Tip Tok-toh just phoned, sir." Dunross's heart picked up tempo. "He asked me to try to reach you and would you please call him back. He said you could call him any time before two o'clock or after 7:00 A.M."
"Thank you. Anything else?"
"Miss Claudia called at eight and said she's settled your guest..." There was a rustle of paper. "... Mrs. Gresserhoff at the hotel and that your appointment in your office at 11:00 A.M.'s confirmed."
"Good. Next?"
"Missee called from London—everything fine there—and a Dr. Samson from London."
"Ah!" Kathy's specialist. "Did he leave a number?" Lim gave it to him and he scribbled it down. "Anything else?"
"No, tai-pan."
"Is Number One Daughter back yet?"
"No, tai-pan. Number One Daughter came in about 7:00 P.M. for a few minutes with a young man and then they left."
"Was it Martin Haply?"
"Yes, yes it was."
"Thanks, Lim. I'll call Tiptop then get a ferry home."
He hung up. Wanting more privacy, he went to the phone booth that was near the stationer's. He dialled.
"Weyyyy?"
He recognised Tiptop's voice. "Good evening, this's Ian Dunross."
"Ah, tai-pan! Just a minute." There was the sound of a hand being put over the mouthpiece and muffled voices. He waited. "Ah, sorry to keep you waiting. I've had some very disquieting news."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It seems your police once again are like dog's lungs and wolfs heart. They have falsely arrested a very good friend of yours, Superintendent Brian Kwok. He—"
"Brian Kwok?" Dunross gasped. "But why?"
"I understand he's been falsely accused of being a spy for the PRC, an—"
"Impossible!"
"I agree. Ridiculous! Chairman Mao has no need of capitalist spies. He should be released at once, at once—and if he wishes to leave Hong Kong he should be permitted to do so and go wherever he wishes to go... at once!"
Dunross tried to get his mind working. If Tiptop said the man called Brian Kwok was to be released at once and permitted to leave Hong Kong if he wished, then Brian was a PRC spy, one of their spies, and that was impossible impossible impossible. "I... I don't know what to say," he said, giving Tiptop the opening he required. "I must point out Old Friends could hardly be expected to consider assisting Old Friends when their police are so errored. Heya?” "I agree," he heard himself saying with the right amount of concern, his mind shouting, Christ almighty, they want to trade Brian for the money! "I'll... I'll talk to the authorities first thing tom—"
"Perhaps you could do something tonight."
"It's too late to call the governor now but..." Then Dunross remembered Sinders and Armstrong and his heart leaped. "I'll try, At once. I'm sure there's some mistake, Mr. Tip. Yes. It must be a mistake. In any event I'm sure the governor will be helpful. And the police. Surely such a... a mistake could be handled satisfactorily—like the Victoria's request for the temporary use of the illustrious bank's cash?"
There was a long silence. "It's possible that could be done. It's possible. Old Friends should assist Old Friends, and help correct mistakes. Yes, it could be possible."
Dunross heard the unsaid when left hanging and automatically continued the negotiation, most of his mind still beset by what he had been told. "Did you happen to get my note, Mr. Tip? I've taken care of everything else. By the way, the Victoria will certainly assist the financing of the thorium." He added delicately, "Also most other further requests—at advantageous terms."
"Ah yes, thank you. Yes, I received your note and your very kind invitation. So sorry that I was unwell. Thank you, tai-pan. How long would your government require the cash loan, if it was possible?"
"I imagine thirty days would be more than enough, perhaps even two weeks. But it's the Victoria, Blacs and the other banks and not the Hong Kong Government. I could tell you that tomorrow. Do we have the privilege of seeing you at the races for lunch?"
"I regret not for lunch but perhaps after lunch, if that's possible."
Dunross smiled grimly. The perfect compromise. "Of course."
"Thank you for calling. By the way, Mr. Yu was most impressed with you, tai-pan."
"Please give him my regards. I look forward to seeing him soon.
In Canton."
"I was astonished to read your brother-in-law's comments about the Middle Kingdom."
"Yes. So was I. My wife and her brother have been estranged for years. His views are alien, enemy and totally misguided." Dunross hesitated. "I hope to neutralise him."
"Yes. Yes I agree. Thank you. Good night." The phone went dead. Dunross hung up. Christ! Brian Kwok! And I'd almost given him the AMG papers.
Christ!
Collecting his wits with a great effort, he went back into the foyer. Armstrong and Sinders were still there. "Evening, may I join you a moment?"
"Of course, Mr. Dunross. This is a pleasant surprise. May I offer you a drink?"
"Tea, Chinese tea. Thanks."
Their table was away from others and when it was safe Dunross leaned forward. "Robert, I hear you've arrested Brian Kwok," he said still hoping it wasn't true. The two men stared at him.
"Who told you that?" Armstrong asked.
Dunross recounted his conversation. Both men listened noncom-mittally though from time to time he saw them glance at one another. "Obviously it's a trade," he told them. "Him for the cash."
Sinders sipped his hot chocolate. "How important's the money?"
"Completely important, urgent and the sooner the better." Dunross mopped his brow. "The cash will completely stop the bank runs, Mr. Sinders. We've got t—" He stopped, aghast.
"What is it?" Sinders asked.
"I—I suddenly remembered what AMG wrote in the intercepted report. That the '... police mole may or may not be part of Sevrin.' Is he?"
"Who?"
"For chrissake, don't play with me," Dunross said angrily, "this's serious. You think I'm a bloody fool? There's a Sevrin plant in Struan's. If Brian's part of Sevrin I've a right to know."
"I quite agree," Sinders said calmly though his eyes had become very flinty. "The moment the traitor's uncovered you may rest assured you'll be informed. Have you any idea who it could be yet?" Dunross shook his head, controlling his anger.
Binders watched him. "You were saying? 'We've got to..." Got to what, Mr. Dunross?"
"We've got to get that cash at once. What's Brian done?" After a moment Sinders said, "Banks don't open till Monday. So Monday's D Day?"
"I imagine the banks will have to get the money before then—to open and have the money in the tills. What the devil's Brian done?"
Sinders lit a cigarette for himself and for Armstrong. "If this person Brian actually has been arrested I don't think that's really a very discreet question, Mr. Dunross."
"I'd've bet anything," the tai-pan said helplessly, "anything, but Tiptop'd never suggest a trade unless it was true. Never. Brian must be bloody important but Christ, what's the world coming to? Will you handle the trade or will Mr. Crosse—I suppose the governor's approval will be needed."
Thoughtfully the chief of MI-6 blew the tip of his cigarette. "I doubt if there will be a trade, Mr. Dunross."
"Why not? The money's more impor—"
"That's a matter of opinion, Mr. Dunross, *if* this Brian Kwok actually is under arrest. In any event, Her Majesty's Government could hardly be subject to blackmail. Very poor taste."
"Quite. But Sir Geoffrey will agree at once."
"I doubt it. He impressed me as being much too clever to do that. As to trading, Mr. Dunross, I thought you were going to give us the AMG files."
Dunross felt an ice pick in his stomach. "I did, this evening."
"For chrissake, don't play with me, this's serious! You think I'm a bloody fool?" Sinders said in exactly the same tone that Dunross had used. Abruptly he laughed dryly and continued with the same chilling calm, "You certainly gave us a version of them but unfortunately they just don't compare in quality with the one intercepted." The rumpled man's eyes became even more flinty and curiously menacing though his face did not change. "Mr. Dunross, your subterfuge was deft, commendable but unnecessary. We really do want those flies, the originals."
"If those don't satisfy you, why not go through AMG's papers?"
"I did." Sinders smiled without humour. "Well, it's like the old highwayman saying, 'The money or your life.' Possession of those files may be lethal to you. You agree, Robert?"
"Yes sir."
Sinders puffed his cigarette. "So, Mr. Dunross, your Mr. Tiptop wants to trade, eh? Everyone in Hong Kong wants to trade. It's in the air. Eh? But to trade you have to give value for value. I imagine if you want concessions to get concessions from the enemy... well, all's fair in love and war, they say. Isn't it?"
Dunross kept his face guileless. "So they say. I'll talk to the governor first thing. Let's keep this strictly confidential for the moment until I've talked to him. Night."
They watched him walk through the swing doors and disappear.
"What do you think, Robert? Did Dunross switch the files on us?"
Armstrong sighed. "I don't know. His face said nothing. I was watching closely. Nothing. But he's as sharp as a tack."
"Yes." Sinders pondered a moment. "So the enemy want a trade, eh? I'd say we have possession of this particular client for twenty-four hours at the most. When do you do his next interrogation?"
"6:30 A.M."
"Oh! Well if you've an early start we'd better be going." Sinders called for the check. "I'll consult with Mr. Crosse but I know what he'll say—what in fact London has ordered."
"Sir?"
"They're very concerned because the client's been party to too many secrets, the General Staff Course, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." Sinders hesitated again. "On second thought, Robert, now irrespective of what Mr. Dunross does our only course is to step up the debriefing. Yes. We'll cancel the 6:30 interrogation, continue with the hourly schedule, providing he's medically fit, and into the Red Room."
Armstrong blanched. "But si..."
"I'm sorry," Sinders said, his voice gentle. "I know he's a friend, was a friend, but now your Mr. Tiptop and your Mr. Dunross have taken away our time."
SATURDAY
9:32 A.M.: The JAL jet from Tokyo came in low over the sea and touched down perfectly at Kai Tak with a puff of smoke from its wheels. At once its engines went into reverse thrust and it howled toward the airport complex, decelerating.
Passengers, aircrew and visitors were milling in the busy terminal, Customs and Immigration and waiting areas. Outward-bound was easy. Incoming was mostly easy. Except for Japanese nationals. Chinese have long memories. The years of the Japanese war occupation of China and Hong Kong were too near, too strong, too vicious to forget. Or to forgive. So Japanese nationals were checked more thoroughly. Even members of the JAL crew now going through, even the pert, pretty, polite air hostesses, some of whom were hardly alive when that occupation had ended, they too were given back their travel documents with a frigid stare.
Next to them in line was an American. '"Morning," he said handing his passport to the official.
'"Morning." The young Chinese flipped the book open and glanced at the photograph and at the man and leafed through to find the visa. Unnoticed, his foot touched a hidden switch. This alerted Crosse and Sinders who were in a nearby observation office. They went to the one-way mirror and looked at the man waiting at immigration in front of one of the six crowded lines of passengers.
The passport, a year old, said, "Vincenzo Banastasio, male, born New York City, August 16, 1910. Hair grey, eyes brown." Casually the official checked the other visas and stamps: England, Spain, Italy, Holland, Mexico, Venezuela, Japan. He stamped the dull grey book, handed it back noncommittally.
Banastasio walked through to Customs, an expensive crocodile briefcase under his arm, carrying duty-free liquor in a gaudy plastic carrier, camera swinging off his shoulder.
"Good-looking fellow," Sinders said. "He takes care of himself." They saw him disappear into the crowds. Crosse clicked on the portable CB. "Do you have him covered?" he asked into it.
"Yes sir," came the instant answer.
"I'll keep monitoring this frequency. Keep me advised."
"Yes sir."
To Sinders, Crosse said, "We'll have no problem tailing him."
"No. Glad I've seen him. I always like to see an enemy in the flesh."
"Is he? Enemy?"
"Mr. Rosemont thinks so. Don't you?"
"I meant our enemy. I'm sure he's a crook—I meant I'm not sure he's tied into Intelligence."
Sinders sighed. "You've checked the bugs?"
"Yes." Late last night a team of SI experts had secretly put bugs into the bedroom Banastasio had booked at the Hilton. Also the office and private suite of Photographer Ng, Vee Cee Ng.
They waited patiently. On the table the CB hissed and crackled slightly.
After a pause Sinders said absently, "What about our other client?"
"Who? Kwok?"
"Yes. How long do you think it'll take?"
"Not long." Crosse smiled to himself. "When do you put him into the Red Room?"
"I thought noon might be rather apt. Before if he's ready."
"Armstrong'll do the interrogation?"
"Yes."
"Armstrong's a good man. He handled himself very well at the Ivanov."
"Next time would you mind keeping me advised? After all, this is my area."
"Certainly, Roger. It was a sudden decision by London."
"What's the idea? About the Sunday summons."
"The minister is sending special instructions." Sinders frowned. "Brian Kwok's records say he's strong. We don't have too much time. He'll've been well indoctrinated to be hidden so deep, so long."
"Oh yes. But I'm quite confident. Since I had the room built I've experimented on myself three times. The most I've ever stayed was five minutes and each time I was sick as a dog—and that was without any disorientation scheduling. I'm confident we'll have no problem." Crosse stubbed out his cigarette. "It's very effective—an exact pattern of the KGB prototype."
After a moment Sinders said, "Pity these methods have to be used. Very dicey. Disgusting really. I preferred it when... well, even then, I suppose our profession was never really clean."
"You mean during the war?"
"Yes. I must say I preferred it then. Then there was no hypocrisy on the part of some of our leaders—or the media. Everyone understood we were at war. But today when our very survival's threatened we—" Sinders stopped, then pointed. "Look, Roger, isn't that Rosemont?" The American was standing with another man by the exit door.
"Yes, yes it is. That's Langan with him. The FBI man," Crosse said. "Last night I agreed to a joint effort with him on Banastasio though I do wish those bloody CIA'd leave us alone to do our job."
"Yes. They really are becoming quite difficult."
Crosse picked up the CB and led the way outside. "Stanley, we've got him well covered. We agreed last night that on this operation we handle this part, you handle the hotel. Right?"
"Sure, sure, Rog. 'Morning, Mr. Sinders." Grim-faced, Rosemont introduced Langan who was equally taut. "We're not interfering, Rog, though that bum is one of our nationals. That's not the reason we're here. I'm just seeing Ed off."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Langan said. He was as tired and gaunt as Rosemont. "It's those photocopies, Rog. Thomas K. K. Lim's papers. I've got to deliver them personally. To the Bureau. I read part to my chief and his pots blew and he began to come apart at the seams."
"I can imagine."
"There's a request on your desk to let us have the originals and th—"
"No chance," Sinders said for Crosse.
Langan shrugged. "There's a request on your desk, Rog. Guess your brass'll send orders from heaven if ours really need them. I'd better get on board. Listen, Rog, we can't thank you enough. We—I owe you one. Those bastards... yeah we owe you one." They shook hands and he hurried off onto the tarmac.
"Which piece of information blew the seams, Mr. Rosemont?"
"They're all lethal, Mr. Sinders. It's a coup for us, for us and the Bureau, mostly the Bureau. Ed said his folk went into hysterics. The political implications for Democrats and Republicans are immense. You were right. If Senator Tillman—the presidential hopeful who's in town right now—if he got hold of those papers, there's no telling what he'd do." Rosemont was no longer his usual good-humoured self. "My brass telexed our South American contacts to put an all-points on Thomas K. K. Lim so we'll be interviewing him pretty damn soon—you'll get a copy don't worry. Rog, was there anything else?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"With these choice pieces, were there others we could use?"
Crosse smiled without humour. "Of course. How about a blueprint for financing a private revolution in Indonesia?"
"Oh Jesus..."
"Yes. How about photostats of arrangements for payments into a French bank account of a very important Vietnamese lady and gentleman—for specific favours granted?"
Rosemont had gone chalky. "What else?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"Is there more?"
"For chrissake, Stanley, of course there's more, you know it, we know it. There'll always be more."
"Can we have them now?"
Sinders said, "What can you do for us?"
Rosemont stared at them. "Over lunch we'll ta—"
The CB crackled into life. "The target's got his bags now and he's walking out of Customs, heading for the taxi rank... Now he's... Now he's... ah, someone's meeting him, a Chinese, good-looking man, expensive clothes, don't recognise him.... They're going over to a Rolls, registration HK.... ah, that's the hotel limousine. Both men're getting in."
Into the sender Crosse said, "Stay- on this frequency." He switched frequencies. Static and muffled traffic and noise.
Rosemont brightened. "You bugged the limo?" Crosse nodded. "Great, Rog. I'd've missed that!"
They listened, then clearly, "... good of you to meet me, Vee Cee," Banastasio was saying. "Hell you shouldn't've come all this wa—"
"Oh it's my pleasure," the cultured voice replied. "We can chat in the car, perhaps that'll save you coming to the office and then in Ma—"
"Sure... sure," the American voice overrode the other man. "Listen, I got something for you, Vee Cee..." Muffled sounds then a sudden high-pitched whine that totally dominated the airwave, completely obliterating the clarity and voices. At once Crosse switched frequencies but the others were operating perfectly.
"Shit, he's using a portable shaver to block us," Rosemont said disgustedly. "That bastard's a pro! Fifty to a blown cent they block all the bugs we got, hundred says when they come back on this channel it'll all be goddamn chitchat. I told you Banastasio was cream."
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