"Of course. Nothing serious I hope?"
"No, no, not at all. Interesting though. The rain's uncovered a couple of bodies that'd been buried in the same area where John Chen's body was found."
The others came closer. "The Werewolves?" George T'Chung asked, shocked. "More kidnap victims?"
"We presume so. They were both young. One had his head bashed in and the other poor bugger half his head cut off, looks like with a spade. Both were Chinese."
"Christ!" Young George T'Chung had gone white.
Smyth nodded sourly. "You haven't heard of any rich sons being kidnapped, have you?"
Everyone shook their heads.
"Not surprised," Smyth said. "Stupid for the families of victims to deal with kidnappers and keep quiet about it. Unfortunately the bodies were discovered by locals so it'll be headlines by tonight from here to Peking!"
"You want to fly the bodies back?"
"Oh no, tai-pan. The hurry's to get some CID experts here to search the area before the rain comes again. We need to try to identify the poor buggers. Can you leave at once?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Thanks. Sorry to bother you. Sorry about Noble Star, but my bundle'll be on you on Saturday." Smyth nodded politely and walked off.
George T'Chung was openly upset. "We're all targets for those bastards, the Werewolves. You, me, my old man, anyone! Christ, how can we protect ourselves against them?"
No one answered him.
Then Dunross said with a laugh, "No need to worry, old chap, we're inviolate, we're all inviolate."
10:01 AM
The phone rang in the semidarkness of the bedroom. Bartlett scrambled out of sleep. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Mr. Bartlett, this is Claudia Chen. The tai-pan asked if you'd need the car today anyway?"
"No, no thanks." Bartlett glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he muttered aloud, astounded he had slept so long. "Er, thanks, thanks, Claudia."
"The Taipei trip's rescheduled for next Friday, Friday back Monday noon. Is that convenient?"
"Yes, er yes, sure."
"Thank you."
Bartlett hung up and lay back a moment, collecting his wits. He stretched luxuriously, glad that there was no rush for anything, enjoying the rare pleasantness of being just a little lazy.
It had been four o'clock this morning when he had hung up a "do not disturb," cut off the phones till 10:00 A.M. and had gone to bed. Last night Orlanda had taken him to Aberdeen where she had hired a Pleasure Boat. They had drifted the channels, the rain making the hooped cabin more cosy, the brazier warming, the food hot and spicy.
"In Shanghai we cook with garlic and chilies and peppers and all manner of spices," she had told him, serving him, her chopsticks a delicate extension of her fingers. "The farther north you go the hotter the food, the less rice is eaten, more breads and noodles. The north's wheat-eating, only the southern part of China's rice-eating, Linc. More?"
He had eaten well and drunk the beer she had brought with her. The night had been happy for him, the time going unnoticed as she regaled him with stories of Asia and Shanghai, her mind deft and darting. Then, afterward, the rain pattering on the canvas, the dishes taken away and they reclining side-by-side on the cushions, fingers entwined, she had said, "Linc, I'm sorry, but I love you."
It had taken him by surprise.
"No need to be sorry," he had said, not ready yet to reply in kind.
"Oh but I am. It complicates things, oh yes, it complicates things very much."
Yes, he thought. It's so easy for a woman to say I love you, so hard for a man, unwise for a man, for then you're stuck. Is that the right word? Again the answer did not present itself.
As he lay now in bed, his head cradled on his arms, he rethought the night. Touching and leaving alone, then hands searching, his and hers, but not finalising. Not that she prevented him or stopped him. He just held back. Finally.
"You've never done that before," he muttered out loud. "Once you had a girl going, you went all the way," and he wished he had, remembering how heavy the desire had been upon them. "I'm not a one-night stand or Eurasian tramp" had rung in his ears.
In the taxi to her home they had not spoken, just held hands. That's the goddamnedest part, he thought, feeling foolish, childish, just holding hands. If anyone had told me a month ago, a week ago that I'd settle for that, I'd've said he was a meathead and bet big money.
Money. I have more than enough for Orlanda and me. But what about Casey? And Par-Con? First things first. Let's see if Casey tells me about Murtagh and why she's been sitting on that hot potato. Gornt? Gornt or Dunross? Dunross has style and if Banastasio's against him that's one great vote of confidence.
After he had told Armstrong their theory about Banastasio, Armstrong had said, "We'll see what we can come up with, though Mr. Gornt's credentials are as impeccable as any in the Colony. You can rest assured Vincenzo Banastasio will be high up on our shit list, but isn't his real threat in the States?"
"Oh yes. But I told Rosemont an—"
"Ah, good! That was wise. He's a good man. Did you see Ed Langan?"
"No. Is he CIA too?"
"I don't even know, officially, if Rosemont is, Mr. Bartlett. Leave it with me. Did he have any suggestion about the guns?"
"No."
"Well, never mind. I'll pass on your information and liaise with him—he's very good by the way."
A small tremor went through Bartlett. He'll have to be very good to clobber Mafia, if Banastasio really is Mafia.
He reached over and dialled Casey's room number. No answer, so he called down for his messages. The receptionist told him everything was already under his door. "Would you like your cables and telexes sent up?"
"Sure, thanks. Any message from Casey Tcholok?"
"No sir."
"Thanks."
He jumped out of bed and went to the door. Among the phone messages was an envelope. He recognised her writing. The messages were all business calls except one: "Mr. Banastasio called. Please return his call." Bartlett put that aside. He opened Casey's envelope. The note was timed 9:45 A.M. and read: "Hi, Linc! Didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep—back sixish. Have fun!"
Where's she off to? he asked himself absently.
He picked up the phone to call Rosemont but changed his mind and dialled Orlanda. No answer. He redialled the number. The calling tone droned on and on.
"Shit!" He pushed away his discontent.
You've a date for lunch so what's so tough? Sunday brunch here atop the V and A and lots of time, Sunday brunch where "all the best people go for lunch, Linc. Oh it's super, the hot and cold buffet's the talk of Asia. The very best!"
"Jesus, all this food, by next week I'll weigh a ton!"
"Not you, never never never. If you like, we'll go for a long walk or when the rain stops we'll play tennis. Whatever you want we'll do! Oh Linc, I love you so...."
Casey was leaning on the balustrade at the Kowloon wharf among the crowds. She wore khaki pants and a yellow silk shirt that showed her figure without flaunting it, a matching cashmere sweater tied casually around her neck, sneakers, and in her big handbag was a swimsuit—not that I'll need it today, she told herself, the Peak shrouded to Mid Levels with cloud, black-dark sky to the east and a heavy line of rain squall already touching the Island. A small helicopter putt-putted overhead to go out across the harbour on course for Central. She saw it land on one of the buildings. Isn't that the Struan Building? Sure, sure it is. Wonder if Ian's in it?
Wonder if the hill climb's back on again? Last night he had said it was off but that some of them might do it anyway.
Then her eyes saw the approaching motor cruiser. It was big, expensive, the lines sleek, a Red Ensign aft, a colourful pennant on the stubby mast. She picked out Gornt at the helm. He was dressed casually, shirt-sleeves rolled up, canvas pants, his black hair ruffled by the sea breeze. He waved and she waved back. There were others on the bridge main deck: Jason Plumm she had met at the races, Sir Dunstan Barre at the tai-pan's—he was wearing a smart blue blazer and white pants, Pugmire was equally nautical.
Gornt put the cumbersome craft alongside skillfully, fenders out, two deckhands with hooked fending poles. She headed along the quay toward the wet slippery steps. Five Chinese girls were already waiting on the landing, gaily dressed in boating clothes, laughing and chattering and waving. As she watched, they jumped awkwardly aboard helped by a deckhand, kicked their high heels off. One went to Barre, another to Pugmire, another to Plumm as old friends would and the other two went cheerfully below.
I'll be goddamned, she thought disgustedly. It's one of those parties. She began to turn to leave but she saw Gornt leaning over the side, watching her. "Hello, Casey, sorry about the rain, come aboard!"
The craft was dipping and twisting in the swell, waves slapping the steps and the hull. "Come aboard, it's quite safe," he called out. Reacting at once to what she interpreted as a taunt, she came down the steps quickly, refused the proffered help of the deckhand, waited for the correct moment and jumped. "You did that as though you've been aboard a yacht before," Gornt said with admiration, coming to meet her. "Welcome aboard the Sea Witch. "
"I like sailing, Quillan, though I think maybe I'm out of my depth here."
"Oh?" Gornt frowned and she could read no taunt or challenge there. "You mean the girls?"
"Yes."
"They're just guests of my guests." His eyes bored into her. "I understood you wanted to be treated with equality."
"What?"
"I thought you wanted to be treated equally in a masculine world, in business and pleasure? To be accepted, eh?"
"I do," she said coldly.
His warmth did not change. "Are you upset because the others are married and you've met some of their wives?"
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"Isn't that rather unfair?"
"No, I don't think it is," she said uncomfortably.
"You 're my guest, my guest, the others are my guests' guests. If you want equality, perhaps you should be prepared to accept equality."
"This isn't equality."
"I'm certainly putting you in a position of trust. As an equal. I must tell you the others didn't think you as trustworthy as I consider you." The smile hardened. "I told them they could leave or stay. I do what I like on my ship and I stood surety for your discretion and good manners. This is Hong Kong, our customs are different. This isn't a puritan society though we have very serious rules. You're alone. Unmarried. Very attractive and very welcome. As an equal. If you were married to Linc, you would not have been asked, together or by yourself, though he might have been and what he told you when he came back would be his own affair."
"You're saying this is regular Hong Kong custom—the boys out with "the girls bit on a Sunday afternoon?"
"No, not at all. I'm saying my guests asked if they could invite some guests who'd brighten what might otherwise be a dull luncheon for them." Gornt's eyes were level.
The Sea Witch heeled under another wave and Barre and his girl friend stumbled and almost lost their footing. She dropped her glass of champagne. Gornt had not moved. Nor did Casey. She didn't even need to hoid on.
"You've done lots of sailing?" he said with admiration.
"I've an eighteen-footer, fibreglass, Olympic class, sloop-rigged, on a trailer. I sail some weekends."
"Alone?"
"Mostly. Sometimes Linc comes along."
"He's at the hill climb?"
"No. I heard it was cancelled."
"He's going to Taipei this afternoon?"
"No. I heard that was cancelled too."
Gornt nodded. "Wise. A lot to do tomorrow." His eyes were kindly. "I'm sorry you're offended. I thought you different from the usual. I'm sorry the others came now."
Casey heard the strange gentleness. "Yes, I'm sorry too."
"Would you still like to stay? I hope so, though I will expect your discretion—I did guarantee it."
"I'll stay," she said simply. "Thanks for trusting me."
"Come on the bridge. There's champagne and I think lunch'll please you."
Having chosen, Casey put away her reservations and decided to enjoy the day. "Where're we going?"
"Up by Sha Tin. The sea'll be calm there."
"Say, Quillan, this is a wonderful boat."
"I'll show you around in a moment." There was a spatter of rain and they moved into the lee of the overhanging deck. Gornt glanced at the clock tower. It was 10:10. He was about to order their castoff when Peter Marlowe hurried down the steps and came aboard. His eyes widened as he noticed Casey.
"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Gornt."
"That's all right, Mr. Marlowe. I was going to give you a couple of minutes—I know how it is with young children. Excuse me a second, I believe you know each other. Oh, Casey's my guest—her discretion's guaranteed." He smiled at her. "Isn't it?"
"Of course."
He turned and left them, going to the bridge to take the conn. They watched a moment, both embarrassed, the sea breeze freshening the rain that slanted down.
"I didn't expect to see you, Peter," she said.
"I didn't expect to see you either."
She studied him, her hazel eyes level. "Is one of the, the others yours? Give it to me straight."
His smile was curious. "Even if one was I'd say it wasn't any of your business. Discretion and all that. By the way, are you Gornt's girl friend?"
She stared at him. "No. No, of course not!"
"Then why're you here?"
"I don't know. He... he just said I was invited as an equal."
"Oh. Oh I see." Peter Marlowe was equally relieved. "He's got a strange sense of humour. Well, I did warn you. To answer your question, at least eight are part of the Marlowe harem!" She laughed with him and he added more seriously, "You don't have to worry about Fleur. She's very wise."
"I wish I was, Peter. This's all rather new to me. Sorry about... yes, sorry."
"It's new to me too. I've never been on a Sunday cruise before. Why did y—" His smile vanished. She followed his glance. Robin Grey had come up from below and was pouring himself a glass of champagne, one of the girls holding out her glass too. Casey turned and stared up at Gornt, watching him glance from man to man, then at her.
"Come aloft," Gornt called out. "There's wine, champagne, Bloody Marys or, if you prefer, coffee." He kept his face expressionless but inside he was vastly amused.
11:15 AM
"I repeat, Mr. Sinders, I know nothing of any cable, any Arthur, any files, any American and I know no Major Yuri Bakyan—the man was Igor Voranski, seaman first class." Susiev kept a firm hold on his temper. Sinders sat opposite him, behind the desk in the drab interview room at police headquarters. Suslev had expected Roger Crosse to be there, to help. But he had not seen him since he arrived.
Be careful, he cautioned himself, you're on your own. You'll get no help from Roger. Rightly. That spy has to be protected. And as to Boradinov, he's no help either. He glanced at his first officer who sat beside him, stiff, upright in his chair and greatly ill-at-ease.
"And you still insist this spy Dimitri Metkin's name was not Leonov—Nicoli Leonov—also a major in the KGB?"
"It's nonsense, all nonsense. I shall report this whole incident to my government, I sh—"
"Are your repairs completed?"
"Yes, at least they will be by midnight. We bring good money into Hong Kong and pay our bi—"
"Yes and create nothing but curious troubles. Like Major Leonov, like Bakyan?"
"You mean Metkin?" Suslev glared at Boradinov to take off some of the heat. "Did you know any Leonov?"
"No, Comrade Captain," Boradinov stuttered. "We didn't know anything."
"What a lot of cobblers!" Sinders sighed. "Fortunately Leonov told us quite a lot about you and the Ivanov before you murdered him. Yes, your Major Leonov was very cooperative." Suddenly his voice became a whiplash. "First Officer Boradinov, please wait outside!"
The younger man was on his feet before he knew it, white-faced. He opened the door. Outside a hostile Chinese SI agent motioned him to a chair, closing the door once more.
Sinders put his pipe aside, took out a package of cigarettes and leisurely lit one. Rain battered the windows. Suslev waited, his heart grinding. He watched his enemy from under his bushy eyebrows, wondering what Roger Crosse had for him that was so urgent. This morning when the secret phone had rung it was Arthur asking if Suslev would meet Roger Crosse around eight o'clock tonight at Sinclair Towers. "What's so urgent? I should be on my ship and mak—"
"I don't know. Roger said it was urgent. There was no time to discuss anything. Did you see Koronski?"
"Yes. Everything's arranged. Can you deliver?"
"Oh yes. Long before midnight."
"Don't fail, Center's counting on you now," he had added, lying. "Tell our friend it's ordered."
"Excellent. We won't fail."
Suslev had heard the excitement. Some of his dread had left him. Now it was returning. He did not like being here, so near to staying permanently. Sinders's reputation was well known in the KGB: dedicated, smart and given to great leaps of insight. "I'm very tired of these questions, Mr. Sinders," he said, astonished that the head of MI-6 had personally come to Hong Kong and could appear to be so unimportant. He stood up, testing him. "I'm leaving."
"Tell me about Sevrin."
"Severin? What is Severin? I do not have to stay to answer your questions, I do n—"
"I agree, Comrade Captain, normally, but one of your men has been caught spying and our American friends really want possession of you."
"Eh?"
"Oh yes and I'm afraid they're not as patient as we are."
Suslev's dread swooped back. "More threats! Why threaten me?" he flustered. "We are law-abiding. I'm not responsible for troubles! I demand to be allowed to go back to my ship! Now!"
Sinders just looked at him. "All right. Please leave," he said quietly.
"I can go?"
"Yes, yes of course. Good morning."
Astonished, Suslev stared at him a moment, then turned and went for the door.
"Of course we will certainly leak it to your superiors that you gave us Leonov."
Suslev stopped, ashen. "What, what did you say?"
"Leonov told us, among other things, that you encouraged him to make the intercept. Then you leaked the exchange."
"Lies... lies," he said, suddenly aghast that perhaps Roger Crosse had been caught as Metkin was caught.
"Didn't you also leak to North Korean agents about Bakyan?"
"No, no I did not," Suslev stuttered, enormously relieved to discover Sinders was kiting him, probably without any real information. Some of his confidence returned. "That's more nonsense. I know no North Koreans."
"I believe you, but I'm sure the First Directorate won't. Good morning."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell me about the cable."
"I know nothing about it. Your superintendent was mistaken, I did not drop it."
"Oh but you did. What American?"
"I know nothing about an American."
"Tell me about Sevrin."
"I know nothing of this Severin. What is it, who is it?"
"I'm sure you know your superiors in the KGB are impatient with leaks and very untrusting. If you manage to sail, I suggest you, your first officer, your ship and your entire crew do not come back into these waters again—"
"You threaten me again? This will become an international incident. I will inform my government and yours an—"
"Yes, and so will we, officially and privately. Very privately." Sinders's eyes were freezing though his lips wore a smile.
"I... I can go now?"
"Yes. For information."
"What?"
"Who is the American, and who is 'Arthur'?"
"I don't know any Arthur. Arthur who?"
"I will wait till midnight. If you sail without telling me, when I return to London I will make sure information gets to the ears of your naval attache in London that you leaked Leonov whom you call Metkin, and you leaked Bakyan whom you call Voranski in return for SI favours."
"That's lies, all lies, you know it's lies."
"Five hundred people saw you at the racetrack with Superintendent Crosse. That's when you gave him Metkin."
"All lies." Suslev tried to hide his terror.
Sinders chuckled. "We'll see, won't we? Your new naval attache in London will clutch at any straws to ingratiate himself with his superiors. Eh?"
"I don't understand," Suslev said, understanding very well. He was trapped.
Sinders leaned forward to tap out his pipe. "Listen to me clearly," he said with absolute finality. "I'll swap you your life for the American and Arthur."
"I don't know any Arthur."
"This will be a secret between you and me only. I'll tell no one. I give you my word."
"I know no Arthur."
"You pinpoint him and you're safe. You and I are professionals, we understand barter—-and safety—and an occasional private, very secret deal. You're caught, this time, so you have to deliver. If you sail without telling me who Arthur is, as sure as God made little apples and the KGB exists, I will shop you." The eyes bored into him. "Good morning, Comrade Captain."
Suslev got up and left. When he and Boradinov were in the air once more, in the reality of Hong Kong, both began to breathe. Silently Suslev led the way across the street to the nearest bar. He ordered two double vodkas.
Suslev's mind was ripped. Kristos, he wanted to shout, I'm dead if I do and dead if I don't. That goddamned cable! If I finger Banastasio and Arthur, I admit I know Sevrin and I'm in their power forever. And if I don't, my life will surely be finished. One way or another it will be dangerous to return home now, and equally dangerous to come back. One way or another now I need those AMG files or Dunross, or both, for protection. One way or an— "Comrade Cap—"
He whirled on Boradinov and cursed him in Russian. The younger man whitened and stopped, petrified.
"Vodka! Two more," he called. "Please."
The bar girl brought them. "My name Sally, what your, heya?"
"Piss off," Boradinov snarled.
"Dew neh loh moh on your piss off, heya? You Mr. Pissoff? I no like your face Mr. Pissoff so piss off without swearings." She picked up the vodka bottle and prepared to carry the battle forward.
"Apologise to her!" Suslev snapped, wanting no trouble, not sure that she wasn't a plant, the bar being so close to police headquarters.
Boradinov was shocked. "What?"
"Apologise to her, you motherless turd!"
"Sorry," Boradinov muttered, his face flushed.
The girl laughed. "Hey, big man, you want jig-jig?"
"No," Suslev said. "Just more vodka."
Crosse got out of the police car and hurried through the light rain into the Struan Building. Behind him the streets were crowded with umbrellas and snarled traffic, the sidewalks massed, people going to and from work, Sunday not a general holiday. On the twentieth floor he got out.
"Good morning, Superintendent Crosse. I'm Sandra Yi, Mr. Dunross's secretary. This way please."
Crosse followed her down the corridor, his eyes noticing her chong-samed rump. She opened a door for him. He went in.
"Hello, Edward," he said to Sinders.
"You're early too, as usual." Sinders was sipping a beer. "Old army habit, eh, five minutes early's on time?" Behind him in the lavish boardroom was a well-stocked bar. And coffee.
"Would you care for something, sir? Bloody Marys are mixed," Sandra Yi said.
"Thank you, just coffee. Black."
She served him and went out.
"How did it go?" Crosse asked.
"Our visitor? Fine, just fine. I'd say his sphincter's out of whack." Sinders smiled. "I taped the session. You can listen to it after lunch. Ah, yes, lunch. Roger, can you get fish and chips in Hong Kong?"
"Certainly. Fish and chips it is." Crosse stifled a yawn. He had been up most of the night developing and printing the roll of film he had taken in the vault. This morning he had read and reread AMG's real pages with enormous interest, privately agreeing with Dunross that the tai-pan had been perfectly correct to be so circumspect. AMG gave value for money whatever he cost, he thought. There's no doubt these files're worth a fortune.
The gimbaled clock struck the hour nicely. Noon. The door opened and Dunross strode in. " 'Morning. Thanks for coming here."
Politely the other two got up and shook hands.
"More coffee?"
"No thank you, Mr. Dunross."
As Crosse watched closely Dunross took a sealed envelope out of his pocket and offered it to Sinders. The older man took it, weighing it in his hand. Crosse noticed his fingers were trembling slightly. "Of course you've read the contents, Mr. Dunross?"
"Yes, Mr. Sinders."
"And?"
"And nothing. See for yourself."
Sinders opened the envelope. He stared at the first page, then leafed through all eleven sheets. From where Crosse stood he could not see what was on the pieces of paper. Silently Sinders handed him the top one. The letters and numbers and symbols of the code were meaningless. "Looks like they've been cut from something." Crosse looked at Dunross. "Eh?"
"What about Brian?"
"Where did you get them, Ian?" Crosse saw Dunross's eyes change a little.
"I've kept my side of the trade, are you going to keep yours?"
Sinders sat down. "I did not agree to a trade, Mr. Dunross. I only agreed that it was possible that your request might be complied with."
"Then you won't release Brian Kwok?"
"It's possible that he will be where you want him, when you want him."
"It has to be left like that?"
"Sorry."
There was a long silence. The tick of the clock filled the room. Except for the rain. Another squall came and went. Rain had been falling sporadically since this morning. Weather reports forecast that the storm would be over soon and that the reservoirs, for all the rain, were hardly touched.
Dunross said, "Will you give me the odds? Accurately. Please?"
"First three questions: Did you cut these out of something yourself?"
"Yes."
"From what and how?"
"AMG had written instructions. I was to use a cigarette lighter under the bottom right quadrant of some pages he'd sent—it was an innocuous typed report. When I heated the pages the type disappeared and what you see was left. When I'd finished, again following his instructions, I cut out the pertinent pieces and destroyed the remainder. And his letter."
"Have you kept a copy?"
"Of the eleven pieces? Yes."
"I must ask you for them."
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