Noble House

by James Clavell

  “I was wondering why Orlanda was a threat to you. Why tonight? Obviously, that leads to Linc. That leads inevitably to: she’s out with him now, which explains why you sounded so ghastly when I called.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. Oh, of course, I’d noticed Linc looking at her at Aberdeen and you looking at him and her looking at you.” He sipped some tea, his face hardening. “That was quite a party. Lots of beginnings at that party, great tensions, big drama. Fascinating, if you can disassociate yourself from it. But you can’t, can you?”

  “Do you always watch and listen?”

  “I try to train myself as an observer. I try to use my ears and eyes and other senses, properly, as they should be used. You’re the same. Not much escapes you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Orlanda’s Hong Kong—trained and Gornt-trained and if you plan a clash with her over Linc you’d better be prepared for a battle royal—if she’s decided to try to grab him, which I don’t know yet.”

  “Would Gornt be using her?”

  After a pause, he said, “I’d imagine Orlanda’s Orlanda’s keeper. Aren’t most ladies?”

  “Most ladies gear their lives to a man, whether they want to or not.”

  “From what I know about you, you can take care of any opposition.”

  “What do you know about me?”

  “Lots.” Again the faint, easy, gentle smile. “Amongst them, that you’re smart, brave and have great face.”

  “I’m so tired of face, Peter. In the future …” Her smile was equally warm. “From here on in, in my book, a person’s going to gain ass—or arse as you call it—or lose it.”

  He laughed with her. “The way you say it sounds more ladylike.”

  “I’m no lady.”

  “Oh but you are.” He added more gently, “I saw the way Linc looked at you at Dunross’s party too. He loves you. And he’d be a fool to swap you for her.”

  “Thank you, Peter.” She got up and kissed him and left, at peace. When she got out of the elevator on her floor, Nighttime Song was there. He padded ahead of her and opened her door with a flourish. He saw her eyes go to the door at the end of the corridor.

  “Master not home,” he volunteered grandly. “Not yet come back.”

  Casey sighed. “You’ve just lost more ass, old friend.”

  “Eh?”

  She shut the door, feeling pleased with herself. In bed, she began to read again. With the dawn she finished the book. Then she slept.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  9:25 A.M.:

  Dunross came around the corner in his Jaguar fast, climbing the winding road easily, then turned into a driveway and stopped an inch from the tall gates. The gates were set into high walls. In a moment a Chinese porter peered through the side door. When he recognized the tai-pan he opened the gates wide and waved him through.

  The driveway curled and stopped outside an ornate Chinese mansion. Dunross got out. Another servant greeted him silently. The grounds were well kept and down a slope was a tennis court where four Chinese, two men and two women, were playing mixed doubles. They paid no attention to him and Dunross did not recognize any of them.

  “Please follow me, tai-pan,” the servant said.

  Dunross hid his curiosity as he was shown into an anteroom. This was the first time he or anyone that he knew had ever been invited into Tiptop’s home. The interior was clean and busy with the strange, careless but usual Chinese mixture of good lacquer antiques and ugly modern bric-a-brac. Walls were paneled and ornate with a few bad prints hanging on them. He sat down. Another servant brought tea and poured.

  Dunross could feel that he was being observed but this too was usual. Most of these old houses had spyholes in the walls and doors—there were many even in the Great House.

  When he had got back to the Great House this morning near 4:00 A.M. he had gone straight to his study and opened the safe. There was no doubt, with even a cursory glance, that one of the two remaining coins fitted the imprints that were in Four Finger Wu’s beeswax matrix. No doubt at all. His fingers were trembling when he broke the half-coin from its restraining sealing wax in Dirk Struan’s Bible and cleaned it. It fitted the indentations perfectly.

  “Christ,” he had muttered. “Now what?” Then he had put the matrix and the coin back into the safe. His eyes saw the loaded automatic and the empty space where AMG’s files had been. Uneasily he had relocked the safe and went to bed. There was a message on his pillow: “Father dear: Will you wake me when you leave? We want to watch the tryouts. Love, Adryon. P.S. Can I invite Martin to the races Saturday please please please? P.P.S. I think he’s super. P.P.P.S. You’re super too. P.P.P.P.S. You’re out late, aren’t you? Now it’s 3:16!!!!”

  He had tiptoed to her room and opened her door but she was fast asleep. When he had left this morning he had had to knock twice to awaken her. “Adryon! It’s 6:30.”

  “Oh! Is it raining?” she said sleepily.

  “No. Soon will be. Shall I open the blinds?”

  “No, Father dear, thank you … doesn’t matter, Martin won’t … won’t mind.” She had stifled a yawn. Her eyes had closed and, almost instantly, she was deep asleep again.

  Amused, he had shaken her lightly but she had not come out of sleep. “Doesn’t matter, Father. Martin won’t…” And now, remembering how lovely she was and what his wife had said about the pill, he decided to make a very serious check on Martin Haply. Just in case.

  “Ah, tai-pan, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Dunross got up and shook the outstretched hand. “It’s good of you to see me, Mr. Tip. Sorry to hear about your cold.”

  Tip Tok-toh was in his sixties, graying, with a round nice face. He wore a dressing gown and his eyes were red and his nose stuffed, his voice a little hoarse. “It’s this rotten climate. Last weekend I went sailing with Shitee T’Chung and I must’ve caught a chill.” His English accent was slightly American, perhaps Canadian. Neither Dunross nor Alastair Struan had ever been able to draw him out about his past, nor had Johnjohn or the other bankers any knowledge of him in banking circles in Nationalist China days, pre-1949. Even Shitee T’Chung and Phillip Chen who entertained him lavishly could not pry anything out of him. The Chinese had nicknamed him the Oyster.

  “The weather has been bad,” Dunross agreed pleasantly. “Thank God for the rain.”

  Tiptop motioned to the man beside him. “This is an associate, Mr. L’eung.”

  The man was nondescript. He wore a drab Maoist jacket and drab trousers. His face was set and cold and guarded. He nodded. Dunross nodded back. “Associate” could cover a multitude of positions, from boss to interpreter, from commissar to guard.

  “Would you like coffee?”

  “Thank you. Have you tried vitamin C to cure your cold?” Patiently Dunross began the formal chitchat that would precede the real reason for the meeting. Last night while he was waiting for Brian Kwok in the Quance Bar he had thought Johnjohn’s proposal was worth a try so he had phoned Phillip Chen then and asked him to request an appointment early today. It would have been just as easy to have called Tiptop direct but that was not correct Chinese protocol. The civilized way was to go through a mutually friendly intermediary. Then, if the request was refused, you would not lose face, nor would the other person, nor would the intermediary.

  He was listening to Tiptop with only half his head, making polite conversation, surprised they were still speaking English, because of L’eung. This could only mean the man’s English was also perfect, and, possibly, that he did not understand either Cantonese or Shanghainese which Tiptop spoke and Dunross was fluent in. He fenced with Tiptop, waiting for the opening that at length the banker would give him. Then it came.

  “This stock market crash on your stock must be very worrying for you, tai-pan.”

  “Yes, yes it is, but it’s not a crash, Mr. Tip, just a readjustment. The market ebbs and flows.”

  “And Mr. Gornt?”

  “Quillan
Gornt is Quillan Gornt and always snapping at our heels. All crows under heaven are black.” Dunross kept his voice matter-of-fact, wondering how much the man knew.

  “And the Ho-Pak mess? That’s a readjustment too?”

  “No, no that’s bad. I’m afraid the Ho-Pak’s out of luck.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dunross, but luck hasn’t much to do with it. It’s the capitalistic system, that and ineptness by Banker Kwang.”

  Dunross said nothing. His eyes flicked momentarily to L’eung who sat stiffly, immobile and very attentive. His ears were concentrated and so was his mind, seeking the oblique currents under what was said. “I’m not party to Mr. Kwang’s business, Mr. Tip. Unfortunately the run on the Ho-Pak’s spilling over to other banks and that’s very bad for Hong Kong and also, I think, bad for the People’s Republic of China.”

  “Not bad for the People’s Republic of China. How can it be bad for us?”

  “China is China, the Middle Kingdom. We of the Noble House have always considered China to be the mother and father of our house. Now our base in Hong Kong’s under siege, a siege that’s actually meaningless—just a temporary lack of confidence and a week or so of cash. Our banks have all the reserves and all of the wealth and strength they need to perform … for old friends, old customers and ourselves.”

  “Then why don’t they print more money if the currency’s so strong?”

  “It’s a matter of time, Mr. Tip. It’s not possible for the mint to print enough Hong Kong money.” Even more patiently, Dunross answered the questions, knowing now that most were for the benefit of L’eung, which suggested L’eung was senior to Tiptop, a more senior Party member, a non-banker. “Our interim solution would be to bring in, at once, a few aircraft loads of pounds sterling to cover withdrawals.” He saw both men’s eyes narrow slightly.

  “That would hardly support the Hong Kong dollar.”

  “Yes, yes our bankers know that. But Blacs, the Victoria and Bank of England decided this would be best in the interim. We just don’t have enough Hong Kong cash to satisfy every depositor.”

  The silence thickened. Dunross waited. Johnjohn had told him he believed the Bank of China did not have substantial reserves of pounds because of the currency restrictions on their movement in and out of Britain but had very substantial amounts of Hong Kong dollars for which there were no export restrictions.

  “It would not be at all good for the Hong Kong dollar to be weakened,” Tip Tok-toh said. He blew his nose noisily. “Not good for Hong Kong.”

  “Yes.”

  Tip Tok-toh’s eyes hardened and he leaned forward. “Is it true, tai-pan, that the Orlin Merchant Bank won’t renew your revolving fund?”

  Dunross’s heart picked up a beat. “Yes.”

  “And true that your fine bank will not cover this loan or advance you enough to stave off the Rothwell-Gornt attack on your stock?”

  “Yes.” Dunross was very pleased to hear the calm quality of his voice.

  “And true that many old friends have refused credit to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And true that the … the person Hiro Toda arrives this afternoon and requires payment for ships ordered from his Japanese shipyards shortly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And true that Mata and Tung and their Great Good Luck Company of Macao have tripled their normal order for gold bullion but will not help you directly?”

  “Yes.” Dunross’s already fine-tuned concentration increased.

  “And true that the running-dog Soviet hegemonists have once more, impudently, very very impudently, applied for a banking charter in Hong Kong?”

  “I believe so. Johnjohn told me they had. I’m not sure. I would presume he would not tell me a falsehood.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Dunross repeated it verbatim, ending, “Certainly the application would be opposed by me, the boards of all British banks, all the tai-pans and the governor. Johnjohn also said the hegemonists had the temerity to offer immediate and substantial amounts of HK dollars to assist them in their present trouble.”

  Tip Tok-toh finished his coffee. “Would you like some more?”

  “Thank you.” Dunross noted that L’eung poured and he felt he had achieved a great step forward. Last night he had delicately mentioned the Moscow bank to Phillip Chen, knowing that Phillip would know how to pass the information on, which would of course indicate to such an astute man as Tiptop the real reason for the urgent meeting and so give him the necessary time to contact the decision-maker who would assess its importance and ways to acquiesce or not. Dunross could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead and prayed that neither of the men opposite him noticed it. His anxiety would push the price up—if a deal was to be made.

  “Terrible, terrible,” Tiptop said thoughtfully. “Terrible times! Old Friends forsaking Old Friends, enemies being welcomed to the hearth … terrible. Oh by the way, tai-pan, one of our old friends asks if you could get him a shipment of goods. Thorium oxide I think it was.”

  With a great effort Dunross kept his face clean. Thorium oxide was a rare earth, the essential ingredient for old-fashioned gas mantles: it made the mantle emit its brilliant white light. Last year he had happened to hear that Hong Kong had recently become the greatest user after the United States. His curiosity had peaked as Struan’s were not in what must clearly be a profitable trade. Quickly he had found out that access to the material was relatively easy and that the trade was prodigious, quite secret, with many small importers, all of them very vague about their business. In nature, thorium occurred in various radioactive isotopes. Some of these were easily converted into fissionable uranium 235, and thorium 232 itself was an enormously valuable breeder material for an atomic pile. Of course, these and many other thorium derivatives were restricted strategic materials but he had been astounded to discover the oxide and nitrate, chemically easily convertible, were not.

  He could never find out where the thorium oxides actually went. Of course into China. For a long time, he and others had suspected the PRC of having a crash atomic program, though everyone believed it had to be formulative and at least ten years from fruition. The idea of China nuclear armed filled him with mixed feelings. On the one hand, any nuclear proliferation was dangerous; on the other, as a nuclear power China would instantly become a formidable rival to Soviet Russia, even an equal to Soviet Russia, even a threat, certainly unconquerable—particularly if it also had the means to deliver a retaliatory strike.

  Dunross saw both men looking at him. The small vein in L’eung’s forehead was pulsing though his face was impassive. “That might be possible, Mr. Tip. How much would be needed and when?”

  “I believe immediately, as much as can be obtained. As you know, the PRC is attempting to modernize but much of our lighting is still by gas.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where would you obtain the oxides or nitrates?”

  “Australia would probably be the quickest, though I’ve no idea at this moment about quality. Outside of the United States,” he added delicately, “it’s only found in Tasmania, Brazil, India, South Africa, Rhodesia and the Urals … big deposits there.” Neither man smiled. “I imagine Rhodesia and Tasmania’d be best. Is there anyone Phillip or I should deal with?”

  “A Mr. Vee Cee Ng, in Princes Building.”

  Dunross bit back a whistle as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Mr. Vee Cee Ng, Photographer Ng, was a great friend of Tsu-yan, the missing Tsu-yan, his old friend and associate who had mysteriously fled into China over the Macao border. Tsu-yan had been one of the thorium importers. Up to now, the connection had been meaningless. “I know Mr. Ng. By the way, how is my old friend, Tsu-yan?”

  L’eung was plainly startled. Bull’s-eye, Dunross thought grimly, shocked that he had never once suspected Tsu-yan of being Communist or having Communist leanings.

  “Tsu-yan?” Tiptop frowned. “I haven’t seen him for a week or more. Why?”

  “I heard he was visit
ing Peking by way of Macao.”

  “Curious! That’s very curious. I wonder why he’d want to do that—an arch-capitalist? Well, wonders will never cease. If you’d be kind enough to contact Mr. Ng direct, I’m sure he will give you the details.”

  “I’ll do that this morning. As soon as I get back to the office.”

  Dunross waited. There would be other concessions before they would grant what he sought, if it was to be granted. His mind was racing with the implication of their first request, how to get thorium oxides, whether to get them, wanting to know how far along the PRC was with its atomic program, knowing they would never tell him that. L’eung took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  Both men lit up. Tiptop coughed and blew his nose. “It’s curious, taipan,” he said, “very curious that you go out of your way to help the Victoria and Blacs and all your capitalist banks while the strong rumor is that they’ll not help you in your need.”

  “Perhaps they’ll see the error of their ways,” Dunross said. “Sometimes it’s necessary to forget present advantages for the common good. It would be bad for the Middle Kingdom for Hong Kong to falter.” He noted the scorn on L’eung’s face but it did not bother him. “It’s ancient Chinese doctrine not to forget Old Friends, trusted ones, and as long as I’m tai-pan of the Noble House and have power, Mr. Tip, I and those like me—Mr. Johnjohn for one, our governor for another—will give eternal friendship to the Middle Kingdom and will never permit hegemonists to thrive on our barren rock.”

  Tiptop said sharply, “It is our barren rock, Mr. Dunross, that is presently administered by the British, is it not?”

  “Hong Kong is and always was earth of the Middle Kingdom.”

  “I will let your definition pass for the moment but everything in Kowloon and the New Territories north of Boundary Road reverts to us in thirty-five-odd years doesn’t it—even if you accept the Unequal Treaties forced on our forebears which we don’t.”

  “My forebears have always found their Old Friends wise, very wise, and never men to cut off their Stalks to spite a Jade Gate.”