Later, coming back on the ferry, she had been sorely tempted to ask him about Orlanda. She had decided not to. "Perhaps I should have," she muttered out loud.
"Eh?"
"Oh?" She came out of her reverie, finding herself in the limo on the car ferry en route to Hong Kong. "Sorry, Linc, I was daydreaming."
She looked at him and saw that he was as handsome as ever, even though now he stared back coldly. You're more attractive to me than either Ian or Quillan, she thought. And yet, right now, I'd prefer to pillow with either of them than with you. Because you're a bastard.
"Do you want to have at it?" he said. "You want to vote your shares against mine?"
Casey stared back at him, enraged. Tell him to go screw, the devil half of her screamed, he needs you more than you need him, you've got the reins of Par-Con, you know where the bodies are buried, you can take apart what you helped to create. But the other half of her urged caution. She remembered what the tai-pan had said about this man's world, and about power. And about the Hag.
So she dropped her gaze a moment and allowed tears to seep. At once she saw the change in him.
"Jesus, Casey, don't cry, I'm sorry..." he was saying and his arms reached out for her. "Jesus, you've never cried before... Listen, we've been through the mill a dozen times, hell, fifty times, there's no need to get so uptight. We've got Struan's and Gornt locked into battle. There's no difference in the end. We'll still be the Noble House, but up front, up front Gornt's better, I know I'm right."
Oh no, you're not, she thought contentedly, warm in his embrace.
12:32 PM
Brian Kwok was screaming and beyond terror. He knew he was in prison and in hell and it had gone on forever. His whole insane world was an instant of never-ending blinding light, everything blood-colored, the cell walls floor ceiling blood-colored, no doors or windows, and the floor awash with blood, but everything twisted and all upside down for somehow he was lying on the ceiling, his whole being in torment, frantically trying to claw his way down to normality, each time falling back into the mess of his own vomit, then the next instant once more in the blackness, grinding pulsating voices laughing, drowning out his friend, drowning out Robert who pleaded with the devils to stop stop for the love of God stop, then once more the eye-tearing head-exploding bloodlight, seeing the blood waters that would not fall, groping desperately, stretching down for the chairs and table that sat in the blood water but falling back, always falling back, floor meeting ceiling everything wrong upside sideways madness madness the devil's invention...
Bloodlight and darkness and laughter and stench and blood again, on and on and on...
He knew he had begun raving years ago, begging them to stop, begging them to let him go, swearing he would do anything but let him go, that he was not the one they sought, not due for hell... It's a mistake, it's all a mistake, no it's not a mistake I was the enemy who was the enemy what enemy? Oh please let the world turn right side up and let me lie where I should be lying up there, down there, where oh Jesus Christ Robert Christ help, help meeeeee "All right, Brian. I'm here. I'm putting everything right. I am. I'm putting everything right!" He heard the compassionate words come soaring out of the maelstrom, drowning the laughter. The enveloping blood went away. He felt his friend's hand, cool and gentle, and he clutched it, terrified lest it was another dream within a dream within a dream, oh Christ Robert don't leave me....
Oh Jesus it's impossible! Look there! The ceiling's there where it should be and I'm here, I'm lying on the bed where I should be and the room's dim but soft where it should be, everything's clean, flowers, blinds drawn but flowers and the water properly in the vase and I'm right side up, I'm right side up. "Oh Christ, Robert..."
"Hello, chum," Robert Armstrong said gently.
"Oh Jesus Robert thank you thank you, I'm right side up oh thank you thank you..."
It was hard to talk and he felt weak, his strength gone, but it was glorious just to be here, out of the nightmare, his friend's face misted but real. And smoking, am I smoking? Oh yes. Yes I think I remember Robert left me a packet of cigarettes though those devils came and found them and took them away last week... thank God for smoke... When was it, last month, last week, when? I remember yes but Robert came back again and gave me a secret drag last month, was it last month? "Oh that tastes so good, so good and the peace, no nightmare, Robert, not seeing blood up there, the ceiling awash, not lying up there but down here not in hell oh thank you thank you..."
"I must go now."
"Oh Christ don't go they may come back no don't go sit and stay please stay. Look, we'll talk, yes, that's it, talk, you wanted to talk... don't leave. Please talk..."
"All right, old friend, then talk. I won't go while we talk. What do you want to tell me, eh? Certainly I'll stay while you talk. Tell me about Ning-tok and your father. Didn't you go back to see him?"
"Oh yes, I went back to see him once, yes, just before he died, my friends helped me, they helped me it only took a day, my friends helped me... that, that was so long ago...."
"Did Ian go with you?"
"Ian? No it... was it Ian? I can't remember... Ian, the tai-pan? Someone went with me. Was it you, Robert? Ah, with me in Ning-tok? No it wasn't you or Ian it was John Chancellor from Ottawa. He hates the Soviets too, Robert, they're the great enemy. Even in school, and devil Chiang Kai-shek and his assassins Fong-fong and... and... Oh I'm so tired and so pleased to see you...."
"Tell me about Fong-fong."
"Oh him. He was a bad man, Robert, him and all his spy group they were against us, the PRC, and pro-Chiang, I know; don't worry as soon as I read the... What are you asking me, eh? What?"
"It was that rotten Grant, eh?"
"Yes, yes it was and I almost fainted when he knew I was... I... where was I oh yes but I stopped Fong-fong at once.... Oh yes."
"Who did you tell?"
"Tsu-yan. I whispered it to Tsu-yan. He's back in Peking now... Oh he was very high up, though he didn't know who I really was, Robert, I was all very hush-hush___Yes then it was in school, my father sent me after old Sh'in was murdered... thugs came and flogged him to death in the village square because he was one of us, one of the people, one of Chairman Mao's people, and when I was in Hong Kong I stayed with... with Uncle... I went to school... and he schooled me at night.... Can I sleep now?"
"Who was your uncle, Kar-shun, and where did he live?"
"I don't... don't remember...."
"Then I must go. Next week I'll come ba—"
"No wait, Robert, wait, it was Wu Tsa-fing, on... on Fourth Alley in Aberdeen... number 8, lucky 8, fifth floor. There, I can remember! Don't go!"
"Very good, old chum. Very good. Were you at school long in Hong Kong?" Robert Armstrong kept his voice soft and kind and his heart went out to his friend that once was. He was astonished that Brian had broken so easily, so quickly.
The client's mind was open now, ready for him to take apart. He kept his eyes on the shell of the man who lay on the bed, encouraging him to remember so that the others who listened secretly could record all the facts and figures and names and places, the undercover truths and half-truths that were spilling out and would continue to spill out until Brian Kar-shun Kwok was a husk. And he knew that he would continue to probe, to cajole or threaten or become impatient or angry or pretend to want to leave or curse the jailer away who would interrupt, if necessary. With Crosse and Sinders monitoring the in-depth debriefing, he was just a tool like Brian Kwok had been a tool for others who had used his mind and talents for their own purposes. His job was just to be the medium, to keep the client talking, to bring him back when he rambled or became incoherent, to be his sole friend and his sole prop in this unreal universe, the one who brought the truth forth—like John Chancellor of Ottawa, who's he? Where does he fit? I don't know yet.
We'll get everything the client has now, he thought. We'll get all his contacts, his mentors, enemies and friends. Poor old Fong-fong and the lads. We'll never see them again—unless they turn up as agents of the other side. What a rotten filthy business this is, selling out your friends, working with the enemy who, everyone knows, wants you enslaved.
"... in Vancouver it was wonderful, wonderful, Robert. There was a girl there who... Yes and I almost married her but Sensible Tok, Sensible was my 489, he lived... he lived on... oh yes it was Pedder Street in Chinatown and he owned the Hoho-tok Restaurant... yes Sensible Tok said I should honour Chairman Mao before any quai loh.... Oh how I loved her but he said it was the quai lohs who raped China for centuries.... You know that's true that's true...."
"Yes that's true," he said, humouring him. "Sensible Tok was your only friend in Canada?"
"Oh no Robert I have dozens...."
Armstrong listened, astounded by the wealth of information about the inner workings of the Canadian Mounted Police, and the extent of Chinese Communist infiltration throughout the Americas and Europe and particularly on the Western seaboard—Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego—wherever a Chinese restaurant or shop or business existed there was the potential of pressure, of funds and most of all of knowledge. "... and the Wo Tuk on Gerrard Street in London's the Centre where I... when I was... Oh my head aches I'm so thirsty...."
Armstrong gave him the water that contained stimulant. When he or Crosse considered the moment correct, the client would be given the thirst-quenching, delicately flavoured Chinese tea that was his favourite. This contained the soporific.
Then it was up to Crosse and Sinders what happened, whether it was more of the same, more of the Red Room or the end of the exercise and then, carefully, the gradual bringing back of the client to reality, with great care, so that no permanent damage was done.
It's up to them, he thought. Sinders was right to put on the pressure while we've time. The client knows too much. He's too well trained, and if we'd had to give him back without knowing what he knows, well that would have been irresponsible. We've got to keep ahead.
Armstrong lit two cigarettes and inhaled his own deeply. I'll give up smoking for Christmas. I can't now, not with all this horror. It was Brian Kwok's wailing screams so soon, barely twenty minutes after being put into the room for the second time that had shattered him. He had been watching through spyholes with Crosse and Sinders, watching the insanity of trying to reach the ceiling that was the floor that was the ceiling, astonished that someone so strong, so well trained as Brian Kwok would break so quickly. "It's impossible," he had muttered.
"He may be faking," Sinders said.
"No," Crosse had said. "No. It's real, for him. I know."
"I don't believe he'd break so easily."
"You will, Robert." And then when Brian Kwok had been carried out to be brought to this room, clean and nice and the Red Room had been mopped clean, Roger Crosse had said, "All right, Robert, try it, then you'll see."
"No, no thanks. It's like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," he had muttered, "No thanks!"
"Please try it, just for a minute. It's an important experience for you. You may be caught by them, the other side, some day. You should be prepared. One minute might save your sanity. Test it, for your own safety."
So he had agreed. They had closed the door. The room was totally scarlet, small but everything tilted, the lines all wrong, angles all wrong, the floor meeting the ceiling in one corner, perspectives all wrong, no angles ordinary. The tilted ceiling far above was a sheer sheet of scarlet glass. Above the glass, water washed down to be recycled and come down again. Attached to this tilted glass ceiling surface were scarlet chairs and a table and pens and paper casually on the table, scarlet cushions on the chairs, making it seem the floor, a false door nearby, almost ajar...
Sudden blackness. Then the blinding strobe and the stunning impact of the scarlet. Blackness, scarlet, blackness, scarlet. Involuntarily he groped for the reality of the table and chairs and the floor and door and stumbled and fell, unable to get his bearings, water above, the glass vanished, just insane scarlet water on the floor above. Blackness and now voices pounding and again blood-coloured hell. His stomach told him that he was upside down though his mind said it was just a trick and to close your eyes it's a trick it's a trick it's a trick...
After an eternity, when at length normal lights came on and the real door opened, he was lying on the real floor, retching. "You bastard," he had snarled at Crosse, barely able to talk. "You said a minute, you lying bastard!" His chest heaved and he fought to his feet, reeling, barely able to stand or to stop vomiting.
"Sorry, but it was only a minute, Robert," Crosse said.
"I don't believe it...."
"Honestly, it was," Sinders said. "I timed it myself. Really! Extraordinary. Most effective."
Again Armstrong felt his chest heave at the thought of the water above and the table and chairs. He put those thoughts away and concentrated on Brian Kwok, feeling that he had let the client ramble enough and it was now time to bring him back. "You were saying? You passed over our dossiers to your friend Bucktooth Lo?"
"Well no, it wasn't... I'm tired, Robert, tired... what ar—"
"If you're tired I'll leave!" He got up and saw the client blanch. "Next month I'll se—"
"No... no... please don't go... they... no, don't go. Pleassssssse!"
So he sat back, continuing the game, knowing it to be unfair, and that with the client so totally disoriented he could be made to sign anything, say anything at whim. "I'll stay while you talk, old friend. You were saying about Bucktooth Lo—the man in Princes Building? He was the go-between?"
"No... not... yes in a way... Dr. Meng... Dr. Meng would pick up any package that I left... Meng never knew that I... that it was me... the arrangements were by phone or by letter... he would take them to Lo who was paid... Bucktooth Lo was paid to give them to another man, I don't know who... I don't know..."
"Oh I think you do, Brian, I don't believe you want me to stay."
"Oh Christ I do... I swear it... Bucktooth... Bucktooth would know... or perhaps Ng, Vee Cee Ng, Photographer Ng, he's on our side, he's on our side Robert... Ask him, he'll know... he was with Tsu-yan importing thoriums..."
"What're thoriums?"
"Rare earths for... for atomics, for our atomics... oh yes we'll have our own A-bombs and H-bombs in a few months...." Brian Kwok went into a paroxysm of laughter. "The first in a few weeks... our first explosion in just a few weeks now oh of course not perfect but the first and soon an H-bomb, dozens, Robert, soon we'll have ours to defend against those hegemonists who threaten to wipe us out, in a few weeks! Christ, Robert, think of that! Chairman Mao's done it, he has, he's done it... yes and then next year H-bombs and then Joe, yes we'll get back our lands, oh yes, with atomics we cancel out theirs... we will, Joe's going to help, Joe Yu's going to... Oh we'll stop them now, stop them we'll stop them and take our lands back." His hand reached out and he held Robert Armstrong's arm but his grip was weak. "Listen, we're at war already, us and the Soviets, Chung Li told me, he's my emergency... em, em contact... there's a war, a shooting war going on right now. In the north, divisions, not patrols near the Amur they're they're killing more Chinese and stealing more land but... but not for long." He lay back weakly and began to mumble, his mind wandering.
"Atomics? Next year? I don't believe it," Armstrong said, pretending to scoff, his mind blown as he listened to the continued outpouring that was giving chapter and verse and names. Christ, A-bombs in a few months? A few months? The world's been told that's ten years away. China with A- and H-bombs?
Carefully he let Brian Kwok peter out and then he said casually, "Who's Joe? Joe Yu?"
"Who?"
He saw Brian Kwok turn and stare at him, eyes strange, different, boring into him. Instantly he was on guard and he prepared. "Joe Yu," he said even more offhand.
"Who? I don't know any Joe Yu... no.... What, what... what am I doing here? What is this place? What's happening? Yu? Why... why should I know him? Who?"
"No reason," Armstrong said, calming him. "Here, here's some tea, you must be very thirsty, old chum."
"Oh yes... yes I am... where... yes... Christ what's happ... happening?"
Armstrong helped him drink. Then he gave him another cigarette and further calmed him. In a few moments Brian Kwok was again deeply asleep. Armstrong wiped his palms and his forehead, exhausted too.
The door opened. Sinders and Crosse came in.
"Very good, Robert," Sinders said excitedly, "very good indeed!"
"Yes," Crosse said. "I felt he was coming back too. Your timing was perfect."
Armstrong said nothing, feeling soiled.
"My God," Sinders chortled, "this client's gold. The minister will be delighted. Atomics in a few months and a shooting war going on right now! No wonder our Parliamentary Trade Commission made such marvellous progress! Excellent, Robert, just excellent!"
"You believe the client, sir?" Crosse said.
"Absolutely, don't you?"
"I believe he was telling what he knew. Whether it's fact, that's another matter. Joe Yu? Does Joe or Joseph Yu mean anything to you?" The others shook their heads. "John Chancellor?"
"No."
"Chung Li?"
Armstrong said, "There's a Chung Li who's a friend of Br—the client's, a car enthusiast—Shanghainese, big industrialist—could be him."
"Good. But Joe Yu, that triggered something in him. Could be important." Crosse glanced at Sinders. "Proceed?"
"Of course."
1:45 PM
A roar of excitement went up from fifty thousand throats as the seven entries for the first race, jockeys up, came up the ramp out from under the stands to prance and skitter to the owners' paddock where trainers and owners waited. The owners and their wives were dressed in their very best, many of the wives laden and over-minked, Mai-ling Kwang and Dianne Chen among them, conscious of the envious stares of the multitude craning to see the horses—and them.
Either side of the soggy grass paddock and winner's circle, the packed mass of the crowds went down to the white sparkling rails and the perfectly kept turf of the encircling track. The winning post was opposite and beside it, on the other side of the track, was the huge totalizator that would carry the names of the horses and jockeys and odds, race by race. The totalizator was owned and operated by the Turf Club, as was the course. There were no legal bookmakers here or outside or any legal off-course betting places. This was the only legal form of betting in the Colony.
The sky was dark and forbidding. Earlier there had been a few sprinkles but now the air was clear.
Behind the paddock and winner's circle, on this level, were the jockeys' changing rooms and the offices of the officials—food concessions and the first banks of betting windows. Above them were the stands, four terraced tiers, each cantilevered floor with its own bank of betting windows. The first tier was for nonvoting members, next for voting members, and the two top floors set aside for the private boxes and radio room. Each box had its own private kitchen. Each of the ten annually elected stewards had a box and then there were some permanent ones: first his Excellency the governor, patron of the club; then the commander-in-chief; one each for Blacs and the Victoria. And last, Struan's. Struan's was in the best position, exactly opposite the winning post.
"Why's that, tai-pan?" Casey asked.
"Because Dirk Struan began the Turf Club, set the rules, brought out a famous racing expert, Sir Roger Blore, to be the first secretary of the club. He put up all the money for the first meeting, money for the stands, money to import the first batch of horses from India and helped persuade the first plenipotentiary, Sir William Longstaff, to deed the land to the Turf Club in perpetuity."
"Come now, tai-pan," Donald McBride, the track steward for this meeting, said jovially, "tell it as it happened, eh? You say Dirk 'helped persuade'? Didn't Dirk just 'order' Longstaff to do it?"
Dunross laughed with the others still seated at the table he had hosted, Casey, Hiro Toda and McBride, who had just arrived to visit. There was a bar and three round tables in the box, each seating twelve comfortably. "I prefer my version," he said. "In any event, Casey, the legend is that Dirk was voted this position by popular acclaim when the first stands were built."
"That's not true either, Casey," Willie Tusk called out from the next table. "Didn't old Tyler Brock demand the position as the right of Brock and Sons? Didn't he challenge Dirk to put up the position on a race, man to man, at the first meeting?"
"No, that's just a story."
"Did those two race, tai-pan?" Casey asked.
"They were going to. But the typhoon came too soon, so they say. In any event Culum refused to budge so here we are. This's ours while the course exists."
"And quite right too," McBride said, with his happy smile. "The Noble House deserves the best. Since the very first stewards were elected, Miss Casey, the tai-pan of Struan's has always been a steward. Always. By popular acclaim. Well, I must be off." He glanced at his watch, smiled at Dunross. With great formality he said, "Permission to start the first race, tai-pan?"
Dunross grinned back at him. "Permission granted." McBride hurried off.
Casey stared at Dunross. "They have to ask your permission to begin?"
"It's just a custom." Dunross shrugged. "I suppose it's a good idea for someone to say, 'All right, let's begin,' isn't it? I'm afraid that unlike Sir Geoffrey, the governors of Hong Kong in the past haven't been known for their punctuality. Besides, tradition is not a bad thing at all—gives you a sense of continuity, of belonging—and protection." He finished his coffee. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I must do a few things."
"Have fun!" She watched him go, liking him even more than last night. Just then Peter Marlowe came in and Dunross stopped a moment. "Oh hello, Peter, good to see you. How's Fleur?"
"Getting better, thank you, tai-pan."
"Come on in! Help yourself to a drink—I'll be back in a moment. Put your money on number five, Excellent Day, in the first! See you later."
"Thanks, tai-pan."
Casey beckoned to Peter Marlowe but he did not see her. His eyes had fixed on Grey who was with Julian Broadhurst out on the balcony, haranguing some of the others. She saw his face close and her heart leaped, remembering their hostility, so she called out, "Peter! Hi, come and sit down." His eyes unglazed. "Oh! Oh hello," he said. "Come sit down. Fleur's going to be fine."
"She certainly appreciated your going to see her."
"It was a pleasure. Are the kids okay?"
"Oh yes. You?", "Fantastic. This is the only way to go to a race!" Lunch in the Struan box for the thirty-six guests had been a lavish buffet of hot Chinese foods or, if they preferred, hot steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables, with plates of smoked salmon, hors d'oeuvres and cold cuts, cheeses and pastries of all kinds and as a topper, a meringue sculpture of the Struan Building—all prepared in their own kitchen. Champagne, with the best red and white wines, liqueurs. "I'm gonna have to diet for fifty years."
"Not you. How goes it?" She felt his probing eyes. "Fine. Why?"
"Nothing." He glanced off at Grey again, then turned his attention to the others.
"May I introduce Peter Marlowe? Hiro Toda of Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama. Peter's a novelist-screenwriter from Hollywood." Then all at once his book rushed into her mind and Changi and three and a half years as a prisoner of war and she waited for the explosion. There was a hesitation between both men.
Toda politely offered his business card and Peter Marlowe gave his in return, equally politely. He hesitated a moment then put out his hand. "How're you?"
The Japanese shook it. "This's an honour, Mr. Marlowe."
"Oh?"
"It's not often one meets a famous author."
"I'm not, no, not at all."
"You're too modest. I liked your book very much. Yes."
"You've read it?" Peter Marlowe stared at him. "Really?" He sat and looked at Toda, who was much shorter than he, lithe and well built, more handsome and well dressed in a blue suit, a camera hanging on his chair, his eyes equally level, the two men of an age. "Where did you find it?"
"In Tokyo. We have many English bookshops. Please excuse me, I read the paperback, not the hardback. There was no hardback on sale. Your novel was very illuminating."
"Oh?" Peter Marlowe took out his cigarettes and offered them. Toda took one.
Casey said, "Smoking's not good for you, you both know that!"
They smiled at her. "We'll give them up for Lent," Peter Marlowe said.
"Sure."
Peter Marlowe looked back at Toda. "You were army?"
"No, Mr. Marlowe. Navy. Destroyers. I was at the Battle of the Coral Sea in '42, then at Midway, sub-lieutenant, later at Guadalcanal. I was sunk twice but lucky. Yes, I was lucky, apparently more lucky than you."
"We're both alive, both in one piece, more or less."
"More or less, Mr. Marlowe. I agree. War is a curious way of life." Toda puffed his cigarette. "Sometime, if it would please you and not hurt, I would like to talk about your Changi, about its lessons and our wars. Please?"
"Sure."
"I'm here for a few days," Toda said. "At the Mandarin, back next week. A lunch, or dinner perhaps?"
"Thank you. I'll call. If not this time perhaps next. One day I'll be in Tokyo."
After a pause the Japanese said, "We need not discuss your Changi, if you wish. I would like to know you better. England and Japan have much in common. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I should place my bet." He bowed politely and walked off. Casey sipped her coffee.
"Was that very hard for you? Being polite?"
"Oh no, Casey. No, it wasn't, not at all. Now we're equal, he and I, any Japanese. The Japanese—and Koreans—I hated were the ones with bayonets and bullets when I had none." She saw him wipe the sweat off, noticing his twisted smile. "'Mahlu, I wasn't ready to meet one here."
"'Mahlu? What's that, Cantonese?"
"Malayan. It means 'ashamed.' " He smiled to himself. It was a contraction of puki mahlu. Mahlu ashamed, puki a Golden Gulley. Malays grant feelings to that part of a woman: hunger, sadness, kindness, rapaciousness, hesitancy, shame, anger—anything and everything.
"No need to be ashamed, Peter," she said, not understanding. "I'm astonished you'd talk to any of them after all that POW horror. Oh I really liked the book. Isn't it marvellous that he'd read it too?"
"Yes. That threw me."
"May I ask you one question?"
"What?"
"You said Changi was genesis. What did you mean?"
He sighed. "Changi changed everyone, changed values permanently. For instance, it gave you a dullness about death—we saw too much of it to have the same sort of meaning to outsiders, to normal people. We're a generation of dinosaurs, we the few who survived. I suppose anyone who goes to war, any war, sees life with different eyes if they end up in one piece."
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