Noble House

by James Clavell

  “You can’t shower or bathe?”

  Linbar Struan laughed. “Everyone gets pretty grotty after three days in this heat but at least we’re all in the same sewer. Still it’s survival training to make sure there’s a full pail before you go.”

  “I had no idea,” she said, aghast that she had used three pails.

  “Our reservoirs are empty,” Gavallan explained. “We’ve had almost no rain this year and last year was dry too. Bloody nuisance but there you are. Just one of those things. Joss.”

  “Then where does your water come from?”

  They stared at her blankly. “From China of course. By pipes over the border into the New Territories, or by tanker from the Pearl River. The government’s just chartered a fleet of ten tankers that go up the Pearl River, by agreement with Peking. They bring us about 10 million gallons a day. It’ll cost the government upwards of 25 million for this year’s charter. Saturday’s paper said our consumption’s down to 30 million gallons a day for our 3½ million population—that includes industry. In your country, one person uses 150 gallons a day, so they say.”

  “It’s the same for everyone? Four hours every fourth day?”

  “Even at the Great House you use a pail.” Gavallan shrugged again. “But the tai-pan’s got a place at Shek-O that has its own well. We all pile over there when we’re invited, to get the slime off.”

  She thought again of the three pails of water she had used. Jesus, she thought, did I use it all? I don’t recall if there’s any left.

  “I guess I’ve a lot to learn,” she said.

  Yes, they all thought. Yes, you bloody have.

  “Tai-pan?”

  “Yes, Claudia?” Dunross said into the intercom.

  “The meeting with Casey’s just broken for lunch. Master Andrew is on line four. Master Linbar’s on his way up.”

  “Cancel him till after lunch. Any luck on Tsu-yan?”

  “No sir. The plane landed on time at 8:40. He’s not at his office in Taipei. Or his flat. I’ll keep trying, of course. Another thing, I’ve just had an interesting call, tai-pan. It seems that Mr. Bartlett went to Rothwell-Gornt this morning and had a private meeting with Mr. Gornt.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, ice in his stomach suddenly.

  “Yes, oh very yes.”

  Bastard, Dunross thought. Does Bartlett mean me to find out? “Thanks,” he said, putting the question aside for the moment, but very glad to know. “You’ve got a thousand dollars on any horse on Saturday.”

  “Oh thank you, tai-pan.”

  “Back to work, Claudia!” He punched the number four button. “Yes, Andrew? What’s the deal?”

  Gavallan told him the important part.

  “20 million in cash?” he asked with disbelief.

  “In marvelous, beautiful U.S. cash!” Dunross could feel his beam down the phone. “And when I asked when Bartlett would confirm the deal the little scrubber had the bloody cheek to say, ‘Oh it’s confirmed now—I can commit up to 20 million on this deal without consulting him or anyone.’ Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t know.” Dunross felt a little weak in the knees. “Bartlett’s due any moment. I’ll ask.”

  “Hey, tai-pan, if this goes through …”

  But Dunross was hardly listening as Gavallan ran on ecstatically. It’s an unbelievable offer, he was telling himself.

  It’s too good. Where’s the flaw?

  Where’s the flaw?

  Ever since he had become tai-pan he had had to maneuver, lie, cajole and even threaten—Havergill of the bank for one—far more than ever he had expected, to stay ahead of the disasters he had inherited, and the natural and political ones that seemed to be besetting the world. Even going public had not given him the capital and time he had expected because a worldwide slump had ripped the markets to pieces. And last year in August, Typhoon Wanda had struck, leaving havoc in her wake, hundreds dead, a hundred thousand homeless, half a thousand fishing boats sunk, twenty ships sunk, one of their three thousand tonners flung ashore, their giant half-completed wharf wrecked and their entire building program smashed for six months. In the fall the Cuban crisis and more slump. This spring de Gaulle had vetoed Britain’s entry into the Common Market and more slump. China and Russia quarreling and more slump …

  And now I’ve almost got 20 million U.S. but I think we’re somehow involved in gun-running, Tsu-yan’s apparently on the run and John Chen’s God knows where!

  “Christ all sodding mighty!” he said angrily.

  “What?” Gavallan stopped, aghast, in midflow. “What’s up?”

  “Oh nothing—nothing, Andrew,” he said. “Nothing to do with you. Tell me about her. What’s she like?”

  “Good at figures, fast and confident, but impatient. And she’s the best-looking bird I’ve seen in years, with potentially the best pair of knockers in town.” Gavallan told him about the bets. “I think Linbar’s got the inside track.”

  “I’m going to fire Foster and send Linbar down to Sydney for six months, get him to sort everything out there.”

  “Good idea.” Gavallan laughed. “That’ll stop his farting in church—though they say the ladies Down Under are very accommodating.”

  “You think this deal will go through?”

  “Yes. Phillip was ecstatic about it. But it’s shitty dealing through a woman and that’s the truth. Do you think we could bypass her and deal with Bartlett direct?”

  “No. He was quite clear in his correspondence that K. C. Tcholok was his chief negotiator.”

  “Oh well … into the breach and all that! What we do for the Noble House!”

  “Have you found her weak spot?”

  “Impatience. She wants to ‘belong’—to be one of the boys. I’d say her Achilles’ heel is that she desperately wants acceptance in a man’s world.”

  “No harm in wanting that—like the Holy Grail. The meeting with Dawson’s set for eleven tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get Dawson to cancel it, but not until nine tomorrow morning. Tell him to make an excuse and reset it for Wednesday at noon.”

  “Good idea, keep her off balance, what?”

  “Tell Jacques I’ll take that meeting myself.”

  “Yes, tai-pan. What about John Chen? You’ll want him there?”

  After a pause Dunross said, “Yes. Have you seen him yet?”

  “No. He’s expected for lunch—you want me to chase him?”

  “No. Where’s Phillip?”

  “He went home. He’s coming back at 2:30.”

  Good, Dunross thought, and tabled John Chen until that time. “Listen …” The intercom buzzed. “Just a minute, Andrew.” He punched the hold. “Yes, Claudia?”

  “Sorry to interrupt, tai-pan, but I’ve got your call to Mr. Jen in Taipei on line two and Mr. Bartlett’s just arrived downstairs.”

  “Bring him in as soon as I’m through with Jen.” He stabbed line four again. “Andrew, I may be a couple of minutes late. Host drinks and that sort of thing for me. I’ll bring Bartlett up myself.”

  “Okay.”

  Dunross stabbed line two. “Tsaw an,” he said in Mandarin dialect—How are you?—glad to talk to Wei-wei’s uncle, General Jen Tang-wa, deputy chief of the illegal Kuomintang secret police for Hong Kong.

  “Shey-shey,” then in English, “What’s up, tai-pan?”

  “I thought you should know…” Dunross told him briefly about the guns and Bartlett, that the police were involved, but not about Tsu-yan or John Chen.

  “Ayeeyah! That’s very curious indeed.”

  “Yes. I thought so too. Very curious.”

  “You’re convinced it’s not Bartlett?”

  “Yes. There appears to be no reason. None at all. It’d be stupid to use your own plane. Bartlett’s not stupid,” Dunross said. “Who’d need that sort of armament here?”

  There was a pause. “Criminal elements.”

  “Triads?”

  “Not all triads are
criminals.”

  “No,” Dunross said.

  “I’ll see what I can find out. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us, Ian. Are you still coming Sunday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can find out. Drinks at 6:00 P.M.?”

  “How about eight o’clock? Have you seen Tsu-yan yet?”

  “I thought he wasn’t due until the weekend. Isn’t he making up our foursome on Monday with the American?”

  “Yes. I heard he caught an early flight today.” Dunross kept his voice matter-of-fact.

  “He’s sure to call—do you want him to phone?”

  “Yes. Anytime. It’s nothing important. See you Sunday at eight.”

  “Yes, and thanks for the information. If I get anything I’ll phone at once. ’Bye.”

  Dunross put the phone down. He had been listening very carefully to the tone of Jen’s voice but he had heard nothing untoward. Where the hell’s Tsu-yan?

  A knock.

  “Come in.” He got up and went to meet Bartlett. “Hello.” He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Ian Dunross.”

  “Linc Bartlett.” They shook hands firmly. “Am I too early?”

  “You’re dead on time. You must know I like punctuality.” Dunross laughed. “I heard the meeting went well.”

  “Good,” Bartlett replied, wondering if Dunross meant the Gornt meeting. “Casey knows her facts and figures.”

  “My fellows were most impressed—she said she could finalize things herself. Can she, Mr. Bartlett?”

  “She can negotiate and settle up to 20 million. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted to find out your form. Please sit down—we’ve a few minutes yet. Lunch won’t begin till 12:40. It sounds as though we may have a profitable enterprise in front of us.”

  “I hope so. As soon as I’ve checked with Casey, perhaps you and I can get together?”

  Dunross looked at his calendar. “Tomorrow at ten. Here?”

  “You’re on.”

  “Smoke?”

  “No thanks. I quit a few years back.”

  “So did I—still want a cigarette though.” Dunross leaned back in his chair. “Before we go to lunch, Mr. Bartlett, there’re a couple of minor points. I’m going to Taipei on Sunday afternoon, will be back Tuesday in time for dinner, and I’d like you to come along. There’re a couple of people I’d like you to meet, a golf match you might enjoy. We could chat leisurely, you could see the potential plant sites. It could be important. I’ve made all the arrangements, but it’s not possible to take Miss Tcholok.”

  Bartlett frowned, wondering if Tuesday was just a coincidence. “According to Superintendent Armstrong I can’t leave Hong Kong.”

  “I’m sure that could be changed.”

  “Then you know about the guns too?” Bartlett said and cursed himself for the slip. He managed to keep his eyes steady.

  “Oh yes. Someone else’s been bothering you about them?” Dunross asked, watching him.

  “The police even chased Casey! Jesus! My airplane’s seized, we’re all suspect, and I don’t know a goddamn thing about any guns.”

  “Well, there’s no need to worry, Mr. Bartlett. Our police are very good.”

  “I’m not worried, just teed off.”

  “That’s understandable,” Dunross said, glad the Armstrong meeting was confidential. Very glad.

  Christ, he thought queasily, if John Chen and Tsu-yan are involved somehow, Bartlett’s going to be very teed off indeed, and we’ll lose the deal and he’ll throw in with Gornt and then …

  “How did you hear about the guns?”

  “We were informed by our office at Kai Tak this morning.”

  “Nothing like this ever happened before?”

  “Yes.” Dunross added lightly, “But there’s no harm in smuggling or even a little gun-running—actually they’re both very honorable professions—of course we do them elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever Her Majesty’s Government desires.” Dunross laughed. “We’re all pirates here, Mr. Bartlett, at least we are to outsiders.” He paused. “Presuming I can make arrangements with the police, you’re on for Taipei?”

  Bartlett said, “Casey’s very close-mouthed.”

  “I’m not suggesting she’s not to be trusted.”

  “She’s just not invited?”

  “Certain of our customs here are a little different from yours, Mr. Bartlett. Most times she’ll be welcome—but sometimes, well, it would save a lot of embarrassment if she were excluded.”

  “Casey doesn’t embarrass easily.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of her embarrassment. Sorry to be blunt but perhaps it’s wiser in the long run.”

  “And if I can’t ‘conform’?”

  “It will probably mean you cannot take advantage of a unique opportunity, which would be a very great pity—particularly if you intend a long-term association with Asia.”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  “Sorry, but I have to have a yes or no now.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go screw!”

  Dunross grinned. “I won’t. Meanwhile, finally: yes or no.”

  Bartlett broke out laughing. “Since you put it that way, I’m on for Taipei.”

  “Good. Of course I’ll have my wife look after Miss Tcholok while we’re away. There’ll be no loss of face for her.”

  “Thank you. But you needn’t worry about Casey. How are you going to fix Armstrong?”

  “I’m not going to fix him, just ask the assistant commissioner to let me be responsible for you, there and back.”

  “Parole me in your custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know I won’t just leave town? Maybe I was gun-running.”

  Dunross watched him. “Maybe you are. Maybe you’ll try—but I can deliver you back dead or alive, as they say in the movies. Hong Kong and Taipei are within my fief.”

  “Dead or alive, eh?”

  “Hypothetically, of course.”

  “How many men have you killed in your lifetime?”

  The mood in the room changed and both men felt the change deeply.

  It’s not dangerous yet between him and me, Dunross thought, not yet.

  “Twelve,” he replied, his senses poised, though the question had surprised him. “Twelve that I’m sure of. I was a fighter pilot during the war. Spitfires. I got two single-seat fighters, a Stuka, and two bombers—they were Dornier 17’s and they’d have a crew of four each. All the planes burned as they went down. Twelve that I’m sure of, Mr. Bartlett. Of course we shot up a lot of trains, convoys, troop concentrations. Why?”

  “I’d heard you were a flier. I don’t think I’ve killed anyone. I was building camps, bases in the Pacific, that sort of thing. Never shot a gun in anger.”

  “But you like hunting?”

  “Yes. I went on a safari in ’59 in Kenya. Got an elephant and a great kudu bull and lots of game for the pot.”

  Dunross said after a pause, “I think I prefer to kill planes and trains and boats. Men, in war, are incidental. Aren’t they?”

  “Once the general’s been put into the field by the ruler, sure. That’s a fact of war.”

  “Have you read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War?”

  “The best book on war I’ve ever read,” Bartlett said enthusiastically. “Better’n Clausewitz or Liddell Hart, even though it was written in 500 B.C.”

  “Oh?” Dunross leaned back, glad to get away from the killings. I haven’t remembered the killing for years, he thought. That’s not fair to those men, is it?

  “Did you know Sun Tzu’s book was published in French in 1782? I’ve a theory Napoleon had a copy.”

  “It’s certainly in Russian—and Mao always carried a copy that was dogeared with use,” Dunross said.

  “You’ve read it?”

  “My father beat it into me. I had to read the original in characters—in Chinese. And then
he’d question me on it, very seriously.”

  A fly began to batter itself irritatingly against the windowpane. “Your dad wanted you to be a soldier?”

  “No. Sun Tzu, like Machiavelli, wrote about life more than death—and about survival more than war….” Dunross glanced at the window then got up and went over to it and obliterated the fly with a controlled savagery that sent warning signals through Bartlett.

  Dunross returned to his desk. “My father thought I should know about survival and how to handle large bodies of men. He wanted me to be worthy to become tai-pan one day, though he never thought I’d amount to much.” He smiled.

  “He was tai-pan too?”

  “Yes. He was very good. At first.”

  “What happened?”

  Dunross laughed sardonically. “Ah, skeletons so early, Mr. Bartlett? Well, briefly, we had a rather tedious, long-drawn-out difference of opinion. Eventually he handed over to Alastair Struan, my predecessor.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your British understatement mean you went to war with him?”

  “Sun Tzu’s very specific about going to war, Mr. Bartlett. Very bad to go to war he says, unless you need to. Quote: ‘Supreme excellence of generalship consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.’”

  “You broke him?”

  “He removed himself from the field, Mr. Bartlett, like the wise man he was.”

  Dunross’s face had hardened. Bartlett studied him. Both men knew they were drawing battle lines in spite of themselves.

  “I’m glad I came to Hong Kong,” the American said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps one day you won’t be.”

  Bartlett shrugged. “Maybe. Meanwhile we’ve got a deal cooking—good for you, good for us.” He grinned abruptly, thinking about Gornt and the cooking knife. “Yes. I’m glad I came to Hong Kong.”

  “Would you and Casey care to be my guests this evening? I’m having a modest bash, a party, at 8:30 odd.”

  “Formal?”

  “Just dinner jacket—is that all right?”

  “Fine. Casey said you like the tux and black tie bit.” Then Bartlett noticed the painting on the wall: an old oil of a pretty Chinese boat girl carrying a little English boy, his fair hair tied in a queue. “That a Quance? An Aristotle Quance?”