"You were saying about Bartlett?"
"I suggest we pray that First Central takes the bait, that Tiptop gives us the money, that I can cover First Central with a syndicate of Mata, Tightfist and Four Fingers. Then you, David MacStruan and I can easily find an alternate to Par-Con. I suggest we open an immediate office in New York. Put David in charge for three months with... perhaps Kevin as his assistant." Phillip Chen let that set a moment in the air and rushed on. "Within three months we should know if young Kevin has any value—I think you'll be very impressed, tai-pan, in fact I guarantee it. In three months we'll know what young George Trussler feels about Rhodesia and South Africa. When he has that office set up we could send him to New York. Or we could perhaps tempt your other cousin, the Virginian, Mason Kern, out of Cooper-Tillman and put him in charge of our New York office. After six months Kevin should go to Salisbury and Johannesburg—I have a great feeling that the thorium and precious metal trade will go from strength to strength."
"Meanwhile, we still have our immediate problems. Bartlett, Gornt and the run on our stock?"
"To ensure Bartlett's silence we have to split him totally from Gornt and make him an ally, a complete ally."
"How do you do that, Phillip?"
"Leave that with me. There are... there are possibilities."
Dunross kept his eyes on Phillip Chen but the old man did not look up from the desk. What possibilities? Orlanda? Has to be. "All right," he said. "Next?"
"About the market. With the Bank of China supporting us, the bank runs are over. With the General Stores takeover and massive financial backing, the run on our stock has to cease. Everyone will rush to buy and the boom will be on. Now," Phillip Chen said, "I know you didn't want to before, but say we can get Sir Luis to withdraw our stock from trading till Monday at noon we ea—"
"What?"
"Yes. Say no one can trade Struan's officially until noon, say we set the price where it was on Wednesday last—28.80. Gornt is trapped. He has to buy at whatever price he can to cover. If no one offers enough stock below that figure all his profits go out of the window, he might even be mauled."
Dunross felt weak. The idea of jerking the stock now had not occurred to him. "Christ, but Sir Luis'd never go for it."
Phillip Chen was very pale, beads of sweat on his forehead. "If the stock exchange committee agreed that it was necessary 'to stabilise the market'... and if the great broking firms of Joseph Stern and Arjan Soorjani also agree not to offer any stock, any bulk stock below 28.80, what can Gornt do?" He wiped his forehead shakily. "That's my plan."
"Why should Sir Luis cooperate?"
"I think... I think he will, and Stern and Soorjani owe us many favours."
The old man's fingers were twitching nervously. "Between Sir Luis, Stern, Soorjani, you and me, we control most of the major blocks of stock Gornt sold short."
"Stern is Gornt's broker."
"True, but he's Hong Kong yan and he needs goodwill more than one client." Phillip Chen shifted more into the light. Dunross noticed the pallor and was greatly concerned. He got up and went to the liquor cabinet and fetched two brandy and sodas. "Here."
"Thank you." Phillip Chen drank his quickly. "Thank God for brandy."
"You think we can line them all up by Monday's opening? By the way, I've cancelled my trip to Taipei."
"Good, yes that's wise. Will you be going to Jason Plumm's cocktail party now?"
"Yes. Yes, I said I would."
"Good, we can talk more then. About Sir Luis. There's a good chance, tai-pan. Even if the stock isn't withdrawn, the price has to skyrocket, it must—if we get the support we need."
That's obvious to anyone, Dunross thought sourly. If. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:35. Sinders was to call by 8:30. He had given him half an hour leeway before his call to Tiptop. His stomach seemed to fall apart but he dominated it. Christ, I can't call him, he thought irritably. "What?" he asked, not having heard Phillip Chen.
"The deadline you gave me to have my resignation on your desk—Sunday midnight if Mata and Tightfist or—may I ask that it be extended a week?"
Dunross picked up Phillip Chen's glass to replenish it, liking the Asian subtlety of the request, to extend it to a time when it would have no value, for, in a week's time, the crisis would be long resolved.
The way the request was put saved face on both sides. Yes, but he has to make a major effort. Can his health stand it? That's my only real consideration. As he poured the brandy he thought about Phillip Chen, Kevin Chen, Claudia Chen and old Chen-chen and what he would do without them. I need cooperation and service and no more betrayal or treachery. "I'll consider that, Phillip. Let's discuss it just after Prayers on Monday." Then he added carefully, "Perhaps extensions would be justified."
Gratefully Phillip Chen accepted the brandy and took a big swallow, his colour better. He had heard the deft plural and was greatly relieved. All I have to do is deliver. That's all. He got up to go. "Thank y—"
The phone jangled irritatingly and he almost jumped. So did Dunross.
"Hello? Oh hello, Mr. Sinders." Dunross could hear the beating of his heart over the rain. "What's new?"
"Very little I'm afraid. I've discussed your suggestion with the governor. If 'it' is in my possession by noon tomorrow, I have reason to believe your friend could be delivered to the Lo Wu border terminal by sunset Monday. I cannot guarantee, of course, that he will wish to cross the border into Red China."
Dunross got his voice going. "There's a lot of 'reason to believe' and 'could be' in that, Mr. Sinders."
"That's the best I can do, officially."
"What guarantees do I have?"
"None, I'm afraid, from Mr. Crosse or myself. It would seem there has to be trust on both sides."
Bastards, Dunross thought furiously, they know I'm trapped. "Thank you, I'll consider what you've said. Noon tomorrow? I'm in the hill climb tomorrow if it's on—ten to noon. I'll come to police headquarters as soon as I can afterwards."
"No need to worry, Mr. Dunross. If it's on, I'll be there too. Noon can be a deadline here or there. All right?"
"All right. Good night." Grimly Dunross put the phone down. "It's a maybe, Phillip. Maybe, by Monday sunset."
Phillip Chen sat down, aghast. His pallor increased. "That's too late."
"We'll find out." He picked up the phone and dialled again.
"Hello, good evening. Is the governor there, please? Ian Dunross." He sipped his brandy. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Sinders just called. He said, in effect: perhaps. Perhaps by sunset Monday. May I ask, could you guarantee that?"
"No, Ian, no I can't. I don't have jurisdiction over this matter. Sorry. You have to make any arrangements direct. Sinders struck me as a reasonable man though. Didn't you think so?"
"He seemed very unreasonable," Dunross said with a hard smile. "Thanks. Never mind. Sorry to disturb you, sir. Oh, by the way if this can be resolved, Tiptop said your chop would be required, with the bank's and mine. Would you be available tomorrow, if need be?"
"Of course. And Ian, good luck."
Dunross replaced the phone. After a moment, he said, "Would they agree, the money tomorrow for the fellow Monday sunset?"
"I wouldn't," Phillip Chen said helplessly. "Tiptop was clear. 'Whenever the correct procedures are entered into.' The exchange would be simultaneous."
Dunross sat back in the high chair, sipped his brandy and let his mind roam.
At 9:00 P.M. he dialled Tiptop, and chatted inconsequentially until the moment had come. "I hear the police underling will surely be fired for making such a mistake and that the wronged party could be at Lo Wu at noon Tuesday."
There was a great silence. The voice was colder than ever. "I hardly think that's immediate."
"I agree. Perhaps I might be able to persuade them to bring it forward to Monday. Perhaps your friends could be a little patient. I would consider it a very great favour." He used the word deliberately and let it hang.
"I will pass your message on. Thank you, tai-pan. Please call me at seven o'clock tomorrow evening. Good night."
"Night."
Phillip Chen broke the silence, very concerned. "That's an expensive word, tai-pan."
"I know. But I have no option," he said, his voice hard. "Certainly there'll be a return favour asked in payment someday." Dunross brushed his hair away from his eyes and added, "Perhaps it'll be with Joseph Yu, who knows? But I had to say it."
"Yes. You're very wise. Wise beyond your years, much wiser than Alastair and your father, not as wise as the Hag." A small shiver went through him. "You were wise to barter the time, and wise not to mention the money, the bank money, very wise. He's much too smart not to know we need that tomorrow—I'd imagine by evening at the latest."
"Somehow we'll get it. That'll take the Victoria pressure off us. Paul's got to call a board meeting soon," Dunross added darkly. "With Richard on the board, well, Richard owes us many favours. The new board will vote to increase our revolving fund, then we won't need Bartlett, First Central or Mata's god-cursed syndicate."
Phillip Chen hesitated, then he blurted out, "I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings but I've heard that part of Richard Kwang's arrangement with Havergill included his signed, undated resignation from the Victoria board and a promise to vote exactly as Havergill wishes."
Dunross sighed. Everything fell into place. If Richard Kwang voted with the opposition it would neutralise his dominating position. "Now all we have to do is lose one more supporter and Paul and his opposition will squeeze us to death." He looked up at Phillip Chen. "You'd better nobble Richard."
"I... I'll try, but he's nobbled already. What about P. B. White? Do you think he'd help?"
"Not against Havergill, or the bank. With Tiptop he might," Dunross said heavily. "He's next—and last—on the list."
10:55 PM
The six people piled out of the two taxis at the private entrance of the Victoria Bank building on the side street. Casey, Riko Gresserhoff, Gavallan, Peter Marlowe, Dunross and P. B. White, a spare, spritely Englishman of seventy-five. The rain had stopped, though the poorly lit street was heavily puddled.
"Sure you won't join us for a nightcap, Peter?" P. B. White asked.
"No thanks, P. B., I'd better be getting home. Night and thanks for supper, tai-pan!"
He walked off into the night, heading for the ferry terminal that was just across the square. Neither he nor the others noticed the car pull up and stop down the street. In it was Malcolm Sun, senior agent, SI, and Povitz, the CIA man. Sun was driving.
"This the only way in and out?" Povitz asked.
"Yes."
They watched P. B. White press the door button. "Lucky bastards. Those two broads are the best I've ever seen."
"Casey's okay but the other? There are prettier girls in any dance hall...." Sun stopped. A taxi went past.
"Another tail?"
"No, no I don't think so, but if we're watching the tai-pan you can bet others are."
"Yes."
They saw P. B. White press the button again. The door opened and the sleepy Sikh night guard greeted him, "Evening, sahs, mem-sahs," then went to the elevator, pressed the button and closed the front door.
"The elevator's rather slow. Antiquated, like me. Sorry," P. B. White said.
"How long have you lived here, P. B.?" Casey asked, knowing there was nothing ancient about him, given the dance in his step or the twinkle in his eyes.
"About five years, my dear," he replied taking her arm. "I'm very lucky."
Sure, she thought, and you've got to be very important to the bank and powerful, must be to have one of the only three apartments in the whole vast building. He had told them one of the others belonged to the chief manager who was presently on sick leave. The last one was staffed but kept vacant. "It's for visiting HRHs, the governor of the Bank of England, prime ministers, those sort of luminaries," P. B. White had said grandly during the light spicy Szechuan food. "I'm rather like a janitor, an unpaid caretaker. They let me in to look after the place."
"I'll bet!"
"Oh it's true! Fortunately there's no connection between this part of the building and the bank proper, otherwise I'd have my hand in the till!"
Casey was feeling very happy, replete with good food and good wine and fine, witty conversation and much attention from the four men, particularly Dunross—and very content that she had held her own with Riko—everything in her life seemingly in place again, Linc so much more her Linc once more, even though he was out with the enemy. How to deal with her? she asked herself for the billionth time.
The elevator door opened. They went into it, crowding into the small area. P. B. White pressed the lowest of three buttons. "God lives on the top floor," he chuckled. "When he's in town."
Dunross said, "When's he due back?"
"In three weeks, Ian, but it's just as well he's out of touch with Hong Kong—he'd be back on the next plane. Casey, our chief manager's a marvellous fellow. Unfortunately he's been quite sick for almost a year and now he's retiring in three months. I persuaded him to take some leave and go to Kashmir, to a little place I know on the banks of the Jehlum River, north of Srinagar. The floor of the valley's about six thousand feet and, up there amongst the greatest mountains on earth, it's paradise. They have houseboats on the rivers and lakes and you drift, no phones, no mail, just you and the Infinite, wonderful people, wonderful air, wonderful food, stupendous mountains." His eyes twinkled. "You have to go there very sick, or with someone you love very much."
They laughed. "Is that what you did, P. B.?" Gavallan asked.
"Of course, my dear fellow. It was in 1915, that was the first time I was there. I was twenty-seven, on leave from the Third Bengal Lancers." He sighed, parodying a lovesick youth. "She was Georgian, a princess."
They chuckled with him. "What were you really in Kashmir for?" Dunross asked.
"I'd been seconded for two years from the Indian General Staff. That whole area, the Hindu Kush, Afghanistan and what's now called Pakistan, on the borders of Russia and China's always been dicey, always will be. Then I was sent up to Moscow—that was late in '17." His face tightened a little. "I was there during the putsch when the real government of Kerenski was tossed out by Lenin, Trotsky and their Bolsheviks...." The elevator stopped. They got out. The front door of his apartment was open, his Number One Boy Shu waiting.
"Come on in and make yourself at home," P. B. said jovially. "The ladies' bathroom's on the left, gentlemen on the right, champagne in the anteroom... I'll show you all around in a moment. Oh, Ian, you wanted to phone?"
"Yes."
"Come along, you can use my study." He led the way down a corridor lined with fine oils and a rare collection of icons. The apartment was spacious, four bedrooms, three anterooms, a dining room to seat twenty. His study was at the far end. Books lined three walls. Old leather, smell of good cigars, a fireplace. Brandy, whiskey and vodka in cut-glass decanters. And port. Once the door closed his concern deepened.
"How long will you be?" he asked.
"As quick as I can."
"Don't worry, I'll entertain them—if you're not back in time I'll make your excuses. Is there anything else I can do?"
"Lean on Tiptop." Dunross had told him earlier about the possible deal to exchange Brian Kwok, though nothing about the AMG papers and his problems with Sinders.
"Tomorrow I'll call some friends in Peking and some more in Shanghai. Perhaps they would see the value in helping us."
Dunross had been acquainted with P. B. White for many years though, along with everyone else, he knew very little about his real past, his family, whether he had been married and had children, where his money came from or his real involvement with the Victoria. "I'm just a sort of legal advisor though I retired years ago," he would say vaguely and leave it at that. But Dunross knew him as a man of great charm with many equally discreet lady friends. "Casey's quite a woman, P. B.," he said with a grin. "I think you're smitten."
"I think so too. Yes. Ah, if I was only thirty years younger! And as for Riko!" P. B.'s eyebrows soared. "Delectable. Are you certain she's a widow?"
"Pretty sure."
"I would like three of those please, tai-pan." He chuckled and went over to the bookcase and pressed a switch. Part of the bookcase swung open. A staircase led upward. Dunross had used it before to have private talks with the chief manager. As far as he knew he was the only outsider privy to the secret access—another of the many secrets that he could pass on only to his succeeding tai-pan. "The Hag arranged it," Alastair Struan had told him the night he took over. "Along with this." He had handed him the master passkey to the safety deposit boxes in the vaults. "It's bank policy that Ch'ung Lien Loh Locksmiths Ltd. change locks. Only our tai-pans know we own that company."
Dunross smiled back at P. B., praying that he could be so young when he was so old. 'Thanks."
"Take your time, Ian." P. B. White handed him a key.
Dunross ran up the stairs softly to the chief manager's landing. He unlocked a door which led to an elevator. The same key unlocked the elevator. There was only one button. He relocked the outside door and pressed the button. The machinery was well oiled and silent. At length it stopped and the inner door slid open. He pushed the outer door. He was in the chief manager's office. John-John got up wearily. "Now what the hell is all this about, Ian?"
Dunross shut the false door that fitted perfectly into the bookcase. "Didn't P. B. tell you?" he asked, his voice mild, none of his tension showing.
"He said you had to get to the vaults tonight to fetch some papers, that I should please let you in and there was no need to bother Havergill. But why the cloak-and-dagger bit? Why not use the front door?"
"Now give over, Bruce. We both know you've got the necessary authority to open the vault for me."
Johnjohn began to say something but changed his mind. The chief manager had said before he left, "Be kind enough to react favourably to whatever P. B. suggests, eh?" P. B. was on first-name terms with the governor, most of the visiting VVIPs and shared the chief manager's direct line to their skeleton staff in the bank offices still operating in Shanghai and Peking.
"All right," he said.
Their footsteps echoed on the vast, dimly lit main floor of the bank. Johnjohn nodded to one of the night watchmen making his rounds, then pressed the button for the elevator to the vaults, stifling a nervous yawn. "Christ, I'm bushed."
"You architected the Ho-Pak takeover, didn't you?", "Yes, yes I did, but if it hadn't been for your smashing coup with General Stores, I don't think Paul'd... well, that certainly helped. Smashing coup, Ian, if you can pull it off."
"It's in the bag."
"What Japanese bank's backing you with the 2 million?"
"Why did you force Richard Kwang's advance resignation?"
"Eh?" Johnjohn stared at him blankly! The elevator arrived. They got into it. "What?"
Dunross explained what Phillip Chen had told him. "That's not exactly cricket. A director of the Victoria being made to sign an undated resignation like a two-cent operation? Eh?"
Johnjohn shook his head slowly. "No, that wasn't part of my plan." His tiredness had vanished. "I can see why you'd be concerned."
"Pissed off would be the correct words."
"Paul must have planned just a holding situation till the chief comes back. This whole operation's precedent-setting so you c—"
"If I get Tiptop's money for you, I want that torn up and a free vote guaranteed to Richard Kwang."
After a pause, Johnjohn said, "I'll support you on everything reasonable—till the chief comes back. Then he can decide."
"Fair enough."
"How much is the Royal Belgium-First Central backing you for?"
"I thought you said a Japanese bank?"
"Oh come on, old chum, everyone knows. How much?"
"Enough, enough for everything."
"We still own most of your paper, Ian."
Dunross shrugged. "It makes no difference. We still have a major say in the Victoria."
"If we don't get China's money, First Central won't save you from a crash."
Again Dunross shrugged.
The elevator doors opened. Dim lights in the vaults cast hard shadows. The huge grille in front of them seemed like a cell door to Dunross. Johnjohn unlocked it.
"I'll be about ten minutes," Dunross said, a sheen to his forehead. "I've got to find a particular paper."
"All right. I'll unlock your box for y—" Johnjohn stopped, his face etched in the overhead light. "Oh, I forgot, you've your own master key."
"I'll be as quick as I can. Thanks." Dunross walked into the gloom, turned the corner and went unerringly to the far bank of boxes. Once there he made sure he was not being followed. All his senses were honed now. He put the two keys into their locks. The locks clicked back.
His fingers reached into his pocket and he took out AMG's letter that gave the numbers of the special pages spread throughout the files, then a flashlight, scissors and a butane Dunhill cigarette lighter that Penelope had given him when he still smoked. Quickly he lifted the false bottom of the box away and slid out the files.
I wish to Christ there was some way I could destroy them now and have done with it, he thought. I know everything that's in them, everything important, but I have to be patient and wait. Sometime soon, they—whoever they are, along with SI, the CIA and the PRC—they won't be following me. Then I can safely fetch the files and destroy them.
Following AMG's instructions with great care, he flicked the lighter and waved it back and forth just under the bottom right quadrant of the first special page. In a moment, a meaningless jumble of symbols, letters and numbers began to appear. As the heat brought them forth, the type in this quadrant began to vanish. Soon all the lettering had gone, leaving just the code. With the scissors he cut off this quarter neatly and put that file aside. AMG had written: "The paper cannot be traced to the files, tai-pan, nor I believe, the information read by any but the highest in the land."
A slight noise startled him and he looked off. His heart was thumping in his ears. A rat scurried around a wall of boxes and vanished. He waited but there was no more danger.
In a moment he was calm again. Now the next file. Again ciphers appeared and the lettering vanished.
Dunross worked steadily and efficiently. When the flame began to fade he was prepared. He refilled the lighter and continued. Now the last file. He cut out the quarter carefully and pocketed the eleven pieces of paper, then slid the files back into their hiding place.
Before he relocked the box he took out a deed for camouflage and laid it beside AMG's letter. Another hesitation, then, shielding AMG's letter with his body, he put the flame to it. The paper twisted as it flared and burned.
"What're you doing?"
Dunross jerked around and stared at the silhouette. "Oh, it's you." He began breathing again. "Nothing, Bruce. Actually it's just an ancient love letter that shouldn't have been kept." The flame died and Dunross pounded the ash to dust and scattered the remains.
"Ian, are you in trouble? Bad trouble?" Johnjohn asked gently.
"No, old chum. It's just the Tiptop mess."
"You're sure?"
"Oh yes." Wearily Dunross smiled back and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and hands. "Sorry to put you to all this trouble."
He walked off firmly, Johnjohn following. The gate clanged after them. In a moment the elevator sighed open and sighed closed and now there was silence but for the scurry of the rats and the slight hiss of the air conditioner. A shadow moved. Silently Roger Crosse came from behind a tall bank of boxes and stood in front of the tai-pan's section. Unhurried, he took out a tiny Minox camera, a flashlight and a bunch of skeleton keys. In a moment, Dunross's box was open. His long fingers reached into it, found the false compartment and brought out the files. Very satisfied he put them in a tidy pile, clipped the flashlight into its socket and, with practised skill, began to photograph the files, page by page. When he came to one of the special pages he peered at it and the missing section. A grim smile flickered over him. Then he continued, making no sound.
SUNDAY
6:30 AM
Koronski came out of the foyer of the Nine Dragons Hotel and hailed a taxi, giving the driver directions in passable Cantonese. He lit a cigarette and slouched back in the seat, keeping a professional watch behind him in the unlikely chance that he was being followed. There was no real risk. His papers as Hans Meikker were flawless, his cover as a sporadic foreign journalist for a West German magazine syndicate real, and he visited Hong Kong frequently as a routine. His eyes reassured him, then he turned to watch the multitudes, wondering who was to be chemically debriefed, and where. He was a short, well-fed, nondescript man, his glasses rimless.
Behind him, fifty yards or so, ducking in and out of the traffic was a small, battered Mini. Tom Connochie, the senior CIA agent, was in the back, one of his assistants, Roy Wong, driving.
"He's going left."
"Sure. I see him. Relax, Tom, you're making me nervous for chrissake. " Roy Wong was third-generation American, a B. A. Lit., and CIA for four years, assigned to Hong Kong. He drove expertly, Connochie watching carefully—crumpled and very tired. He had been up most of the night with Rosemont trying to sort out the flood of top-secret instructions, requests and orders that the intercepted Thomas K. K. Lim's letters had generated. Just after midnight they'd been tipped by one of their hotel informants that Hans Meikker had just checked in for two days from Bangkok. He had been on their list for years as a possible security risk.
"Son of a bitch!" Roy Wong said as a traffic jam blossomed in the narrow, screeching street near the bustling intersections of Mong Kok.
Connochie craned out of the side window. "He's screwed too, Roy. About twenty cars ahead."
In a moment the jam began to ease, then closed in again as an overladen truck stalled. By the time it had cranked up again, their prey had vanished.
"Shit!"
"Cruise. Maybe we'll get lucky and pick him up."
Two blocks ahead, Koronski got out of the taxi and went down a swarming alley, heading for another swarming road and another alley and Ginny Fu's tenement. He went up the soiled stairs to the top floor. He knocked three times on a drab door. Suslev beckoned him in and locked the door behind him. "Welcome," he said quietly in Russian. "Good trip?"
"Yes, Comrade Captain, very good," Koronski replied, also keeping his voice down by habit.
"Come and sit down." Suslev waved at the table that had coffee and two cups. The room was drab with little furniture. Dirty blinds covered the windows.
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