Ayeeyah, he thought, filled with superstitious dread. These pink barbarians are truly devils who can twist us civilised people as they wish and send us mad. But if I become SI that'll protect me and give me some of their secrets, and with those secrets and other foreign devil secrets I will become an ancestor!
He began to beam. His joss had changed ever since he had caught that old amah. Today the gods had favoured him greatly. He had forecast one quinella, the daily double and three place horses, each time reinvesting all his winnings and now he was 5,753 HK richer. His plan for the money was already settled. He would finance Fifth Uncle to buy a used plastic moulding machine to begin a plastic flower factory in return for 51 percent, another 1,000 would pay for the construction of two dwellings in the resettlement to be rented and the last 1,000 would be for next Saturday!
A Mercedes sounded its horn deafeningly, making him jump. Spectacles Wu recognised one of the men in the back: the man Rosemont, the CIA barbarian with limitless funds to spend. So naive, they are, the Americans, he thought. Last year when his relations had poured over the border in the exodus, he had sent them all down to the consulate on a roster basis, every month a different name and different story, to join the constant and evergrowing band of rice Christians or, to be more exact, rice non-Communists. It was easy to get free meals and handouts from the U. S. Consulate. All you had to do was to pretend to be frightened and say, nervously, that you had just come over the border, that you were staunchly against Chairman Mao and that in your village the Communists did such and such a terrible thing. The Americans would be happy to hear about PRC troop movements, real or imagined. Oh how quickly they would write it all down and ask for more. Any information, any stupid piece of information you could pick up if you could read a newspaper was to them—if whispered with rolling eyes—very valuable.
Three months ago Spectacles Wu had had a brainstorm. Now, with four members of his clan, one of whom was originally a journalist on a Communist newspaper in Canton, Spectacles Wu had offered—but through trusted intermediaries so he and his relations could not be traced—to supply Rosemont with a monthly undercover report, an intelligence pamphlet, code name "Freedom Fighter," on conditions across the Bamboo Curtain in and around Canton. To prove the espionage quality Spectacles Wu had offered to supply the first two editions free—to catch a mighty tiger it is good business to sacrifice a stolen lamb. If these were considered acceptable to the CIA, the fee would be 1,000 HK each for the next three, and if these were equally valuable, then a new contract would be negotiated for a year of reports.
The first two had been so highly praised that an immediate deal was struck for five reports at 2,000 HK each. Next week they were to get their first fee. Oh how they had congratulated themselves. The content of the reports was culled from thirty Canton newspapers that came down on the daily Canton train that also brought pigs and poultry and foods of all kinds and could be purchased without effort in Wanchai paper shops. All they had had to do was to read them meticulously and copy the articles, after removing the Communist dialectic: articles about crops, building, economics, Party appointments, births, deaths, sentences, extortions and local colour—anything they considered of interest. Spectacles Wu translated the stories the others picked.
He felt a huge wave of pleasure. Freedom Fighter had enormous potential. Their costs were almost nil. "But sometimes we must be careful to make a few mistakes," Spectacles Wu had told them, "and occasionally we must miss a month—'we regret our agent in Canton was assassinated for giving away State secrets...' " Oh yes. And soon, when I'm a full member of SI and a trained espionage agent, I'll know better how to present the press information to the CIA. Perhaps we'll expand and experiment with a report from Peking, another from Shanghai. We can get day-old Peking and Shanghai papers equally with no trouble and very little investment. Thank all gods for American curiosity!
A taxi honked as it splashed past. He stopped a moment to allow it to pass, then shoved through, careless of the cursing, honking and noise alongside the tall fence that skirted the stadium. He glanced at his watch. He had plenty of time. Headquarters was not far away.
The rain became heavier but he did not feel it, the warmth of winnings in his pocket lightening his footsteps. He squared his shoulders. Be strong, be wise, he ordered himself. Tonight I must be alert. Perhaps they will ask my opinion. I know the Communist Superintendent Brian Kwok is a liar here and there and exaggerating. And as to atomics, what's so important about that? Of course the Middle Kingdom has its own atomics. Any fool knows what's been going on for years in Sinkiang near the shores of Lake Bos-teng-hu. And of course, soon we'll have our own rockets and satellites. Of course! Are we not civilised? Did we not invent gunpowder and rockets but discard them millennia ago as barbaric?
Throughout the stadium on the other side of the fence, women cleaners raked up the sodden leavings of the thousands, patiently sifting the rubbish carefully for a lost coin or ring, fountain pen or bottles that were worth a single copper cash. Crouched beside a pile of garbage cans in the lee of the rain was a man.
"Come on, old fellow, you can't sleep there," a woman cleaner said, not unkindly, shaking him. "It's time to go home!" The old man's eyes fluttered open for an instant, he began to get up but stopped, gave out a great sigh and subsided like a rag doll.
"Ayeeyah," One Tooth Yang muttered. She had seen enough of death throughout her seventy years to recognise its finality. "Hey, Younger Sister," she called out politely to her friend and second member of her team. "Come over here! This old man's dead."
Her friend was sixty-four, bent and lined but equally strong and also Shanghainese. She came out of the rain and peered down. "He looks like a beggar."
"Yes. We'd better tell the foreman." One Tooth Yang knelt and carefully went through his ragged pockets. There were 3 HK in change, nothing else. "That's not much," she said. "Never mind." She divided the coins equally. Over the years they had always divided what they found.
"What's that in his left hand?" the other woman asked. One Tooth bent the clawlike hand open. "Just some tickets." She peered at them, then held them close to her eyes and flicked through them. "It's the double quinella..." she began, then suddenly cackled, "Eeee, the poor fool got the first leg and lost the second... he chose Butterscotch Lass!" Both women laughed hysterically at the mischief of the gods.
"That must have sent the poor old ancient into the seizure—it would me! Ayeeyah, to be so close and yet so far, Elder Sister."
"Joss." One Tooth Yang cackled again and tossed the tickets into a garbage can. "Gods are gods and men are men but eee, I can imagine the old fellow dying. I would have too!" The two old women laughed again, the bad joss hurting them and the older one rubbed her chest to ease the pain. "Ayeeyah, I must get a physic. Go and tell the foreman about him. Younger Sister, eeee, but I'm tired tonight. Such bad joss, he was close to being a millionaire but now? Joss! Go tell the foreman. I'm tired tonight," she said again, leaning on her rake, her voice wavering.
The other woman went off marvelling at the gods and how quickly they can give or take away—if they exist at all, she thought in passing. Ah joss!
Wearily One Tooth Yang continued her work, her head aching, but the moment she was sure she was alone and unobserved she darted for the garbage can and frantically retrieved the tickets, her heart pounding like never in her whole life. Frantically she checked that her eyes had not deceived her and the numbers were correct. But there was no mistake. Each ticket was a winning ticket. Equally frantically she stuffed them in her pocket then made absolutely sure she had not left one carelessly in the rubbish. Quickly she piled more rubbish on top and lifted this can and dumped it into another, all the time her mind shrieking, Tomorrow I can redeem the tickets, I have three days to redeem them! Oh bless all gods, I'm rich I'm rich I'm rich! There must be a hundred or two hundred tickets and each a 5 HK ticket, each ticket pays 265 HK'... if there's a hundred tickets that's 26,500 HK, if two hundred tickets 53,000 HK.... Feeling faint, she squatted beside the corpse, leaning against the wall, not noticing it. She knew she dare not count the tickets now, there was no time. Every second was vital. She had to prepare. "Be cautious, old fool," she muttered aloud, then once more almost went into panic. Stop talking aloud! Be careful, you old fool, or Younger Sister will suspect... Oh oh oh is she now telling the foreman what she suspects? Oh what shall I do? The joss is mine, I found the old man... ayeeyah, what shall I do? Perhaps they'll search me. If they see me in this state they're bound to suspect....
Her head was pounding terribly and a wave of nausea went through her. Nearby were some toilets. She groped to her feet and hobbled over to them. Behind her, other cleaners were sifting and tidying up. Tomorrow they would all come again for there would still be plenty to do. Her own shift was due back at nine in the morning. In the empty toilet room she took out the tickets, her fingers trembling, wrapped them in a piece of rag and found a loose brick in the wall and put them behind the brick.
Once safely outside she began to breathe. When the foreman came back with the other old woman he peered down at the man, went through his pockets with great care and found a twist of silver paper they had missed. Within it was a pinch of White Powder. "It will bring 2 HK," he said, knowing it was worth 6.04 HK. "We will split it, 70 for me and 30 for you two." For face, One Tooth argued and they settled that he would try to get 3.10 HK for it, and would split it 60 to him and 40 to them. Satisfied, he went away.
When they were alone again the younger woman began to sift the garbage.
"What're you doing?" One Tooth asked.
"I just wanted to check those tickets, Elder Sister. Your eyes are not so good."
"Please yourself," One Tooth said with a shrug. "I've picked this lot clean. I'm going over there." Her gnarled finger pointed at an unnoticed new source of virgin rubbish under a row of seats. The other woman hesitated then followed and now One Tooth almost chortled with glee, knowing she was safe. Tomorrow I'll come back complaining of stomach sickness. I can retrieve my fortune and go home. Now what shall I do with my wealth?
First the down payment on two quai loh dancing dresses for Third Granddaughter in return for half her earnings in the first year. She'll make a fine whore in the Good Luck Dance Hall. Next, Second Son will stop being a coolie on the construction site up on Kotewall Road. He and Fifth Nephew and Second Grandson will become builders, and within the week we will put a down payment on a plot of land and begin to build a building...
"You seem very happy, Elder Sister."
"Oh yes I am, Younger Sister. My bones ache, the ague is with me as ever, my stomach is upset, but I am alive and that old man is dead. It is a lesson from the gods. All gods bear witness, when I first saw him, the first time, I thought it was my husband who died in our flight from Shanghai fifteen years ago. I thought I was seeing a ghost! My spirit almost left me for that old man was like his twin!"
"Ayeeyah, how horrible! How terrible! Ghosts! All gods protect us from ghosts!"
Oh yes, the old woman thought, ghosts're terrible. Now, where was I? Oh yes...1,000 will go on the quinella next Saturday. And out of those winnings I will buy... I will buy myself a set of false teeth! Eeeee, how wonderful that will be, she wanted to cry out, almost fainting with suppressed pleasure. All her life, all her life since she was fourteen when a Manchu rifle butt had smashed out her teeth in one of the constant revolutions against the foreign Ch'ing Dynasty, she had been nicknamed One Tooth. Always she had hated her nickname. But now... oh gods bear witness! I will buy a set of teeth from my winnings next Saturday—and also I will buy and light two candles in the nearest temple in return for such good joss.
"I feel faint, Younger Sister," she said, really faint with near ecstasy. "Could you get me some water?"
The other woman went off grumbling. One Tooth sat down a moment and allowed herself a huge grin, her tongue feeling her gums. Eeeee, when I win, if I win heavily enough, I will have one gold tooth, right in the centre, to remind me. Gold Tooth Yang, that has a nice sound to it, she thought, far too clever to mutter it aloud, even though she was completely alone. Yes, Honourable Gold Tooth Yang, of the Yang Constructions empire...
6:15 PM
Suslev was hunched uncomfortably in the front of the small car belonging to Ernie Clinker and they were grinding up the hill. All the windows were steamed up, the rain even heavier. Mud and stones washing down from the steep hillsides made the road surface dangerous. Already they had passed two minor accidents.
"Cor, stone the crows, perhaps you'd better spend the night, old chum," Clinker said, driving with difficulty.
"No, not tonight," Suslev said irritably. "I already told you I promised Ginny and tonight's my last night." Ever since the raid, Suslev had been in a blinding rage, his rage fed by unaccustomed fear—fear of the summons to police HQ in the morning, fear of catastrophic repercussions from the intercepted decoded cable, fear of Center's probable displeasure over the loss of Voranski, being ordered out of Hong Kong, the destruction of their radio equipment, the Metkin affair and now Koronski's arrival and the possible kidnapping of Dunross. Too many things have gone wrong this trip, he thought, chilled—too long in the game to have any illusions. Even his phone conversation during the fifth race with Crosse had not mollified him.
"Not to worry, it's a routine request to appear, Gregor. Just a few questions about Voranski,- Metkin and so on," Crosse had said in a disguised voice.
"Kristos, what's the 'and so on'?"
"I don't know, Sinders ordered it, not me."
"You'd better cover me, Roger."
"You're covered. Listen, about this possible kidnapping, it's a very bad idea."
"They want it set up, so help Arthur make the arrangements, eh, please? Unless you can delay my departure, we will implement it when it is ordered."
"I recommend against it. This is my bailiwick and I rec—'
"Centre approves and we will do it if it is ordered!" Suslev wanted to order Roger Crosse to shut up or else, but he was careful not to offend their best asset in Asia. "Can we meet tonight?"
"No, but I'll call you. How about four? At 10:30?" Four was their present code for 32 Sinclair Towers.10:30 meant 9:30 P.M.
"Is that wise?"
He had heard that dry confident laugh. "Very wise. Would those fools come again? Of course it is wise. And I guarantee it!"
"All right. Arthur will be there. We should cement the plan."
Clinker swerved to avoid a taxi cutting in and he cursed, then ground the gears, peering through the windscreen ahead, getting into motion again. On his side Suslev rubbed the condensation away. "God-cursed weather," he said, his mind elsewhere. What about Travkin? Stupid motherless turd to fall off after passing the winning post. I thought he'd won. Decadent fool! No real cossack'd ever get caught like that. So he's out now, him and his crippled old crone princess with the broken bones.
Now how do we entice Dunross to the apartment tomorrow instead of Tuesday as Travkin had signalled. It has to be tonight or tomorrow. At the latest it must be tomorrow night. Arthur must arrange it or Roger. They are the keys to the Dunross plan.
And I must get those files—or Dunross—before I leave. One or the other. They're my only real protection against Centre.
Bartlett and Casey got out of the Struan limo at the Hilton, the resplendent, turbaned Sikh doorman holding an unnecessary umbrella—the vast overhang already protecting them from the sheets of water.
"I'll be here, sir, whenever you're ready," Chauffeur Lim said.
"Great. Thanks," Bartlett replied. They went up the steps to the ground floor and took the escalator to the foyer.
"You're very quiet, Casey," he said. All the way from the racetrack they had hardly said a word to each other, both locked into their own thoughts.
"So're you, Linc. I thought you didn't want to talk. You seemed distracted." She smiled tentatively. "Maybe it was all the excitement."
"It was a great day."
"You think the tai-pan's going to pull it off? The General Stores takeover?"
"Monday will tell." Bartlett went to the reception desk. "Mr.
Banastasio please?"
The handsome Eurasian assistant manager said, "Just a moment please. Oh yes, he changed his room again. Now it's 832." He handed him a house phone. Bartlett dialled.
"Yeah?"
"Vincenzo? Linc. I'm downstairs."
"Hey, Linc, good to hear your voice. Casey with you?"
"Sure."
"You want to come up?"
"On our way." Bartlett went back to Casey.
"You sure you want me along?"
"He asked for you." Bartlett led the way to the elevator, thinking of Orlanda and their date later, thinking of Biltzmann and Gornt and Taipei tomorrow and whether or not he should ask Dunross if he could take her. Shit, life's complicated suddenly. "It'll only be a few minutes," he said, "then it's cocktails with the tai-pan. The weekend's going to be interesting. And next week."
"You out for dinner tonight?"
"Yes. We should have breakfast though. Seymour needs straightening out and as I'm off for a couple of days we'd better have our signals straight."
They crowded into the elevator. Casey casually avoided being trampled on and ground her heel into her assailant's instep. "Oh so sorry," she said sweetly, then muttered "Dew neh loh moh " which Peter Marlowe had taught her this afternoon, just loud enough for the woman to hear. She saw the sudden flush. Hastily the woman shoved her way out at the mezzanine floor and Casey knew she had won a great victory. Amused, she glanced at Bartlett but he was lost in thought, staring into space, and she wondered very much what the real problem was. Orlanda?
On the eighth floor they got out. She followed Bartlett down the corridor. "You know what this's all about, Linc? What Banastasio wants?"
"He said he just wanted to say hi and pass the time of day." Bartlett pressed the button. The door opened.
Banastasio was a good-looking man with iron-grey hair and very dark eyes. He welcomed them cordially. "Hey, Casey, you've lost weight—you're looking great. Drink?" He waved a hand at the bar. It was stocked with everything. Casey fixed herself a martini after opening a can of beer for Bartlett, lost in thought. Peter Marlowe's right. So's the tai-pan. So's Linc. All I have to do is decide. By when? Very soon. Today, tomorrow? By Tuesday dinner for sure, Absolutely one hundred percent for sure and meanwhile maybe I'd better begin a few diversionary raids.
"How's it going?" Banastasio was saying.
"Fine. With you?"
"Great." Banastasio sipped a Coke then reached forward and turned on a small tape recorder. Out of it came a confusing mishmash of voices, the sort of background heard at any busy cocktail party.
"Just a habit, Linc, Casey, when I want to talk private," Banastasio said quietly.
Bartlett stared at him. "You think this place's bugged?"
"Maybe, maybe not. You never know who could be listening, huh?"
Bartlett glanced at Casey then back at Banastasio. "What's on your mind, Vincenzo?"
Banastasio smiled. "How's Par-Con?" the man asked.
"Same as ever—great," Bartlett said. "Our growth rate will be better'n forecast."
"By 7 percent," Casey added, all her senses equally sharpened.
"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"
"We're working on it." Bartlett covered his surprise. "Isn't this new for you, Vincenzo? Asking about deals before they happen?"
"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"
Bartlett watched the cold eyes and the strangely menacing smile. Casey was equally shocked. "When the deal's done I'll tell you. The same time I tell the other stockholders."
The smile did not change. The eyes got colder. "The boys and I'd like to get invol—"
"What boys?"
Banastasio sighed. "We've got a good piece of change in Par-Con, Linc, and now we'd like to figure in some of the up-front decisions. We figure I should have a seat on the board. And on the Finance Committee and the New Acquisitions Committee."
Bartlett and Casey stared at him openly. "That was never part of the stock deal," Bartlett told him. "Up front you said it was just an investment."
"That's right," Casey added, her voice sounding thin to her. "You wrote us you were just an investor an—"
"Times've changed, little lady. Now we want in. Got it?" The man's voice was harsh. "Just one seat, Linc. That much stock in General Motors and I'd have two seats."
"We're not General Motors."
"Sure. Sure, we know. But what we want isn't out of line. We want Par-Con to grow faster. Maybe I ca—"
"It's growing just fine. Don't you think it'd be bet—" Again Banastasio turned his bleak gaze on her. Casey stopped. Bartlett's fists began to clench but he held them still. Carefully.
Banastasio said, "It's settled." The smile came back. "I'm on the board from today, right?"
"Wrong. Directors get elected by the stockholders at the annual general meeting," Bartlett said, his voice raw. "Not before. There's no vacancy."
Banastasio laughed. "Maybe there will be."
"Do you want to say that again?"
Abruptly Banastasio hardened. "Listen, Linc, that's not a threat, just a possibility. I can be good on the board. I've got connections. And I want to put in my two cents' worth here and there."
"About what?"
"Deals. For instance, Par-Con goes with Gornt."
"And if I don't agree?"
"A little nudge from us and Dunross'll be on the street. Gornt's our boy, Linc. We checked and he's better."
Bartlett got up. Casey followed, her knees very weak. Banastasio didn't move. "I'll think about all this," Bartlett said. "As of right now it's a toss-up if we make a deal with either one."
Banastasio's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I'm not convinced that either's good for us. Right, Casey?"
"Yes, Linc."
"My vote says Gornt. Got it?"
"Go screw." Bartlett turned to go.
"Just a minute!" Banastasio stood up and came closer. "No one wants trouble, not me, not the boys, n—"
"What boys?"
Again the other man sighed. "C'mon, Linc, you're over twentyone. You've had a good ride. We don't want to make waves, just money."
"We have that in common. We'll buy back your stock and give you a profit of si—"
"No deal. It's not for sale." Another sigh. "We bought in when you needed dough. We paid a fair price and you used our cash to expand. Now we want a piece of the exec action. Got it?"
"I'll put it to the stockholders at the annual gen—"
"Goddamnit, now!"
"Goddamnit no!" Bartlett was ready and very dangerous. "Got it?"
Banastasio looked at Casey, his eyes flat like a reptile's. "That your vote too, Miss Executive Vice-President and Treasurer?"
"Yes," she said, surprised that her voice sounded firm. "No seat on the board, Mr. Banastasio. If it comes to a vote, my stock's against you and totally against Gornt."
"When we get control, you're fired."
"When you get control, I'll already have left." Casey walked toward the door, astonished that her legs worked.
Bartlett stood in front of the other man, on guard. "See you around," he said.
"You'd better change your mind!"
"You'd better stay the hell out of Par-Con." Bartlett turned and followed Casey out of the room.
At the elevator he said, "Jesus!"
"Yes," she muttered as helplessly.
"We'd... we'd better talk."
"Sure. I think I need a drink. Jesus, Linc, that man petrified me. I've never been so frightened in my whole life." She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. "That was like a goddamn nightmare."
In the bar on the top floor she ordered a martini and he a beer and when the drinks had been silently consumed, he ordered another round. All the while their minds had been sifting, pitting facts against theories, changing the theories.
Bartlett shifted in his chair. She looked across at him. "Ready for what I think?" she asked.
"Sure, sure, Casey. Go ahead."
"There's always been a rumour he's Mafia or connected with Mafia and after our little talk I'd say that's a good bet. Mafia jumps us to narcotics and all sorts of evil. Theory: maybe it also jumps us somehow to the guns?" The tiny lines beside Bartlett's eyes crinkled. "I reached that too. Next?"
"Fact: if Banastasio's scared of being bugged that jumps us to surveillance. That means FBI."
"Or CIA."
"Or CIA. Fact: if he's Mafia and if the CIA or FBI're involved, we're in a game we've no right to be in, with nowhere to go but down. Now, as to what he wan—" Casey stopped. She gasped.
"What?"
"I just... I just remembered Rosemont, you remember him from the party, Stanley Rosemont, the tall, good-looking, grey-haired man from the consulate? We met on the ferry yesterday, yesterday afternoon. By chance. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe not, but now that I think of it he brought up Banastasio, said his friend Ed someone, also at the consulate, knew him slightly—and when I said he was arriving today he was knocked for a loop." She recapped her conversation. "I never thought much about it at the time... but the consulate and what he said adds up: CIA."
"Got to be. Sure. And if..." He stopped too. "Come to think of it, Ian brought up Banastasio out of the blue too. Tuesday, in the lobby when you were at the phone, just before we went to the gold vaults."
After a pause she said, "Maybe we're in real deep shit! Fact: we got a murder, kidnapping, guns, Banastasio, Mafia, John Chen. Come to think of it, John Chen and Tsu-yan were very friendly with that bum." Her eyes widened. "Banastasio and John Chen's killing. Does that tie? From what the papers've said, the Werewolves don't sound like Chinese—the ear bit. That's, that's brutal."
Bartlett sipped his beer, lost in thought. "Gornt? What about Gornt? Why did Banastasio go for him and not Struan's?"
"I don't know."
"Try this for size, Casey. Say Banastasio's end play is guns, or narcotics, or both guns and narcotics. Both companies would be good for him. Struan's have ships and a huge complex at the airport that dominates inward and outward cargoes, great for smuggling. Gornt has ships and wharfing too. And Gornt's got All Asia Airways. An in with Asia's major feeder airline would give him—them —what they need. The airline goes to Bangkok, India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan—wherever!"
"And connects here with Pan-Am, TWA, JAL and all places east, west, north and south! And if we help Gornt to smash Struan's, the two companies together give them everything."
"So, back to the sixty-four-dollar question: what do we do?" Bartlett asked.
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