Noble House

by James Clavell

  “That’s right,” Bartlett said. “Leave Gornt and Dunross to Casey and me. You just deal with their attorneys.”

  “What’re they like?”

  “English. Very proper,” Casey said. “I met with John Dawson at noon—he’s their senior partner. Dunross was supposed to be there but he sent Jacques deVille instead. He’s one of Struan’s directors, deals with all their corporate affairs, and some financing. Jacques is very good but Dunross runs everything and decides everything. That’s the bottom line.”

  “How about getting this, er, Dawson on the phone right now? I’ll meet with him over breakfast, say here at eight.”

  Bartlett and Casey had laughed. “No way, Seymour!” she had said. “It’ll be a leisurely in by ten and a two-hour lunch. They eat and drink like there’s no tomorrow, and everything’s the ‘old boy’ bit.”

  “Then I’ll meet him after lunch when he’s mellow and maybe we can teach him a trick or two,” Seymour Steigler had said, his eyes hardening. He stifled a yawn. “I’ve got to call New York before I hit the sack. Hey, I’ve got all the papers on the GXR merger an—”

  “I’ll take those, Seymour,” Casey said.

  “And I bought the 200,000 block of Rothwell-Gornt at 23.50—what’re they today?”

  “21.”

  “Jesus, Linc, you’re down 300 grand,” Casey said, perturbed. “Why not sell and buy back? If and when.”

  “No. We’ll hold the stock.” Bartlett was not worried about the Rothwell stock loss for he was well ahead on his share of Gornt’s selling-short ploy. “Why don’t you quit for the night, Seymour? If you’re up we’ll have breakfast—the three of us—say about eight?”

  “Good idea. Casey, you’ll fix me with Dawson?”

  “First thing. They’ll see you in the morning sometime. The tai-pan … Ian Dunross’s told them our deal’s top priority.”

  “It should be,” Steigler said. “Our down payment gets Dunross off the hook.”

  “If he survives,” Casey said.

  “Here today, gone tomorrow so let’s enjoy!”

  It was one of Steigler’s standard sayings and the phrase was still ringing in Bartlett’s head. Here today, gone tomorrow … like the fire last night. That could’ve been bad. I could’ve bashed my head in the way that poor bastard Pennyworth did. You never know when it’s your turn, your accident, your bullet or your act of God. From outside or inside. Like Dad! Jesus—bronzed and healthy, hardly sick a day in his life, then the doc says he’s got the big C and in three months he’s wasted away and stinking and dying in great pain.

  Bartlett felt a sudden sweat on his forehead. It had been a bad time then, during his divorce, burying his father, his mother distraught and everything falling apart. Then finalizing the divorce. The settlement had been vicious but he had just managed to retain control of the companies, to pay her off without having to sell out. He was still paying even though she’d remarried—along with an escalating maintenance for his children as well as future settlements—every cent still hurting, not the money itself but the unfairness of California law, the attorney in for a third until death us do part, screwed by my attorney and hers. One day I’ll have vengeance on them, Bartlett grimly promised himself again. On them and all the other goddamn parasites.

  With an effort he thrust them aside. For today.

  Here today, gone tomorrow, so let’s enjoy, he repeated as he sipped his beer, tied his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. Without vanity. He liked living within himself and he had made his peace with himself, knowing who he was and what he was about. The war had helped him do that. And surviving the divorce, surviving her, finding out about her and living with it—Casey the only decent thing that whole year.

  Casey.

  What about Casey?

  Our rules are quite clear, always have been. She set them: If I have a date or she has a date, we have dates and no questions and no recriminations.

  Then why is it I’m all uptight now that I’ve decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?

  He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.

  There was a halfhearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. “Missee,” the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.

  “Oh hi, Casey,” Bartlett said. “I was just going to phone you.”

  “Hi, Linc,” she called out and then said, “Doh jeh,” in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. “Got some stuff for you.” She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting gray pants and flat gray shoes with a gray silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. “The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It’s all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There’s a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M.. in LA—that gives us plenty of time to get back. I’ve ask—”

  “Turn down bed, Master?” Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.

  Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. “Um ho,” she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. “Cha z’er, doh jeh.” No thank you, please do it later.

  Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. “Wat?”

  Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. “Turn down bed, heya? Now heya?” he asked in bad English.

  Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, “Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later.”

  Nighttime Song beamed, having made her lose face. “Yes, Missee.” He closed the door with just enough of a slam to make his point.

  “Asshole,” she muttered. “He had to understand me, I know I said it right, Linc. Why is it they insist on not understanding? I tried it on my maid and all she said was ‘wat’ too.” She laughed in spite of herself as she aped the coarse guttural, “Wat you say, heya?”

  Bartlett laughed. “They’re just ornery. But where’d you learn Chinese?”

  “It’s Cantonese. I got a teacher—fitted in an hour this morning—thought I should at least be able to say, Hi, Good morning, Give me the bill please … ordinary things. Goddamn but it’s complicated. All the tones. In Cantonese there are seven tones—seven ways of saying the same word. You ask for the check, it’s mai dan, but if you say it just a little wrong, it means fried eggs, they’re mai dan too, and one’ll get you fifty the waiter’ll bring you the fried eggs just to put you down.” She sipped her martini and added an extra olive. “I needed that. You want another beer?”

  Bartlett shook his head. “This’s fine.” He had read all the telexes.

  Casey sat on the sofa and opened her notepad. “Vincenzo Banastasio’s secretary phoned and asked me to confirm his suite for Saturday an—”

  “I didn’t know he was due in Hong Kong. You?”

  “I think I remember him saying something about going to Asia the last time we saw him … at the track last month—at Del Mar—the time John Chen was there. Terrible about John, isn’t it?”

  “I hope they get those Werewolves. Bastards to murder him and put that sign on him like that.”

  “I wrote a condolence note for us to his father and to his wife Dianne—you remember we met her at Ian’s and at Aberdeen—Jesus, that seems like a million years ago.”

  “Yes.” Bartlett frowned. “I still don’t remember Vincenzo saying anything. He staying here?”

  “No, he wants to be Hong Kong side. I confirmed the booking at the Hilton by phone and I’ll do it in person tomorrow. He’s on JAL’s Saturday morning flight from Tokyo.” Casey peered at him over her glasses. “You want me to schedule a meeting?”

  “How long’s he
staying?”

  “Over the weekend. A few days. You know how vague he is. How about Saturday after the races? We’ll be Hong Kong side and it’s an easy walk from Happy Valley if we can’t get a ride.”

  Bartlett was going to say, Let’s make it Sunday, but then he remembered Taipei on Sunday. “Sure, Saturday after the races.” Then he saw her look. “What?”

  “I was just wondering what Banastasio’s about.”

  “When he bought 4 percent of our Par-Con stock,” he said, “we ran it through Seymour, the SEC and a few others and they’re all satisfied his money was clean. He’s never been arrested or charged, though there’re a lot of rumors. He’s never given us any trouble, never wanted in on any board, never turns up for any shareholder meetings, always gives me his proxy, and he came through with the money when we needed it.” He stared at her. “So?”

  “So nothing, Linc. You know my opinion of him. I agree we can’t take the stock back. He bought it free and clear and asked first, and we sure as hell needed his money and put it to great use.” She adjusted her glasses and made a note. “I’ll fix the meeting and be polite as always. Next: Our company account at the Victoria Bank’s operating. I put in 25,000 and here’s your checkbook. We’ve established a revolving fund and First Central’s ready to transfer the initial 7 million to the account whenever we say so. There’s a confirm telex there. I also opened a personal account for you at the same bank—here’s your checkbook with another 25 grand—20 in an HK treasury bill on a daily rollover.” She grinned. “That should buy a couple of bowls of chop suey and a good piece of jade though I hear the phonies are hard to tell from the real ones.”

  “No jade.” Bartlett wanted to look at his watch but he did not, just sipped his beer. “Next?”

  “Next: Clive Bersky called and asked a favor.”

  “You told him to blow it out of his muffler?”

  She laughed. Clive Bersky was chief executive of their branch of the First Central of New York. He was very meticulous, pedantic and drove Bartlett crazy with his need for perfect documentation. “He asks that if the Struan deal goes through, we put our funds through the …” She referred to her pad. “… the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank here.”

  “Why them?”

  “I don’t know. I’m checking them out. We’ve a date for a drink with the local chief exec at eight. The First Central’s just bought his bank—it’s got branches here, Singapore, Tokyo.”

  “You deal with him, Casey.”

  “Sure. I can drink and run. You want to eat afterwards? We could go down to the Escoffier or up to the Seven Dragons or maybe walk up Nathan Road for some Chinese chow. Somewhere close—the weatherman says more rain’s expected.”

  “Thanks but not tonight. I’m going Hong Kong side.”

  “Oh? Wh—” Casey stopped. “Fine. When are you leaving?”

  “About now. No hurry.” Bartlett saw the same easy smile on her face as her eyes went down the list but he was sure she had instantly realized where he was going and suddenly he was furious. He kept his voice calm. “What else do you have?”

  “Nothing that won’t wait,” she said in the same nice voice. “I’ve an early meeting with Captain Jannelli about your Taipei trip—Armstrong’s office sent over the documentation temporarily lifting the impounding on the airplane. All you have to do is sign the form agreeing to come back to H.K. I put Tuesday on it. Is that right?”

  “Sure. Tuesday’s D Day.”

  She got up. “That’s it for tonight, Linc. I’ll deal with the banker and the rest of this stuff.” She finished her martini and put the glass back on the mirrored cabinet. “Hey that tie, Linc! Your blue one’d go better. See you at breakfast.” She blew him her usual kiss and walked off as she usually did and closed the door with her usual, “Sweet dreams, Linc!”

  “Why the hell’m I so goddamn mad?” he muttered angrily, out loud. “Casey’s done nothing. Son of a bitch!” Unaware, he had crushed his empty beer can. Son of a bitch! Now what? Do I forget it and go or what?

  Casey was walking up the corridor toward her own room, seething. I’ll bet my life he’s going out with that goddamn tramp. I should’ve drowned her while I had the chance.

  Then she noticed that Nighttime Song had opened her door for her and was holding it wide with a smile she read as a smirk.

  “Andyoucanblowitoutofyourasstoo!” she snarled at him before she could stop herself, then slammed the door and threw her papers and pad on the bed and was about to cry. “You’re not to cry,” she ordered herself out loud, tears on the words. “No goddamn man is going to get you down no way. No way!” She stared down at her fingers, which were trembling with the rage that possessed her.

  “Oh shit on all men!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  7:40 P.M.:

  “Excuse me, your Excellency, you’re wanted on the phone.”

  “Thank you, John.” Sir Geoffrey Allison turned back to Dunross and the others. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?”

  They were in Government House, the governor’s official residence above Central, the French doors open to the cool of the evening, the air fresh and washed, trees and shrubs dripping nicely, and the governor walked across the crowded anteroom where pre-dinner cocktails and snacks were being served, very pleased with the way the evening had gone so far. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There was banter and good conversation, some laughter and no friction yet between the Hong Kong tai-pans and the MPs. At his request, Dunross had gone out of his way to soothe Grey and Broadhurst, and even Grey seemed to have mellowed.

  The aide closed the door of his study, leaving him alone with the telephone. The study was dark green and pleasing, with blue flock wallpaper, fine Persian carpets from his two-year sojourn in the Teheran embassy, cherished crystal and silver and more showcases with fine Chinese porcelains. “Hello?”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” Crosse said.

  “Oh hello, Roger.” The governor felt his chest tighten. “No bother,” he said.

  “Two rather good pieces of information, sir. Somewhat important. I wonder if I might drop by?”

  Sir Geoffrey glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantel over the fireplace. “Dinner’s served in fifteen minutes, Roger. Where are you now?”

  “Just three minutes away from you, sir. I won’t delay your dinner. But, if you prefer, I could make it afterwards.”

  “Come now, I could use some good news. With this whole banking affair and the stock market … Use the garden door if you wish. John will meet you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The phone clicked off. By custom, the head of SI had a key to the iron garden gate which was set into the high surrounding walls.

  In exactly three minutes Crosse was crossing the terrace, walking lightly. The ground was very wet. He dried his feet carefully before he came through the French windows. “We’ve caught a rather big fish, sir, an enemy agent, caught him with his hands in the honey pot,” he said softly. “He’s a major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. We caught him in the middle of an espionage act with an American computer expert off the nuclear carrier.”

  The governor’s face had gone red. “That blasted Ivanov! Good God, Roger, a major? Have you any idea of the diplomatic and political storm this will precipitate with the USSR, the U.S. and London?”

  “Yes sir. That’s why I thought I’d better consult at once.”

  “What the devil was the fellow doing?”

  Crosse gave him the broad facts. He ended, “Both of them are sedated now and very safe.”

  “What was on the film?”

  “It was blank, sir, fogged. Wh—”

  “What?”

  “Yes. Of course both men denied any espionage was involved. The sailor denied there was a drop, denied everything, said he’d won the $2,000 U.S. we found on him playing poker. Childish to lie once you’re caught, childish to make things difficult, we always get the truth eventually. I thought we’d either missed the re
al film or it was a microdot transfer. We re-searched their clothing and I ordered immediate emetics and stool examinations. Major … the KGB agent passed the real negative film an hour ago.” Crosse offered the big manila envelope. “These’re eight-by-ten prints, sir, frame by frame.”

  The governor did not open the envelope. “What are they of? In general?”

  “One set shows part of the ship’s radar guidance system manual.” Crosse hesitated. “The other set’s a photocopy of a complete manifest of the carrier’s arsenal, ammunition, missiles and warheads. Quantities, qualities, their numbers and where stored in the ship.”

  “Jesus Christ! Including nuclear warheads? No, please don’t answer that.” Sir Geoffrey stared at Crosse. After a pause he said, “Well, Roger, it’s marvelous that the information didn’t get into enemy hands. You’re to be congratulated. Our American friends will be equally relieved, and they’ll owe you a number of very great favors. Good God, in expert hands that knowledge would lay bare the ship’s entire strike capability!”

  “Yes sir.” Crosse smiled thinly.

  Sir Geoffrey studied him.

  “But what to do about this major of yours?”

  “I would send the major to London with a special escort by RAF transport at once. I think they should do the debriefing there even though we’re better equipped, more practiced, and more efficient here. My worry is that his superiors will surely know within an hour or so and might attempt to rescue him or to render him useless. They might even use extreme diplomatic pressure to force us to release him to the Ivanov. Besides, when the PRC and Nationalists hear we’ve caught such an official, they might try to acquire him themselves.”

  “What about the American sailor?”

  “It might be politic to turn him over to the CIA at once, with the negative of the film and these—they’re the only prints I made. I developed and made them myself for obvious security reasons. I suspect Rosemont would be the best person.”

  “Ah yes, Rosemont. He’s here now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sir Geoffrey’s eyes hardened. “You have copies of all my guest lists, Roger?”