She laughed. Lovely white teeth. “Hong Kong’s all right—provided you can leave every month or so. You should visit Macao for a weekend—it’s old-worldly, very pretty, only forty miles away with good ferries. It’s very different from Hong Kong.” She turned back to Gornt. “Again, I’m sorry to interrupt, Quillan, just wanted to say hello….” She started to leave.
“No, we’re through—I was just going,” Bartlett said, interrupting her. “Thanks again, Mr. Gornt. See you Tuesday if not before.… Hope to see you again, Miss Ramos.”
“Yes, that would be nice. Here’s my card—if you’ll grant the interview I guarantee a good press.” She held out her hand and he touched it and felt her warmth.
Gornt saw him to the door and then closed it and came back to his desk and took a cigarette. She lit the match for him and blew out the flame, then sat in the chair Bartlett had used.
“Nice-looking man,” she said.
“Yes. But he’s American, naive, and a very cocky bastard who may need taking down a peg.”
“That’s what you want me to do?”
“Perhaps. Did you read his dossier?”
“Oh yes. Very interesting.” Orlanda smiled.
“You’re not to ask him for money,” Gornt said sharply.
“Ayeeyah, Quillan, am I that dumb?” she said as abrasively, her eyes flashing.
“Good.”
“Why would he smuggle guns into Hong Kong?”
“Why indeed, my dear? Perhaps someone was just using him.”
“That must be the answer. If I had all his money I wouldn’t try something as stupid as that.”
“No,” Gornt said.
“Oh, did you like that bit about my being a freelance reporter? I thought I did that very well.”
“Yes, but don’t underestimate him. He’s no fool. He’s very sharp. Very.” He told her about the Casale. “That’s too much of a coincidence. He must have a dossier on me too, a detailed one. Not many know of my liking for that place.”
“Maybe I’m in it too.”
“Perhaps. Don’t let him catch you out. About the freelancing.”
“Oh, come on, Quillan, who of the tai-pans except you and Dunross read the Chinese papers—and even then you can’t read all of them. I’ve already done a column or two …‘by a Special Correspondent.’ If he grants me an interview I can write it. Don’t worry.” She moved the ashtray closer for him. “It went all right, didn’t it? With Bartlett?”
“Perfectly. You’re wasted. You should be in the movies.”
“Then talk to your friend about me, please, please, Quillan dear. Charlie Wang’s the biggest producer in Hong Kong and owes you lots of favors. Charlie Wang has so many movies going that… just one chance is all I need.… I could become a star! Please?”
“Why not?” he asked dryly. “But I don’t think you’re his type.”
“I can adapt. Didn’t I act exactly as you wanted with Bartlett? Am I not dressed perfectly, American style?”
“Yes, yes you are.” Gornt looked at her, then said delicately, “You could be perfect for him. I was thinking you could perhaps have something more permanent than an affair….”
All her attention concentrated. “What?”
“You and he could fit together like a perfect Chinese puzzle. You’re good-humored, the right age, beautiful, clever, educated, marvelous at the pillow, very smart in the head, with enough of an American patina to put him at ease.” Gornt exhaled smoke and added, “And of all the ladies I know, you could really spend his money. Yes, you two could fit perfectly … he’d be very good for you and you’d brighten his life considerably. Wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” she said at once. “Oh yes I would.” She smiled then frowned. “But what about the woman he has with him? They’re sharing a suite at the Vic. I heard she’s gorgeous. What about her, Quillan?”
Gornt smiled thinly. “My spies say they don’t sleep together though they’re better than friends.”
Her face fell. “He’s not queer, is he?”
Gornt laughed. It was a good rich laugh. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Orlanda! No, I’m sure he’s not. He’s just got a strange arrangement with Casey.”
“What is it?”
Gornt shrugged.
After a moment she said, “What do I do about her?”
“If Casey Tcholok’s in your way, remove her. You’ve got claws.”
“You’re … Sometimes I don’t like you at all.”
“We’re both realists, you and I. Aren’t we.” He said it very flat.
She recognized the undercurrent of violence. At once she got up and leaned across the desk and kissed him lightly. “You’re a devil,” she said, placating him. “That’s for old times.”
His hand strayed to her breast and he sighed, remembering, enjoying the warmth that came through the thin material. “Ayeeyah, Orlanda, we had some good times, didn’t we?”
She had been his mistress when she was seventeen. He was her first and he had kept her for almost five years and would have continued but she went with a youth to Macao when he was away and he had been told about it. And so he had stopped. At once. Even though they had a daughter then, he and she, one year old.
“Orlanda,” he had told her as she had begged for forgiveness, “there’s nothing to forgive. I’ve told you a dozen times that youth needs youth, and there’d come a day.… Dry your tears, marry the lad—I’ll give you a dowry and my blessing …” And throughout all her weepings he had remained firm. “We’ll be friends,” he had assured her, “and I’ll take care of you when you need it….”
The next day he had turned the heat of his covert fury on the youth, an Englishman, a minor executive in Asian Properties and, within the month, he had broken him.
“It’s a matter of face,” he had told her calmly.
“Oh I know, I understand but … what shall I do now?” she had wailed. “He’s leaving tomorrow for England and he wants me to go with him and marry him but I can’t marry now, he’s got no money or future or job or money …”
“Dry your tears, then go shopping.”
“What?”
“Yes. Here’s a present.” He had given her a first-class, return ticket to London on the same airplane that the youth was traveling tourist. And a thousand pounds in crisp, new ten-pound notes. “Buy lots of pretty clothes, and go to the theater. You’re booked into the Connaught for eleven days—just sign the bill—and your return’s confirmed, so have a happy time and come back fresh and without problems!”
“Oh thank you, Quillan darling, oh thank you.… I’m so sorry. You forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. But if you ever talk to him again, or see him privately … I won’t be friendly to you or your family ever again.”
She had thanked him profusely through her tears, cursing herself for her stupidity, begging for the wrath of heaven to descend upon whoever had betrayed her. The next day the youth had tried to speak to her at the airport and on the plane and in London but she just cursed him away. She knew where her rice bowl rested. The day she left London he committed suicide.
When Gornt heard about it, he lit a fine cigar and took her out to a dinner atop the Victoria and Albert with candelabra and fine linen and fine silver, and then, after he had had his Napoleon brandy and she her creme de menthe, he had sent her home, alone, to the apartment he still paid for. He had ordered another brandy and stayed, watching the lights of the harbor, and the Peak, feeling the glory of vengeance, the majesty of life, his face regained.
“Ayeeyah, we had some good times,” Gornt said again now, still desiring her, though he had not pillowed with her from the time he had heard about Macao.
“Quillan …” she began, his hand warming her too.
“No.”
Her eyes strayed to the inner door. “Please. It’s three years, there’s never been anyone …”
“Thank you but no.” He held her away from him, his hands now firm on her arms but gentle. �
��We’ve already had the best,” he said as a connoisseur would. “I don’t like second best.”
She sat back on the edge of the desk, watching him sullenly. “You always win, don’t you.”
“The day you become lovers with Bartlett I’ll give you a present,” he said calmly. “If he takes you to Macao and you stay openly with him for three days I’ll give you a new Jag. If he asks you to marry him you get the apartment and everything in it, and a house in California as a wedding present.”
She gasped, then smiled gloriously. “An XK-E, a black one, Quillan, oh that would be perfect!” Then her happiness evaporated. “What’s so important about him? Why is he so important to you?”
He just stared at her.
“Sorry,” she said, “sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Thoughtfully she reached for a cigarette and lit it and leaned over and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, seeing the curve of her breast, enjoying it, yet a little saddened that such beauty was so transient. “Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t like Bartlett to know of our arrangement.”
“Nor would I.” She sighed and forced a smile. Then she got up and shrugged. “Ayeeyah, it would never have lasted with us anyway. Macao or not Macao. You would have changed—you’d have become bored, men always do.”
She checked her makeup and her shirt and blew him a kiss and left him. He stared at the closed door then smiled and stubbed out the cigarette she had given him, never having puffed on it, not wanting the taint of her lips. He lit a fresh one and hummed a little tune.
Excellent, he thought happily. Now we’ll see, Mr. Bloody Cocky Confident Yankee Bartlett, now we’ll see how you handle that knife. Pasta with beer indeed!
Then Gornt caught a lingering whiff of her perfume and he was swept back momentarily into memories of their pillowing. When she was young, he reminded himself. Thank God there’s no premium on youth or beauty out here, and a substitution’s as close as a phone call or a hundred-dollar note.
He reached for the phone and dialed a special private number, glad that Orlanda was more Chinese than European. Chinese are such practical people.
The dial tone stopped and he heard Paul Havergill’s crisp voice. “Yes?”
“Paul, Quillan. How’re things?”
“Hello, Quillan—of course you know Johnjohn’s taking over the bank in November?”
“Yes. Sorry about that.”
“Damnable. I thought I was going to be confirmed but instead the board chose Johnjohn. It was official last night. It’s Dunross again, his clique, and the damned stock they have. How did your meeting go?”
“Our American’s chomping at the bit, just as I told you he would be.” Gornt took a deep drag of his cigarette and tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “How would you like a little special action before you retire?”
“What had you in mind?”
“You’re leaving end of November?”
“Yes. After twenty-three years. In some ways I won’t be sorry.”
Nor will I, Gornt thought contentedly. You’re out of date and too bloody conservative. The only thing in your favor is that you hate Dunross. “That’s almost four months. That’d give us plenty of time. You, me and our American friend.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You remember one of my hypothetical game plans, the one I called ‘Competition’?”
Havergill thought a moment. “That was how to take over or eliminate an opposition bank, wasn’t it? Why?”
“Say someone dusted off the plan and made a few changes and pushed the go button … two days ago. Say someone knew Dunross and the others would vote you out and wanted some revenge. Competition would work perfectly.”
“I don’t see why. What’s the point of attacking Blacs?” The Bank of London, Canton and Shanghai was the Victoria’s main opposition. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah, but say someone changed the target, Paul.”
“To whom?”
“I’ll come by at three and explain.”
“To whom?”
“Richard.” Richard Kwang controlled the Ho-Pak Bank—one of the largest of all the many Chinese banks in Hong Kong.
“Good God! But that’s …” There was a long pause. “Quillan, you’ve really begun Competition … to put it into effect?”
“Yes, and no one knows about it except you and me.”
“But how is that going to work against Dunross?”
“I’ll explain later. Can Ian meet his commitments on his ships?”
There was a pause which Gornt noted. “Yes,” he heard Havergill say.
“Yes, but what?”
“But I’m sure he’ll be all right.”
“What other problems has Dunross got?”
“Sorry, but that wouldn’t be ethical.”
“Of course.” Gornt added thinly, “Let me put it another way: Say their boat was a little rocked. Eh?”
There was a longer pause. “At the right moment, a smallish wave could scuttle them, or any company. Even you.”
“But not the Victoria Bank.”
“Oh no.”
“Good. See you at three.” Gornt hung up and mopped his brow again, his excitement vast. He stubbed out his cigarette, made a quick calculation, lit another cigarette, then dialed. “Charles, Quillan. Are you busy?”
“No. What can I do for you?”
“I want a balance sheet.” A balance sheet was a private signal for the attorney to telephone eight nominees who would buy or sell on the stock market on Gornt’s behalf, secretly, to avoid the trading being traced back to him. All shares and all monies would pass solely through the attorney’s hands so that neither the nominees nor the brokers would know for whom the transactions were being made.
“A balance sheet it will be. What sort, Quillan?”
“I want to sell short.” To sell short meant he sold shares he did not own on the presumption their value would go down. Then, before he had to buy them back—he had a maximum margin of two weeks in Hong Kong—if the stock had indeed gone down, he would pocket the difference. Of course if he gambled wrong and the stock had gone up, he would have to pay the difference.
“What shares and what numbers?”
“A hundred thousand shares of Ho-Pak …”
“Holy Christ…”
“… the same, as soon as the market opens tomorrow, and another 200 during the day. I’ll give you further instructions then.”
There was a stunned silence. “You did say Ho-Pak?”
“Yes.”
“It’ll take time to borrow all those shares. Good God, Quillan, four hundred thousand?”
“While you’re about it, get another hundred. A round half a million.”
“But … but Ho-Pak’s as blue a blue chip as we’ve got. It hasn’t gone down in years.”
“Yes.”
“What’ve you heard?”
“Rumors,” Gornt said gravely and chuckled to himself. “Would you like an early lunch, eat at the club?”
“I’ll be there.”
Gornt hung up, then dialed another private number.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” Gornt said cautiously. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. And?”
“At our meeting, the Yankee suggested a raid.”
“Ayeeyah! And?”
“And Paul’s in,” he said, the exaggeration coming easily. “Absolutely secretly, of course. I’ve just talked to him.”
“Then I’m in. Provided I get control of Struan’s ships, their Hong Kong property operation and 40 percent of their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore.”
“You must be joking!”
“Nothing’s too much to smash them. Is it, old boy?”
Gornt heard the well-bred, mocking laugh and hated Jason Plumm for it. “You despise him just as much as I do,” Gornt said.
“Ah, but you’ll need me and my special friends. Even with Paul on or off the fence, you and the Yankee can’t pull it off, n
ot without me and mine.”
“Why else am I talking to you?”
“Listen, don’t forget I’m not asking for any piece of the American’s pie.”
Gornt kept his voice calm. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I know you. Oh yes. I know you, old boy.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes. You won’t be satisfied just with destructing our ‘friend,’ you’ll want the whole pie.”
“Will I now?”
“Yes. You’ve wanted a stake in the U.S. market too long.”
“And you.”
“No. We know where our toast’s toasted. We’re content to trail along behind. We’re content with Asia. We don’t want to be a noble anything.”
“Oh?”
“No. Then it’s a deal?”
“No,” Gornt said.
“I’ll drop the shipping totally. Instead I’ll take Ian’s Kowloon Investments, the Kai Tak operation, and 40 percent of the landholdings in Thailand and Singapore, and I’ll accept 25 percent of Par-Con and three places on the board.”
“Get stuffed!”
“The offer’s good till Monday.”
“Which Monday?”
“Next Monday.”
“Dew neh loh moh on all your Mondays!”
“And yours! I’ll make you a last offer. Kowloon Investments and their Kai Tak operation totally, 35 percent of all their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore, and 10 percent of the Yankee pie with three seats on the board.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Again, the offer’s good till next Monday. And don’t think you can gobble us in the process.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“I told you—I know you. Is it a deal?”
“No.”
Again the soft, malevolent laugh. “Till Monday—next Monday. That’s time enough for you to make up your mind.”
“Will I see you at Ian’s party tonight?” Gornt asked thinly.
“Have you gone bonkers! I wouldn’t go if … Good God, Quillan, are you really going to accept? In person?”
“I wasn’t going to—but now I think I will. I wouldn’t want to miss perhaps the last great party of the Struans’ last tai-pan….”
CHAPTER SEVEN
12:01 P.M.:
Noble House Page 12