Noble House

by James Clavell

  “That’s a fine idea, Casey,” he said, watching her carefully. “But on second thought, perhaps it would be better for you and Forrester to check out Hong Kong before Taipei—this will be our biggest market. And if your lawyer arrives Thursday you might wish to spend time with him here.” He looked at Bartlett directly, the picture of innocence. “If you want to cancel our trip, that’s all right too, you’ve plenty of time to go to Taipei. But I must go.”

  “No,” Bartlett said. “Casey, you cover this end. Seymour will need all the help you can give him. I’ll make a preliminary tour this time and we can do it together later.”

  She sipped her drink and kept her face clear. So I’m not invited, huh? she thought with a flash of irritation. “You’re off Sunday?”

  “Yes,” Dunross said, sure that the finesse had worked, detecting no change in her. “Sunday afternoon I may be doing a hill climb in the morning, so that’s the earliest I can make it.”

  “Hill climb? Mountain climbing, tai-pan?”

  “Oh no. Just with a motorcar—in the New Territories. You’re both welcome if you’re interested.” He added to Bartlett, “We could go directly to the airport. If I can clear your aircraft, I will. I’ll ask about that tomorrow.”

  “Linc,” Casey said, “what about Armstrong and the police? You’re grounded here.”

  “I arranged that today,” Dunross said, “he’s paroled into my custody.”

  She laughed. “Fantastic! Just don’t jump bail!”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’re off Sunday, tai-pan? Back when?”

  “Tuesday, in time for dinner.”

  “Tuesday’s when we sign?”

  “Yes.”

  “Linc, isn’t that cutting it tight?”

  “No. I’ll be in constant touch. The deal’s set. All we need is to put it on paper.”

  “Whatever you say, Linc. Everything will be ready for signature when you two get back. Tai-pan, I’m to deal with Andrew if there’s any problem?”

  “Yes. Or Jacques.” Dunross glanced at the far corner. Now their table was occupied by others. Never mind, he told himself. Everything was done that could be done. “The phone service is good to Taipei so there’s no need to worry. Now, are you free for dinner?”

  “We certainly are,” Bartlett said.

  “What sort of food would you like?”

  “How about Chinese?”

  “Sorry, but you’ve got to be more specific,” Dunross said. “That’s like saying you want European cooking—which could run the gamut from Italian to boiled English.”

  “Linc, shouldn’t we leave it to the tai-pan?” Casey said, and added, “Tai-pan, I have to confess, I like sweet and sour, egg rolls, chop suey and fried rice. I’m not much on anything far out.”

  “Nor am I,” Bartlett agreed. “No snake, dog or anything exotic.”

  “Snake’s very good in season,” Dunross said. “Especially the bile—mixed with tea. It’s very invigorating, a great pick-me-up! And little young chow dog stewed in oyster sauce is just perfect.”

  “You’ve tried it? You’ve tried dog?” She was shocked.

  “I was told it was chicken. It tasted a lot like chicken. But never eat dog and drink whiskey at the same time, Casey. They say it turns the meat into lumps of iron that’ll give you a very hard time indeed….”

  He was listening to himself make jokes and inconsequential small talk while he was watching Jacques and Susanne getting into a taxi. His heart went out to them and to Kathy and to all the others and he wanted to get on the plane himself, to rush there and bring Avril back safely—such a nice girl, part of his family….

  How in the name of Christ do you live as a man, rule the Noble House and stay sane? How do you help the family and make deals and live with all the rest of it?

  “That’s the joy and the hurt of being tai-pan,” Dirk Struan had said to him in his dreams, many times.

  Yes, but there’s very little joy.

  You’re wrong and Dirk’s right and you’re being far too serious, he told himself. The only serious problems are Par-Con, the boom, Kathy, AMG’s papers, Crosse, John Chen, Toda Shipping, and the fact that you turned down Lando Mata’s offer, not necessarily in that order. So much money.

  What is it I want out of life? Money? Power? Or all China?

  He saw Casey and Bartlett watching him. Since these two’ve arrived, he thought, I’ve had nothing but trouble. He looked back at them. She was certainly worth looking at with her tight pants and clinging blouse. “Leave it to me,” he said, deciding that tonight he would like some Cantonese food.

  They heard the page bell and saw the paging board and the name was “Miss K. C. Shuluk.” Dunross beckoned the youth. “He’ll show you to the phone, Casey.”

  “Thanks.” She got up. Eyes followed the long, elegant legs and her sensuous walk—the women jealous, hating her.

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” Bartlett said calmly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He grinned and that took the curse off everything. “20 to 1 says Taipei was a probe—but I’m not calling you on it, Ian. No. I was rough last night—had to be, so maybe I deserved a roasting. But don’t do that a second time with Casey or I’ll hand you your head.”

  “Will you now?”

  “Yes. She’s off limits.” Bartlett’s eyes went back to Casey. He saw her pass the Marlowe table, stop a second and greet them and their children, then go on again. “She knows she wasn’t invited.”

  Dunross was perturbed. “Are you sure? I thought … I didn’t cover properly? The moment I realized you hadn’t told yet … Sorry, thought I’d covered.”

  “Hell, you were perfect! But five’ll still get you ten she knows she wasn’t invited.” Bartlett smiled again, and, once more, Dunross wondered what was under the smile. I’ll have to watch this bugger more closely, he thought. So Casey’s off limits, is she? I wonder what he really meant by that?

  Dunross had chosen the foyer deliberately, wanting to be seen with the now famous—or infamous Bartlett and his lady. He knew it would fuel rumors of their impending deal and that would further agitate the stock market and put the punters off balance. If the Ho-Pak crashed, provided it did not bring other banks down with it, the boom could still happen. If Bartlett and Casey would bend a little, he thought, and if I could really trust them, I could make a killing of killings. So many ifs. Too many. I’m out of control of this battle at the moment. Bartlett and Casey have all the momentum. How far will they cooperate?

  Then something Superintendent Armstrong and Brian Kwok had said triggered a vagrant thought and his anxiety increased.

  “What do you think of that fellow Banastasio?” he asked, keeping his voice matter-of-fact.

  “Vincenzo?” Bartlett said at once. “Interesting guy. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” Dunross said, outwardly calm but inwardly shocked that he had been right. “Have you known him long?”

  “Three or four years. Casey an’ I have gone to the track with him a few times—to Del Mar. He’s a big-time gambler there and in Vegas. He’ll bet 50,000 on a race—so he told us. He and John Chen are quite friendly. Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No. I’ve never met him but I heard John mention him once or twice,” he said, “and Tsu-yan.”

  “How is Tsu-yan? He’s another gambler. When I saw him in L.A., he couldn’t wait to get to Vegas. He was at the track the last time we were there with John Chen. Nothing yet on John or the kidnappers?”

  “No.”

  “Rotten luck.”

  Dunross was hardly listening. The dossier he had had prepared on Bartlett had given no indication of any Mafia connections—but Banastasio linked everything. The guns, John Chen, Tsu-yan and Bartlett.

  Mafia meant dirty money and narcotics, with a constant search for legitimate fronts for the laundering of money. Tsu-yan used to deal heavily in medical supplies during Korea—and now, so the story went, he was heavily into gold smuggling in Taipei, Indones
ia and Malaya with Four Finger Wu. Could Banastasio be shipping guns to … to whom? Had poor John Chen stumbled onto something and was he kidnapped for that reason?

  Does that mean part of Par-Con’s money is Mafia money—is Par-Con Mafia-dominated or controlled by Mafia?

  “I seem to remember John saying Banastasio was one of your major stockholders,” he said, stabbing into the dark again.

  “Vincenzo’s got a big chunk of stock. But he’s not an officer or director. Why?”

  Dunross saw that now Bartlett’s blue eyes were concentrated and he could almost feel the mind waves reaching out, wondering about this line of questioning. So he ended it. “It’s curious how small the world really is, isn’t it?”

  Casey picked up the phone, inwardly seething. “Operator, this is Miss Tcholok. You’ve a call for me?”

  “Ah one moment plees.”

  So I’m not invited to Taipei, she was thinking furiously. Why didn’t the tai-pan just come out and say it and not twist things around and why didn’t Linc tell me about it too? Jesus, is he under the tai-pan’s spell like I was last night? Why the secret? What else are they cooking?

  Taipei, eh? Well I’ve heard it’s a man’s place so if all they’re after’s a dirty weekend it’s fine with me. But not if it’s business. Why didn’t Linc say? What’s there to hide?

  Casey’s fury began to grow, then she remembered what the Frenchwoman had said about beautiful Chinoise so readily available and her fury turned to an untoward anxiety for Linc.

  Goddamn men!

  Goddamn men and the world they’ve made exclusively to fit themselves. And it’s worse here than anywhere I’ve ever been.

  Goddamn the English! They’re all so smooth and smart and their manners great and they say please and thank you and get up when you come in and hold your chair for you but, just under the surface, they’re just as rotten as any others. They’re worse. They’re hypocrites, that’s what they are! Well I’ll get even. One day we’ll play golf, Mr. Tai-pan Dunross and you’d better be good because I can play down to ten on a good day—I learned about golf in a man’s world early—so I’ll rub your nose in it. Yes. Or maybe a game of pool—or billiards. Sure, and I know what reverse English is too.

  Casey thought of her father with a sudden shaft of joy, and how he had taught her the rudiments of both games. But it was Linc who taught her how to stab low on the left side with the cue to give the ball a twist to the right to swerve around the eight ball—showed her when, foolishly, she had challenged him to a game. He had slaughtered her before he gave her any lessons.

  “Casey, you’d better make sure you know all a man’s weak points before you battle with him. I wiped the board with you to prove a point. I don’t play games for pleasure—just to win. I’m not playing games with you. I want you, nothing else matters. Let’s forget the deal we made and get married and …”

  That was just a few months after she had started working for Linc Bartlett. She was just twenty and already in love with him. But she still wanted revenge on the other man more, and independent wealth more and to find herself more, so she had said, “No, Linc, we agreed seven years. We agreed up front, as equals. I’ll help you get rich and I’ll get mine on the way to your millions, and neither of us owes the other anything. You can fire me anytime for any reason, and I can leave for any reason. We’re equals. I won’t deny that I love you with all my heart but I still won’t change our deal. But if you’re still willing to ask me to marry you when I reach my twenty-seventh birthday, then I will. I’ll marry you, live with you, leave you—whatever you want. But not now. Yes I love you but if we become lovers now I’ll … I’ll never be able to … I just can’t, Linc, not now. There’s too much I have to find out about myself.”

  Casey sighed. What a twisted crazy deal it is. Has all the power and dealing and wheeling—and all the years and tears and loneliness been worth it?

  I just don’t know. I just don’t know. And Par-Con? Can I ever reach my goal: Par-Con and Linc, or will I have to choose between them?

  “Ciranoush?” came through the earpiece.

  “Oh! Hello, Mr. Gornt!” She felt a surge of warmth. “This is a pleasant surprise,” she added, collecting her wits.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

  “I wondered if you are able to confirm this Sunday yet, if you and Mr. Bartlett are available? I want to plan my boat party and I’d like the two of you as my honored guests.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Gornt, but Linc can’t make it. He’s all tied up.”

  She heard the hesitation and then the covered pleasure in his voice. “Would you care to come without him? I was thinking of having a few business friends. I’m sure you’d find it interesting.”

  It might be very good for Par-Con if I went, she thought. Besides, if Linc and the tai-pan are going to Taipei without me, why can’t I go boating without them? “I’d love to,” she said, warmth in her voice, “if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”

  “Of course not. We’ll pick you up at the wharf, just opposite the hotel, near the Golden Ferry. Ten o’clock—casual. Do you swim?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good—the water’s refreshing. Water-ski?”

  “Love it!”

  “Very good!”

  “Can I bring anything? Food or wine or anything?”

  “No. I think we’ll have everything aboard. We’ll go to one of the outer islands and picnic, water-ski—be back just after sunset.”

  “Mr. Gornt, I’d like to keep this excursion to ourselves. I’m told Confucius said, ‘A closed mouth catches no flies.’”

  “Confucius said many things. He once likened a lady to a moonbeam.”

  She hesitated, the danger signals up. But then she heard herself say lightly, “Should I bring a chaperone?”

  “Perhaps you should,” he said and she heard his smile.

  “How about Dunross?”

  “He’d hardly be a chaperone—merely the destruction of what could perhaps be a perfect day.”

  “I look forward to Sunday, Mr. Gornt.”

  “Thank you.” The phone clicked off instantly.

  You arrogant bastard! she almost said aloud. How much are you taking for granted? Just thank you and click and no good-bye.

  I’m Linc’s and not up for grabs.

  Then why did you play the coquette on the phone and at the party? she asked herself. And why did you want that bastard to keep your Sunday date quiet?

  Women like secrets too, she told herself grimly. Women like a lot of things men like.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  8:35 P.M.:

  The coolie was in the dingy gold vaults of the Ho-Pak Bank. He was a small, old man who wore a tattered grimy undershirt and ragged shorts. As the two porters lifted the canvas sack onto his bent back, he adjusted the forehead halter and leaned against it, taking the strain with his neck muscles, his hands grasping the two worn straps. Now that he had the full weight, he felt his overtaxed heart pumping against the load, his joints shrieking for relief.

  The sack weighed just over ninety pounds—almost more than his own weight. The tally clerks had just sealed it. It contained exactly 250 of the little gold smuggler bars, each of five taels—a little over six ounces—just one of which would have kept him and his family secure for months. But the old man had no thought of trying to steal even one of them. All of his being was concentrated on how to dominate the agony, how to keep his feet moving, how to do his share of the work, to get his pay at the end of his shift, and then to rest.

  “Hurry up,” the foreman said sourly, “we’ve still more than twenty fornicating tons to load. Next!”

  The old man did not reply. To do so would take more of his precious energy. He had to guard his strength zealously tonight if he was to finish. With an effort he set his feet into motion, his calves knotted and varicosed and scarred from so many years of labor.

  Another coolie took his
place as he shuffled slowly out of the dank concrete room, the shelves ladened with a seemingly never-ending supply of meticulous stacks of little gold bars that waited under the watchful eyes of the two neat bank clerks—waited to be loaded into the next canvas sack, to be counted and recounted, then sealed with a flourish.

  On the narrow stairway the old man faltered. He regained his balance with difficulty, then lifted a foot to climb another step—only twenty-eight more now—and then another and he had just made the landing when his calves gave out. He tottered against the wall, leaning against it to ease the weight, his heart grinding, both hands grasping the straps, knowing he could never resettle the load if he stepped out of the harness, terrified lest the foreman or a subforeman would pass by. Through the spectrum of pain he heard footsteps coming toward him and he fought the sack higher onto his back and into motion once more. He almost toppled over.

  “Hey, Nine Carat Chu, are you all right?” the other coolie asked in Shantung dialect, steadying the sack for him.

  “Yes … yes …” He gasped with relief, thankful it was his friend from his village far to the north and the leader of his gang of ten. “Fornicate all gods, I … I just slipped….”

  The other man peered at him in the coarse light from the single bare light overhead. He saw the tortured, rheumy old eyes and the stretched muscles. “I’ll take this one, you rest a moment,” he said. Skillfully he eased off the weight and swung the sack to the floorboards. “I’ll tell that motherless foreigner who thinks he’s got brains enough to be a foreman that you’ve gone to relieve yourself.” He reached into his ragged, torn pants pocket and handed the old man one of his small, screwed-up pieces of cigarette foil. “Take it. I’ll deduct it from your pay tonight.”

  The old man mumbled his thanks. He was all pain now, barely thinking. The other man swung the sack onto his back, grunting with the effort, leaned against the head band, then, his calves knotted, slowly went back up the stairs, pleased with the deal he had made.

  The old man slunk off the landing into a dusty alcove and squatted down. His fingers trembled as he smoothed out the cigarette foil with its pinch of white powder. He lit a match and held it carefully under the foil to heat it. The powder began to blacken and smoke. Carefully he held the smoking powder under his nostrils and inhaled deeply, again and again, until every grain had vanished into the smoke that he pulled oh so gratefully into his lungs.