“Sorry, you have a wrong number. Look in your phone book.”
Again the correct response, the final one. “This is Lim,” he whispered, using his cover name. “Arthur please. Urgent.”
“Just a moment.”
He heard the phone being passed and the dry cough he recognized at once. “Yes, Lim? Did you find the safe?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s behind the painting over the fireplace but none of the keys fit. I’ll need special equip—” He stopped suddenly. Voices were approaching. He hung up gently. A quick, nervous check that everything was in place and he switched off the flashlight and hurried for the balcony that ran the length of the north face. The moonlight illuminated him for an instant. It was Wine Waiter Feng. Then he vanished, his black waiter’s clothes melding perfectly with the darkness.
The door opened. Dunross came in followed by Brian Kwok. He switched on the lights. At once the room became warm and friendly. “We won’t be disturbed here,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” This was the first time Brian Kwok had been invited upstairs.
Both men were carrying brandy snifters and they went over to the cool of the windows, the slight breeze moving the gossamer curtains, and sat in the high-backed easy chairs facing one another. Brian Kwok was looking at the painting, its own light perfectly placed. “Smashing portrait.”
“Yes.” Dunross glanced over and froze. The painting was imperceptibly out of place. No one else would have noticed it.
“Something’s the matter, Ian?”
“No. No nothing,” Dunross said, recovering his senses that had instinctively reached out, probing the room for an alien presence. Now he turned his full attention back to the Chinese superintendent, but he wondered deeply who had touched the painting and why. “What’s on your mind?”
“Two things. First, your freighter, Eastern Cloud.”
Dunross was startled. “Oh?” This was one of Struan’s many coastal tramps that plied the trade routes of Asia. Eastern Cloud was a ten thousand tonner on the highly lucrative Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore, Calcutta, Madras, Bombay route, with a sometimes stop at Rangoon in Burma—all manner of Hong Kong manufactured goods outward bound, and all manner of Indian, Malayan, Thai and Burmese raw materials, silks, gems, teak, jute, foodstuffs, inbound. Six months ago she had been impounded by Indian authorities in Calcutta after a sudden customs search had discovered 36,000 taels of smugglers’ gold in one of the bunkers. A little over one ton.
“The gold’s one thing, your Excellency, that’s nothing to do with us,” Dunross had said to the consul general of India in Hong Kong, “but to impound our ship’s something else!”
“Ah, very so sorry, Mr. Dunross sah. The law is the law and the smuggling of gold into India very serious indeed sah and the law says any ship with smuggled goods aboard may be impounded and sold.”
“Yes, may be. Perhaps, Excellency, in this instance you could prevail on the authorities …” But all of his entreaties had been shuttled aside and attempted high-level intercessions over the months, here, in India, even in London, had not helped. Indian and Hong Kong police inquiries had produced no evidence against any member of his crew but, even so, Eastern Cloud was still tied up in Calcutta harbor.
“What about Eastern Cloud?” he asked.
“We think we can persuade the Indian authorities to let her go.”
“In return for what?” Dunross asked suspiciously.
Brian Kwok laughed. “Nothing. We don’t know who the smugglers are, but we know who did the informing.”
“Who?”
“Seven odd months ago you changed your crewing policy. Up to that time Struan’s had used exclusively Cantonese crew on their ships, then, for some reason you decided to employ Shanghainese. Right?”
“Yes.” Dunross remembered that Tsu-yan, also Shanghainese, had suggested it, saying that it would do Struan’s a lot of good to extend help to some of their northern refugees. “After all, tai-pan, they’re just as good mariners,” Tsu-yan had said, “and their wages are very competitive.”
“So Struan’s signed on a Shanghainese crew into Eastern Cloud—this was the first I believe—and the Cantonese crew that wasn’t hired lost all face so they complained to their triad Red Rod leader wh—”
“Come off it for God’s sake, our crews aren’t triads!”
“I’ve said many times the Chinese are great joiners, Ian. All right, let’s call the triad with Red Rod rank their union representative—though I know you don’t have unions either—but this bugger said in no uncertain terms, oh ko we really have lost face because of those northern louts, I’ll fix the bastards, and he tipped an Indian informer here who, for a large part of the reward, agreed of course in advance, and passed on the info to the Indian consulate.”
“What?”
Brian Kwok beamed. “Yes. The reward was split twenty-eighty between the Indian and the Cantonese crew of the Eastern Cloud that should have been—Cantonese face was regained and the despised Shanghainese northern trash put into a stinking Indian pokey and their face lost instead.”
“Oh Christ!”
“Yes.”
“You have proof?”
“Oh yes! But let’s just say that our Indian friend is helping us with future inquiries, in return for, er, services rendered, so we’d prefer not to name him. Your ‘union shop steward’? Ah, one of his names was Big Mouth Tuk and he was a stoker on Eastern Cloud for three odd years. Was because, alas, we won’t see him again. We caught him in full 14K regalia last week—in very senior Red Rod regalia—courtesy of a friendly Shanghainese informer, the brother of one of your crew that languished in said stinky Indian pokey.”
“He’s been deported?”
“Oh yes, quick as a wink. We really don’t approve of triads. They are criminal gangs nowadays and into all sorts of vile occupations. He was off to Taiwan where I believe he won’t be welcome at all—seeing as how the northern Shanghainese Green Pang triad society and the southern Cantonese 14K triad society are still fighting for control of Hong Kong. Big Mouth Tuk was a 426 all right—”
“What’s a 426?”
“Oh, thought you might know. All officials of triads are known by numbers as well as symbolic titles—the numbers always divisible by the mystical number three. A leader’s a 489, which also adds up to twenty-one, which adds up to three, and twenty-one’s also a multiple of three, representing creation, times seven, death, signifying rebirth. A second rank’s a White Fan, 438, a Red Rod’s a 426. The lowest’s a 49.”
“That’s not divisible by three, for God’s sake!”
“Yes. But four times nine is thirty-six, the number of the secret blood oaths.” Brian Kwok shrugged. “You know how potty we Chinese are over numbers and numerology. He was a Red Rod, a 426, Ian. We caught him. So triads exist, or existed, on one of your ships at least. Didn’t they?”
“So it seems.” Dunross was cursing himself for not prethinking that of course Shanghainese and Cantonese face would be involved so of course there’d be trouble. And now he knew he was in another trap. Now he had seven ships with Shanghainese crews against fifty-odd Cantonese.
“Christ, I can’t fire the Shanghainese crews I’ve already hired and if I don’t there’ll be more of the same and loss of face on both sides. What’s the solution to that one?” he asked.
“Assign certain routes exclusively to the Shanghainese, but only after consulting with their 426 Red Rod … sorry, with their shop stewards, and of course their Cantonese counterparts—only after consulting with a well-known soothsayer who suggested to you it would be fantastic joss to both sides to do this. How about Old Blind Tung?”
“Old Blind Tung?” Dunross laughed. “Perfect! Brian you’re a genius! One good turn deserves another. For your ears only?”
“All right.”
“Guaranteed?”
“Yes.”
“Buy Struan’s first thing tomorrow morning.”
“How many shares?”
“As many as you can afford.”
“How long do I hold them?”
“How are your cojones?”
Brian whistled tonelessly. “Thanks.” He thought a moment, then forced his mind once more onto the matters in hand. “Back to Eastern Cloud. Now we come to one of the interesting bits, Ian. 36,000 taels of gold is legally worth $1,514,520 U.S. But melted down into the smugglers’ five-tael bars and secretly delivered on shore in Calcutta, that shipment’d be worth two, perhaps three times that amount to private buyers—say 4.5 million U.S., right?”
“I don’t know. Exactly.”
“Oh, but I do. The lost profit’s over 3 million—the lost investment about one and a half.”
“So?”
“So we all know Shanghainese are as secretive and cliquey as Cantonese, or Chu Chow or Fukenese or any other tiny groupings of Chinese. So of course the Shanghainese crew were the smugglers—have to be, Ian, though we can’t prove it, yet. So you can bet your bottom dollar that Shanghainese also smuggled the gold out of Macao to Hong Kong and onto Eastern Cloud, that Shanghainese money bought the gold originally in Macao, and that therefore certainly part of that money was Green Pang funds.”
“That doesn’t follow.”
“Have you heard from Tsu-yan yet?”
Dunross watched him. “No. Have you?”
“Not yet but we’re making inquiries.” Brian watched him back. “My first point is that the Green Pang has been mauled and criminals loathe losing their hard-earned money, so Struan’s can expect lots of trouble unless you nip the trouble in the bud as I’ve suggested.”
“Not all Green Pang are criminals.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Ian. Second point, for your ears only: We’re sure Tsu-yan’s in the gold-smuggling racket. My third and last point is that if a certain company doesn’t want its ships impounded for smuggling gold, it could easily lessen the risk by reducing its gold imports into Macao.”
“Come again?” Dunross said, pleasantly surprised to hear that he had managed to keep his voice sounding calm, wondering how much Special Intelligence knew and how much they were guessing.
Brian Kwok sighed and continued to lay out the information that Roger Crosse had given him. “Nelson Trading.”
With a great effort, Dunross kept his face impassive. “Nelson Trading?”
“Yes. Nelson Trading Company Limited of London. As you know, Nelson Trading has the Hong Kong Government’s exclusive license for the purchase of gold bullion on the international market for Hong Kong’s jewelers, and, vastly more important, the equally exclusive monopoly for transshipment of gold bullion in bond, through Hong Kong to Macao—along with a minor second company, Saul Feinheimer Bullion Company, also of London. Nelson Trading and Feinheimer’s have several things in common. Several directors for example, the same solicitors for example.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I believe you’re also on the board.”
“I’m on the board of almost seventy companies,” Dunross said.
“True and not all of those are wholly or even partially owned by Struan’s. Of course, some could be wholly owned through nominees, secretly, couldn’t they?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s fortunate in Hong Kong we don’t have to list directors—or holdings, isn’t it?”
“What’s your point, Brian?”
“Another coincidence: Nelson Trading’s registered head offices in the city of London are in the same building as your British subsidiary, Struan London Limited.”
“That’s a big building, Brian, one of the best locations in the city. There must be a hundred companies there.”
“Many thousands if you include all the companies registered with solicitors there—all the holding companies that hold other companies with nominee directors that hide all sorts of skeletons.”
“So?” Dunross was thinking quite clearly now, pondering where Brian had got all this information, wondering too where in the hell all this was leading. Nelson Trading had been a secret, wholly owned subsidiary through nominees ever since it was formed in 1953 specifically for the Macao gold trade—Macao being the only country in Asia where gold importation was legal.
“By the way, Ian, have you met that Portuguese genius from Macao, Signore Lando Mata?”
“Yes. Yes I have. Charming man.”
“Yes he is—and so well connected. The rumor is that some fifteen years ago he persuaded the Macao authorities to create a monopoly for the importation of gold, then to sell the monopoly to him, and a couple of friends, for a modest yearly tax: about one U.S. dollar an ounce. He’s the same fellow, Ian, who first got the Macao authorities to legalize gambling … and curiously, to grant him and a couple of friends the same monopoly. All very cozy, what?”
Dunross did not answer, just stared back at the smile and at the eyes that did not smile.
“So everything went smoothly for a few years,” Brian continued, “then in ’54 he was approached by some Hong Kong gold enthusiasts—our Hong Kong gold law was changed in ’54—who offered a now legal improvement on the scheme: their company buys the gold bullion legally in the world bullion markets on behalf of this Macao syndicate at the legal $35 an ounce and brings it to Hong Kong openly by plane or by ship. On arrival, our own Hong Kong customs fellows legally guard and supervise the transshipment from Kai Tak or the dock to the Macao ferry or the Catalina flying boat. When the ferry or flying boat arrives in Macao it’s met by Portuguese Customs officials and the bullion, all in regulation four-hundred-ounce bars, is transshipped under guard to cars, taxis actually, and taken to the bank. It’s a grotty, ugly little building that does no ordinary banking, has no known customers—except the syndicate—never opens its door—except for the gold—and doesn’t like visitors at all. Guess who owns it? Mr. Mata and his syndicate. Once inside their bank the gold vanishes!” Brian Kwok beamed like a magician doing his greatest trick. “Fifty-three tons this year so far. Forty-eight tons last year! Same the year before and the year before that and so on.”
“That’s a lot of gold,” Dunross said helpfully.
“Yes it is. Very strangely the Macao authorities or the Hong Kong ones don’t seem to care that what goes in never seems to come out. You with me still?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, what really happens is that once inside the bank the gold’s melted down from the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars into little pieces, into two, or the more usual five-tael bars which are much more easily carried, and smuggled. Now we come to the only illegal part of the whole marvelous chain: getting the gold out of Macao and smuggling it into Hong Kong. Of course, it’s not illegal to remove it from Macao, only to smuggle it into Hong Kong. But you know and I know that it’s relatively easy to smuggle anything into Hong Kong. And the incredible beauty of it all is that once in Hong Kong, however the gold gets there—it’s perfectly legal for anyone to own it and no questions asked. Unlike say in the States or Britain where no citizen is ever allowed to own any gold bullion privately. Once legally owned, it can be legally exported.”
“Where’s all this leading to, Brian?” Dunross sipped his brandy.
Brian Kwok swilled the ancient, aromatic spirit in the huge glass and let the silence gather. At length he said, “We’d like some help.”
“We? You mean Special Intelligence?” Dunross was startled.
“Yes.”
“Who in SI? You?”
Brian Kwok hesitated. “Mr. Crosse himself.”
“What help?”
“He’d like to read all your Alan Medford Grant reports.”
“Come again?” Dunross said to give himself time to think, not expecting this at all.
Brian Kwok took out a photocopy of the first and last page of the intercepted report and offered it. “A copy of this has just come into our possession.” Dunross glanced at the pages. Clearly they were genuine. “We’d like a quick look at all the others.”
“I don’t follow you
.”
“I didn’t bring the whole report, just for convenience, but if you want it you can have it tomorrow,” Brian said and his eyes didn’t waver. “We’d appreciate it—Mr. Crosse said he’d appreciate the help.”
The enormity of the implications of the request paralyzed Dunross for a moment.
“This report—and the others if they still exist—are private,” he heard himself say carefully. “At least all the information in them is private to me personally, and to the Government. Surely you can get everything you want through your own intelligence channels.”
“Yes. Meanwhile, Superintendent Crosse’d really appreciate it, Ian, if you’d let us have a quick look.”
Dunross took a sip of his brandy, his mind in shock. He knew he could easily deny that the others existed and burn them or hide them or just leave them where they were, but he did not wish to avoid helping Special Intelligence. It was his duty to assist them. Special Intelligence was a vital part of Special Branch and the Colony’s security and he was convinced that, without them, the Colony and their whole position in Asia would be untenable. And without a marvelous counterintelligence, if a twentieth of AMG’s reports were true, all their days were numbered.
Christ Jesus, in the wrong hands …
His chest felt tight as he tried to reason out his dilemma. Part of that last report had leapt into his mind: about the traitor in the police. Then he remembered that Kiernan had told him that his back copies were the only ones in existence. How much was private to him and how much was known to British Intelligence? Why the secrecy? Why didn’t Grant get permission? Christ, say I was wrong about some things being farfetched! In the wrong hands, in enemy hands, much of the information would be lethal.
With an effort he calmed his mind and concentrated. “I’ll consider what you said and talk to you tomorrow. First thing.”
“Sorry, Ian. I was told to in—to impress upon you the urgency.”
“Were you going to say insist?”
“Yes. Sorry. We wish to ask for your assistance. This is a formal request for your cooperation.”
“And Eastern Cloud and Nelson Trading are barter?”
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