Noble House

by James Clavell

  “Got to go, darling. Hey pet, love you! ’Bye!” He put the phone down. “Evening,” he said, no longer perturbed.

  “The files please, Ian.”

  “Certainly, but first we’ve got to see the governor.”

  “First I want those files.” Crosse pulled out the warrant as Dunross picked up the phone and dialed. He waited only a moment. “Evening, sir. Superintendent Crosse’s here … yes sir.” He held out the phone. “For you.”

  Crosse hesitated, hard-faced, then took it. “Superintendent Crosse,” he said into the phone. He listened a moment. “Yes sir. Very well, sir.” He replaced the phone. “Now, what the hell shenanigans are you up to?”

  “None. Just being careful.”

  Crosse held up the warrant. “If I don’t get the files, I’ve clearance from London to serve this on you at six P.M. today, governor or no.”

  Dunross stared back at him, just as hard. “Please go ahead.”

  “You’re served, Ian Struan Dunross! Sorry, but you’re under arrest!”

  Dunross’s jaw jutted a little. “All right. But first by God we will see the governor!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  6:20 P.M.:

  The tai-pan and Roger Crosse were walking across the white pebbles toward the front door of the Governor’s Palace. Brian Kwok waited beside the police car. The front door opened and the young equerry in Royal Navy uniform greeted them politely, then ushered them into an exquisite antechamber.

  His Excellency, Sir Geoffrey Allison, D.S.O., O.B.E., was a sandy-haired man in his late fifties, neat, soft-spoken and very tough. He sat at an antique desk and watched them. “Evening,” he said easily and waved them to seats. His equerry closed the door, leaving them. “It seems we have a problem, Roger. Ian has some rather private property that he legally owns and is reluctant to give you—that you want.”

  “Legally want, sir. I’ve London’s authority under the Official Secrets Act.”

  “Yes, I know that, Roger. I talked to the minister an hour ago. He said, and I agree, we can hardly arrest Ian and go through the Noble House like a dose of salts. That really wouldn’t be very proper, or very sensible, however serious we are in obtaining the AMG files. And, equally, it wouldn’t be very proper or sensible to acquire them with cloaks and daggers—that sort of thing. Would it?”

  Crosse said, “With Ian’s cooperation none of that would be necessary. I’ve pointed out to him that Her Majesty’s Government was completely involved. He just doesn’t seem to get the message, sir. He should cooperate.”

  “I quite agree. The minister said the same. Of course when Ian came here this morning he did explain his reasons for being so, so cautious … quite proper reasons if I may say so! The minister agrees too.” The gray eyes became piercing. “Just exactly who is the deep-cover Communist agent in my police? Who are the Sevrin plants?”

  There was a vast silence. “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Then would you be kind enough to find out very quickly. Ian was kind enough to let me read the AMG report you rightly intercepted.” The governor’s face mottled, quoting from it, “‘… this information should be leaked privately to the police commissioner or governor should they be considered loyal…’ Bless my soul! What’s going on in the world?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well you’re supposed to, Roger. Yes.” The governor watched them. “Now. What about the mole? What sort of man would he be?”

  “You, me, Dunross, Havergill, Armstrong—anyone,” Crosse said at once. “But with one characteristic: I think this one’s so deep that he’s probably almost forgotten who he really is, or where his real political interest and loyalty lie. He’d be very special—like all of Sevrin.” The thin-faced man stared at Dunross. “They must be special—SI’s checks and balances are really very good, and the CIA’s, but we’ve never had a whiff of Sevrin before, not a jot or a tittle.”

  Dunross said, “How’re you going to catch him?”

  “How’re you going to catch your plant in Struan’s?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Would the Sevrin spy be the same as the one who betrayed our secrets to Bartlett? Dunross was asking himself uneasily. “If he’s top echelon, he’s one of seven—all unthinkable.”

  “There you have it,” Crosse said. “All unthinkable, but one’s a spy. If we get one, we can probably break the others out of him if he knows them.” Both the other men felt icy at the calm viciousness in his voice. “But to get the one, someone has to make a slip, or we have to get a little luck.”

  The governor thought a moment. Then he said, “Ian assures me there’s nothing in the previous reports that names anyone—or gives any clues. So the other reports wouldn’t help us immediately.”

  “They could, sir, in other areas, sir.”

  “I know.” The words were quietly spoken but they said Shut up, sit down and wait till I’ve finished. Sir Geoffrey let the silence hang for a while. “So our problem seems to be simply a matter of asking Ian for his cooperation. I repeat, I agree that his caution is justified.” His face tightened. “Philby, Burgess and Maclean taught us all a fine lesson. I must confess every time I make a call to London I wonder if I’m talking to another bloody traitor.” He blew his nose in a handkerchief. “Well, enough of that. Ian, kindly tell Roger the circumstances under which you’ll hand over the AMG copies.”

  “I’ll hand them, personally, to the head or deputy head of MI-6 or MI-5, providing I have his Excellency’s guarantee in writing that the man I give them to is who he purports to be.”

  “The minister agrees to this, sir?”

  “If you agree, Roger.” Again it was said politely but the undercurrent said You’d better agree, Roger.

  “Very well, sir. Has Mr. Sinders agreed to the plan?”

  “He will be here on Friday, BOAC willing.”

  “Yes sir.” Roger Crosse glanced at Dunross. “I’d better keep the files then until then. You can give me a sealed pa—”

  Dunross shook his head. “They’re safe until I deliver them.”

  Crosse shook his head. “No. If we know, others’d know. The others’re not so clean-handed as we are. We must know where they are—we’d better have a guard, around the clock.”

  Sir Geoffrey nodded. “That’s fair enough, Ian?”

  Dunross thought a moment. “Very well. I’ve put them in a vault at the Victoria Bank.” Crosse’s neck became pink as Dunross produced a key and laid it on the desk. The numbers were carefully defaced. “There’re about a thousand safety deposit boxes. I alone know the number. This’s the only key. If you’ll keep it, Sir Geoffrey. Then … well, that’s about the best I can do to avoid risks.”

  “Roger?”

  “Yes sir. If you agree.”

  “They’re certainly safe there. Certainly not possible to break open all of them. Good, then that’s all settled. Ian, the warrant’s canceled. You do promise, Ian, to deliver them to Sinders the moment he arrives?” Again the eyes became piercing. “I have really gone to a lot of trouble over this.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. Then that’s settled. Nothing yet on poor John Chen, Roger?”

  “No sir, we’re trying everything.”

  “Terrible business. Ian, what’s all this about the Ho-Pak? Are they really in trouble?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Will they go under?”

  “I don’t know. The word seems to be they will.”

  “Damnable! I don’t like that at all. Very bad for our image. And the Par-Con deal?”

  “It looks good. I hope to have a favorable report for you next week, sir.”

  “Excellent. We could use some big American firms here.” He smiled. “I understand the girl’s a stunner! By the way, the Parliamentary Trade Delegation’s due from Peking tomorrow. I’ll entertain them Thursday—you’ll come of course.”

  “Yes sir. Will the dinner be stag?”

  “Yes, good idea.”

  “I’ll invite them to th
e races Saturday—the overflow can go into the bank’s box, sir.”

  “Good. Thank you, Ian. Roger, if you’ll spare me a moment.”

  Dunross got up and shook hands and left. Though he had come with Crosse in the police car, his own Rolls was waiting for him. Brian Kwok intercepted him. “What’s the poop, Ian?”

  “I was asked to let your boss tell you,” he said.

  “Fair enough. Is he going to be long?”

  “I don’t know. Everything’s all right, Brian. No need to worry. I think I dealt with the dilemma correctly.”

  “Hope so. Sorry—bloody business.”

  “Yes.” Dunross got into the back of the Silver Cloud. “Golden Ferry,” he said crisply.

  Sir Geoffrey was pouring the fine sherry into two exquisite, eggshell porcelain cups. “This AMG business is quite frightening, Roger,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m still not inured to treachery, betrayal and the rotten lengths the enemy will go to—even after all this time.” Sir Geoffrey had been in the Diplomatic Corps all of his working life, except for the war years when he was a staff officer in the British Army. He spoke Russian, Mandarin, French and Italian. “Dreadful.”

  “Yes sir.” Crosse watched him. “You’re sure you can trust Ian?”

  “On Friday you won’t need London’s clearance to proceed. You have an Order in Council. On Friday we take possession.”

  “Yes sir.” Crosse accepted the porcelain cup, its fragility bothering him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I suggest you have two men in the bank vaults at all times, one SI, one CID for safety, and a plainclothes guard on the tai-pan—quietly, of course.”

  “I’ll arrange about the bank before I leave. I’ve already put him under blanket surveillance.”

  “You’ve already done it?”

  “On him? Yes sir. I presumed he’d manipulate the situation to suit his purposes. Ian’s a very tricky fellow. After all, the tai-pan of the Noble House is never a fool.”

  “No. Health!” They touched glasses delicately. The ring of the pottery was beautiful. “This tai-pan’s the best I’ve dealt with.”

  “Did Ian mention if he’d reread all the files recently, sir? Last night, for instance?”

  Sir Geoffrey frowned, rethinking their conversation this morning. “I don’t think so. Wait a minute, he did say … exactly he said, ‘When I first read the reports I thought some of AMG’s ideas were too farfetched. But now—and now that he’s dead, I’ve changed my mind …’ That could imply he’s reread them recently. Why?”

  Crosse was examining the paper-thin porcelain cup against the light. “I’ve often heard he’s got a remarkable memory. If the files in the vaults are untouchable … well, I wouldn’t want the KGB tempted to snatch him.”

  “Good God, you don’t think they’d be that stupid, do you? The tai-pan?”

  “It depends what importance they put on the reports, sir,” Crosse said dispassionately. “Perhaps our surveillance should be relatively open—that should scare them off if they happen to have that in mind. Would you mention it to him, sir?”

  “Certainly.” Sir Geoffrey made a note on his pad. “Good idea. Damnable business. Could the Werewolves … could there be a link between the smuggled guns and the John Chen kidnapping?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Yet. I’ve put Armstrong and Brian Kwok on to the case. If there’s a connection they’ll find it.” He watched the dying sunlight on the pale, powder blue translucence of the porcelain that seemed to enhance the golden sheen of the dry La Ina sherry. “Interesting, the play of colors.”

  “Yes. They’re T’ang Ying—named after the director of the Emperor’s factory in 1736. Emperor Ch’en Leung actually.” Sir Geoffrey looked up at Crosse. “A deep-cover spy in my police, in my Colonial Office, my Treasury Department, the naval base, the Victoria, telephone company, and even the Noble House. They could paralyze us and create untold mischief between us and the PRC.”

  “Yes sir.” Crosse peered at the cup. “Seems impossible that it should be so thin. I’ve never seen such a cup before.”

  “You’re a collector?”

  “No sir. Afraid I don’t know anything about them.”

  “These’re my favorites, Roger, quite rare. They’re called t’o t’ai—without body. They’re so thin that the glazes, inside and out, seem to touch.”

  “I’m almost afraid to hold it.”

  “Oh, they’re quite strong. Delicate of course but strong. Who could be Arthur?”

  Crosse sighed. “There’s no clue in this report. None. I’ve read it fifty times. There must be something in the others, whatever Dunross thinks.”

  “Possibly.”

  The delicate cup seemed to fascinate Crosse. “Porcelain’s a clay, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But this type is actually made from a mixture of two clays, Roger, kaolin—after the hilly district of Kingtehchen where it’s found—and pan tun tse, the so-called little white blocks. Chinese call these the flesh and the bones of porcelain.” Sir Geoffrey walked over to the ornate leather-topped table that served as a bar and brought back the decanter. It was about eight inches high and quite translucent, almost transparent. “The blue’s remarkable too. When the body’s quite dry, cobalt in powder form’s blown onto the porcelain with a bamboo pipe. Actually the color’s thousands of individual tiny specks of blue. Then it’s glazed and fired—at about 1300 degrees.” He put it back on the bar, the touch of the workmanship and the sight of it pleasing him.

  “Remarkable.”

  “There was always an Imperial Edict against their export. We quai loh were only entitled to articles made out of hua shih, slippery stone, or tun ni—brick mud.” He looked at his cup again, as a connoisseur. “The genius who made this probably earned 100 dollars a year.”

  “Perhaps he was overpaid,” Crosse said and the two men smiled with one another.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll find Arthur, sir, and the others. You can depend on it.”

  “I’m afraid I have to, Roger. Both the minister and I agree. He will have to inform the Prime Minister—and the Chiefs of Staff.”

  “Then the information has to go through all sorts of hands and tongues and the enemy’ll be bound to find out that we may be on to them.”

  “Yes. So we’ll have to work fast. I bought you four days’ grace, Roger. The minister won’t pass anything on for that time.”

  “Bought, sir?”

  “Figuratively speaking. In life one acquires and gives IOUs—even in the Diplomatic Corps.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you.”

  “Nothing on Bartlett and Miss Casey?”

  “No sir. Rosemont and Langan have asked for up-to-date dossiers. There seems to be some connection between Bartlett and Banastasio—we’re not sure yet what it is. Both he and Miss Tcholok were in Moscow last month.”

  “Ah!” Sir Geoffrey replenished the cups. “What did you do about that poor fellow Voranski?”

  “I sent the body back to his ship, sir.” Crosse told him the gist of his meeting with Rosemont and Langan and about the photographs.

  “That’s a stroke of luck! Our cousins are getting quite smart,” the governor said. “You’d better find those assassins before the KGB do—or the CIA, eh?”

  “I have teams around the house now. As soon as they appear we’ll grab them. We’ll hold them incommunicado of course. I’ve tightened security all around the Ivanov. No one else’ll slip through the net, I promise you. No one.”

  “Good. The police commissioner said he’d ordered CID to be more alert too.” Sir Geoffrey thought a moment. “I’ll send a minute to the secretary about your not complying with the 1–4a. American liaison in London’s sure to be very upset, but under the circumstances, how could you obey?”

  “If I might suggest, it might be better to ask him not to mention we haven’t got the files yet, sir. That information might also get into the wrong hands. Leave well alone, as long as we can.”

  “Yes, I agree.” The gove
rnor sipped his sherry. “There’s lots of wisdom in laissez-faire, isn’t there?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sir Geoffrey glanced at his watch. “I’ll phone him in a few minutes, catch him before lunch. Good. But there’s one problem I can’t leave alone: the Ivanov. This morning I heard from our unofficial intermediary that Peking views that ship’s presence here with the greatest concern.” The quite unofficial spokesman for the PRC in Hong Kong and the ranking Communist appointment was believed to be, presently, one of the deputy chairmen of the Bank of China, China’s central bank through which passed all foreign exchange and all the billion U.S. dollars earned by supplying consumer goods and almost all Hong Kong’s food and water. Britain had always maintained, bluntly, that Hong Kong was British soil, a Crown Colony. In all of Hong Kong’s history, since 1841, Britain had never allowed any official Chinese representative to reside in the Colony. None.

  “He went out of his way to jiggle me about the Ivanov,” Sir Geoffrey continued, “and he wanted to register Peking’s extreme displeasure that a Soviet spy ship was here. He even suggested I might think it wise to expel it.… After all, he said, we hear one of the Soviet KGB spies posing as a seaman had actually got himself killed on our soil. I thanked him for his interest and told him I’d advise my superiors—in due course.” Sir Geoffrey sipped some sherry. “Curiously, he didn’t appear irritated that the nuclear carrier was here.”

  “That’s strange!” Crosse was equally surprised.

  “Does that indicate another policy shift—a distinct significant foreign-policy change, a desire for peace with the U.S.? I can’t believe that. Everything indicates pathological hatred of the U.S.A.”

  The governor sighed and refilled the cups. “If it leaked that Sevrin’s in existence, that we’re undermined here … God almighty, they’d go into convulsions, and rightly so!”

  “We’ll find the traitors, sir, don’t worry. We’ll find them!”

  “Will we? I wonder.” Sir Geoffrey sat down at the window seat and stared out at the manicured lawns and English garden, shrubs, flower beds surrounded by the high white wall, the sunset good. His wife was cutting flowers, wandering among the beds at the far end of the gardens, followed by a sour-faced, disapproving Chinese gardener. Sir Geoffrey watched her a moment. They had been married thirty years and had three children, all married now, and they were content and at peace with each other. “Always traitors,” he said sadly. “The Soviets are past masters in their use. So easy for the Sevrin traitors to agitate, to spread a little poison here and there, so easy to get China upset, poor China who’s xenophobic anyway! Oh how easy it is to rock our boat here! Worst of all, who’s your spy? The police spy? He must be at least a chief inspector to have access to that information.”