“What promises?”
“You swear before God, blind, like all the tai-pans did before you! You’ll learn soon enough what you inherit.”
“And if I won’t?”
“You know the answer to that!”
The rain was battering the windows and its violence seemed to Dunross to equal the thumping in his chest as he weighed the insanity of such an open-ended commitment. But he knew he could not be tai-pan unless he did, and so he said the words and made the commitment before God, and continued to say the words read out to him.
“… further that I will use all powers, and any means, to keep the Company steadfast as the First House, the Noble House of Asia, that I swear before God to commit any deed necessary to vanquish, destroy and cast out from Asia the company called Brock and Sons and particularly my enemy, the founder, Tyler Brock, his son Morgan, their heirs or any of their line excepting only Tess Brock and her issue, the wife of my son Culum, from the face of Asia….” Dunross stopped again.
“When you’ve finished you can ask any questions you want,” Alastair Struan said. “Finish it!”
“Very well. Lastly: I swear before God that my successor as tai-pan will also be sworn, before God, to all of this Legacy, so help me God!”
Now the silence was broken only by the rain slashing the windows. Dunross could feel the sweat on his back.
Alastair Struan put down the Bible and took off his spectacles. “There, it’s done.” Tautly he put out his hand. “I’d like to be the first to wish you well, tai-pan. Anything I can do to help, you have.”
“And I’m honored to be second, tai-pan,” Phillip Chen said with a slight bow, equally formally.
“Thank you.” Dunross’s tension was great.
“I think we all need a drink,” Alastair Struan said. “With your permission, I’ll pour,” he added to Dunross with untoward formality. “Phillip?”
“Yes, tai-pan. I—”
“No. Ian’s tai-pan now.” Alastair Struan poured the champagne and gave the first glass to Dunross.
“Thank you,” Dunross said, savoring the compliment, knowing nothing had changed. “Here’s to the Noble House,” he said, raising his glass.
The three men drank, then Alastair Struan took out an envelope. “This is my resignation from the sixty-odd chairmanships, managing directorships and directorships that automatically go with the tai-pan position. Your appointment in my stead is equally automatic. By custom I become chairman of our London subsidiary—but you can terminate that anytime you wish.”
“It’s terminated,” Dunross said at once.
“Whatever you say,” the old man muttered, but his neck was purple.
“I think you’d be more useful to Struan’s as deputy chairman of the First Central Bank of Edinburgh.”
Struan looked up sharply. “What?”
“That’s one of our appointments, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Alastair Struan said. “Why that?”
“I’m going to need help. Struan’s goes public next year.”
Both men stared at him, astounded. “What!”
“We’re going publ—”
“We’ve been a private company for 132 years!” the old man roared. “Jesus bloody Christ I’ve told you a hundred times that’s our strength, with no god-cursed stockholders or outsiders prying into our private affairs!” His face was flushed and he fought to control his anger. “Don’t you ever listen?”
“All the time. Very carefully,” Dunross said in an unemotional voice. “The only way we can survive is to go public … that’s the only way we can get the capital we need.”
“Talk to him, Phillip—get some sense into him.”
Nervously the compradore said, “How will this affect the House of Chen?”
“Our formal compradore system is ended from tonight.” He saw Phillip Chen’s face go white but he continued, “I have a plan for you—in writing. It changes nothing, and everything. Officially you’ll still be compradore, unofficially we’ll operate differently. The major change is that instead of making about a million a year, in ten years your share will bring you 20, in fifteen years about 30.”
“Impossible!” Alastair Struan burst out.
“Our net worth today’s about 20 million U.S. In ten years it’ll be 200 million and in fifteen, with joss, it’ll be 400 million—and our yearly turnover approaching a billion.”
“You’ve gone mad,” Struan said.
“No. The Noble House is going international—the days of being solely a Hong Kong trading company are gone forever.”
“Remember your oath, by God! We’re Hong Kong based!”
“I won’t forget. Next: What responsibility do I inherit from Dirk Struan?”
“It’s all in the safe. Written down in a sealed envelope marked ‘The Legacy.’ Also the Hag’s ‘Instructions to future tai-pans.’”
“Where’s the safe?”
“Behind the painting in the Great House. In the study.” Sourly Alastair Struan pointed to an envelope beside the clock on the mantelpiece. “That contains the special key—and the present combination. You will of course change it. Put the figures into one of the tai-pan’s private safety deposit boxes at the bank, in case of accidents. Give Phillip one of the two keys.”
Phillip Chen said, “By our rules, while you’re alive, the bank is obliged to refuse me permission to open it.”
“Next: Tyler Brock and his sons—those bastards were obliterated almost a hundred years ago.”
“Aye, the legitimate male line was. But Dirk Struan was vindictive and his vengeance reaches out from his grave. There’s an up-to-date list of Tyler Brock’s descendents, also in the safe. It makes interesting reading, eh Phillip?”
“Yes, yes it does.”
“The Rothwells and the Tomms, Yadegar and his brood, you know about. But Tusker’s on the list though he doesn’t know it, Jason Plumm, Lord Depford-Smyth and, most of all, Quillan Gornt.”
“Impossible!”
“Not only is Gornt tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt, our main enemy, but he’s also a secret, direct male descendent of Morgan Brock—direct though illegitimate.”
“But he’s always claimed his great-grandfather was Edward Gornt, the American China Trader.”
“He comes from Edward Gornt all right. But Sir Morgan Brock was really Edward’s father and Kristian Gornt his mother. She was an American from Virginia. Of course it was kept secret—society wasn’t any more forgiving then than now. When Sir Morgan became tai-pan of Brock’s in 1859, he fetched this illegitimate son of his out of Virginia, bought him a partnership in the old American trading firm of Rothwell and Company in Shanghai, and then he and Edward bided their time to destroy us. They almost did—certainly they caused the death of Culum Struan. But then Lochlin and Hag Struan broke Sir Morgan and smashed Brock and Sons. Edward Gornt never forgave us; his descendents never will either—I’d wager they too have a pact with their founder.”
“Does he know we know?”
“I don’t know. But he’s enemy. His genealogy’s in the safe, with all the others. My grandfather was the one who discovered it, quite by chance, during the Boxer Rebellion in ’99. The list is interesting, Ian, very. One particular person for you. The head of—”
A sudden violent gust shook the building. One of the ivory bric-a-brac on the marble table toppled over. Nervously Phillip Chen stood it up. They all stared at the windows, watching their reflection twist nauseatingly as the gusts stretched the huge panes of glass.
“Tai-fun!” Phillip muttered, sweat beading him.
“Yes.” They waited breathlessly for the “Devil Wind” to cease. These sudden squalls came haphazardly from all points of the compass, sometimes gusting to a hundred and fifty knots. In their wake was always devastation.
The violence passed. Dunross went over to the barometer, checked it and tapped it. 980.3.
“Still falling,” he said.
“Christ!”
Dunross squinted at the wi
ndows. Now the rain streaks were almost horizontal. “Lasting Cloud is due to dock tomorrow night.”
“Yes, but now she’ll be hove to somewhere off the Philippines. Captain Moffatt’s too canny to get caught,” Struan said.
“I don’t agree. Moffatt likes hitting schedules. This typhoon’s unscheduled. You … he should have been ordered.” Dunross sipped his wine thoughtfully. “Lasting Cloud better not get caught.”
Phillip Chen heard the undercurrent of fury. “Why?”
“We’ve our new computer aboard and two million pounds’ worth of jet engines. Uninsured—at least the engines are.” Dunross glanced at Alastair Struan.
Defensively the old man said, “It was that or lose the contract. The engines are consigned to Canton. You know we can’t insure them, Phillip, since they’re going to Red China.” Then he added irritably, “They’re, er, they’re South American owned and there’re no export restrictions from South America to China. Even so, no one’s willing to insure them.”
After a pause Phillip Chen said, “I thought the new computer was coming in March.”
“It was but I managed to jump it forward,” Alastair said.
“Who’s carrying the paper on the engines?” Phillip Chen asked.
“We are.”
“That’s a lot of risk.” Phillip Chen was very uneasy. “Don’t you agree, Ian?”
Dunross said nothing.
“It was that or lose the contract,” Alastair Struan said, even more irritably. “We stand to double our money, Phillip. We need the money. But more than that the Chinese need the engines; they made that more than clear when I was in Canton last month. And we need China—they made that clear too.”
“Yes, but 12 million, that’s … a lot of risk in one ship,” Phillip Chen insisted.
Dunross said, “Anything we can do to take business away from the Soviets is to our advantage. Besides, it’s done. You were saying, Alastair, there’s someone on the list I should know about? The head of?”
“Marlborough Motors.”
“Ah,” Dunross said with sudden grim delight. “I’ve detested those sods for years. Father and son.”
“I know.”
“So the Nikklins’re descendents of Tyler Brock? Well it won’t be long before we can wipe them off the list. Good, very good. Do they know they’re on Dirk Struan’s oblit list?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s even better.”
“I don’t agree! You hate young Nikklin because he beat you.” Angrily Alastair Struan stabbed a finger at Dunross. “It’s time you gave up car racing. Leave all the hill climbs and Macao Grand Prix to the semiprofessionals. The Nikklins have more time to spend on their cars, it’s their life, and now you’ve other races to run, more important ones.”
“Macao’s amateur and those bastards cheated last year.”
“That was never proved—your engine blew up. A lot of engines blow up, Ian. That was just joss!”
“My car was tampered with.”
“And that was never proved either! For Christ’s sake, you talk about bad blood? You’re as stupid about some things as Devil Struan himself!”
“Oh?”
“Yes, and—”
Phillip Chen interrupted quickly, wanting an end to the violence in the room. “If it’s so important, please let me see if I can find out the truth. I’ve sources not available to either of you. My Chinese friends will know, should know, if either Tom or young Donald Nikklin were involved. Of course,” he added delicately, “if the tai-pan wishes to race, then that’s up to the tai-pan. Isn’t it, Alastair?”
The older man controlled his rage though his neck was still choleric. “Yes, yes you’re right. Still, Ian, my advice is you cease. They’ll be after you even more because they detest you equally.”
“Are there others I should know about—on the list?”
After a pause, Struan said, “No, not now.” He opened the second bottle and poured as he talked. “Well, now it’s all yours—all the fun and all the sweat. I’m glad to pass everything over to you. After you’ve been through the safe you’ll know the best, and the worst.” He gave them each a glass and sipped his. “By the Lord Jesus, that’s as fine a wine as ever came out of France.”
“Yes,” Phillip Chen said.
Dunross thought Dom Pérignon overpriced and overrated and knew the year, ’54, was not a particularly good one. But he held his peace.
Struan went over to the barometer. It read 979.2. “We’re in for a bad one. Well, never mind that. Ian, Claudia Chen has a file for you on important matters, and a complete list of our stockholdings—with names of the nominees. Any questions, have them for me before the day after tomorrow—I’m booked for London then. You’ll keep Claudia on, of course.”
“Of course.” Claudia Chen was the second link from tai-pan to tai-pan after Phillip Chen. She was executive secretary to the tai-pan, a distant cousin to Phillip Chen.
“What about our bank—the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China?” Dunross asked, savoring the question. “I don’t know our exact holdings.”
“That’s always been tai-pan knowledge only.”
Dunross turned to Phillip Chen. “What’s your holding, openly or through nominees?”
The compradore hesitated, shocked.
“In future I’m going to vote your holdings as a block with ours.” Dunross kept his eyes on the compradore’s. “I want to know now and I’ll expect a formal transfer of perpetual voting power, in writing, to me and following tai-pans, tomorrow by noon, and first refusal on the shares should you ever decide to sell.”
The silence grew.
“Ian,” Phillip Chen began, “those shares …” But his resolve wavered under the power of Dunross’s will. “6 percent … a little over 6 percent. I … you’ll have it as you wish.”
“You won’t regret it.” Dunross put his attention on Alastair Struan and the older man’s heart missed a beat. “How much stock have we? How much’s held by nominees?”
Alastair hesitated. “That’s tai-pan knowledge only.”
“Of course. But our compradore is to be trusted, absolutely,” Dunross said, giving the old man face, knowing how much it had hurt to be dominated in front of Alastair Struan. “How much?”
Struan said, “15 percent.”
Dunross gasped and so did Phillip Chen and he wanted to shout, Jesus bloody Christ, we have 15 percent and Phillip another 6 percent and you haven’t had the sodding intelligence to use what’s got to be a major interest to get us major funding when we’re almost bankrupt?
But instead he reached forward and poured the remains of the bottle into the three glasses and this gave him time to stop the pounding of his heart.
“Good,” he said with his flat unemotional voice. “I was hoping together we’d make it better than ever.” He sipped his wine. “I’m bringing forward the Special Meeting. To next week.”
Both men looked up sharply. Since 1880, the tai-pans of Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt and the Victoria Bank had, despite their rivalry, met annually in secret to discuss matters that affected the future of Hong Kong and Asia.
“They may not agree to bring the meeting forward,” Alastair said.
“I phoned everyone this morning. It’s set for Monday next at 9 A.M. here.”
“Who’s coming from the bank?”
“Deputy Chief Manager Havergill—the old man’s in Japan then England on leave.” Dunross’s face hardened. “I’ll have to make do.”
“Paul’s all right,” Alastair said. “He’ll be the next chief.”
“Not if I can help it,” Dunross said.
“You’ve never liked Paul Havergill, have you, Ian?” Phillip Chen said.
“No. He’s too insular, too Hong Kong, too out of date and too pompous.”
“And he supported your father against you.”
“Yes. But that’s not the reason he should go, Phillip. He should go because he’s in the way of the Noble House. He’s too conserva
tive, far too generous to Asian Properties and I think he’s a secret ally of Rothwell-Gornt.”
“I don’t agree,” Alastair said.
“I know. But we need money to expand and I intend to get the money. So I intend to use my 21 percent very seriously.”
The storm outside had intensified but they did not seem to notice.
“I don’t advise you to set your cap against the Victoria,” Phillip Chen said gravely.
“I agree,” Alastair Struan said.
“I won’t. Provided my bank cooperates.” Dunross watched the rain streaks for a moment. “By the way, I’ve also invited Jason Plumm to the meeting.”
“What the hell for?” Struan asked, his neck reddening again.
“Between us and his Asian Properties we—”
“Plumm’s on Dirk Struan’s oblit list, as you call it, and absolutely opposed to us.”
“Between the four of us we have a majority say in Hong Kong—” Dunross broke off as the phone rang loudly. They all looked at it.
Alastair Struan said sourly, “It’s your phone now, not mine.”
Dunross picked it up. “Dunross!” He listened for a moment then said, “No, Mr. Alastair Struan has retired, I’m tai-pan of Struan’s now. Yes. Ian Dunross. What’s the telex say?” Again he listened. “Yes, thank you.”
He put down the phone. At length he broke the silence. “It was from our office in Taipei. Lasting Cloud has foundered off the north coast of Formosa. They think she’s gone down with all hands….”
Sunday,
August 18, 1963
CHAPTER ONE
8:45 P.M.:
The police officer was leaning against one corner of the information counter watching the tall Eurasian without watching him. He wore a light tropical suit and a police tie and white shirt, and it was hot within the brightly lit terminal building, the air humid and smell-laden, milling noisy Chinese as always. Men, women, children, babes. An abundance of Cantonese, some Asians, a few Europeans.
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